My birthday is on Friday and I am now very definitely into my 50’s, though I still like to refer to them as 'early' 50's. Who am I kidding? This is something not to be taken lightly, but I fear I shall be in denial for the next 7 years. Where are the redeeeming features to this decade, crammed as it is with quite scary physical changes? Too young hopefully, for elasticated waists and support hose but too old to pick up a 25 year old, unless of course, you’re Madonna or Demi Moore. I have therefore decided to retreat into my own world, where the sun always shines, the bank doesn’t return my cheques and children are eternally grateful that you bought them to existence. I may not come back, but I’ll send a postcard.

Mobile texting should carry a government warning. Having mentioned to my long suffering partner that we must do something between work, evening meal, TV sleep and death, I received a text from him asking me to meet him in the car park in the park at 6.15pm. Later that afternoon and in a moment of smart arsed flippancy, with images of middle class suburbia firmly in my mind I replied ‘Fancy sex?’ I pressed 'send' and watched with horror as I sent it to a director I used to work with. I’m not sure which is worse, my grovelling explanation to him later or the fact that he didn’t reply immediately!

Let that be a cautionary lesson to the trigger happy generation of texters. Never send anything you wouldn’t want to receive yourself. Mmmm, room for thought……..