30 going on 75

I may still be in the prime of my life but my age is clearly having an effect. The other morning, after my shower, I smoothed moisturiser into my left leg, revelling in its new bristle-free status. I then winced as my hands jarred on a right calf that felt distinctly like Velcro. In my half-sleep I’d only shaved one leg. I couldn’t be certain but it didn’t seem like a look that would catch on, so I shuffled back to the shower and rectified the situation.

I am now regularly plagued by my latest paranoia: the onset of varicose veins. I have no idea how I can tell that they’re coming but by some sort of intuition I have been noticing a strange sensation behind my right knee and I’m not happy about it. There are no raised veins and I’m not a miniskirt wearer so it’s not a crisis, but the operation sounds singularly unfun: even more of an incentive to burn some fat and put less pressure on the beleaguered blue lines.

Additionally, I played badminton on Saturday and my left arm and lower back are still really stiff. I left a truly enjoyable party early on Friday night in order to save money. I wear high factor in the sun to ward off crows’ feet. Bed after midnight feels risky and irresponsible. Young people don’t seem to have any respect these days. And I only understand 14% of the features on my mobile phone.

Give me a couple more months and my age will be dominating every waking moment; before you know it I’ll be rambling on nostalgically about the Blitz, getting excited about a new dentures sealant and spending my evenings crocheting antimacassars in front of repeats of Antiques Roadshow. In a bid to cling on to my youth for a few more minutes, I’m off to rejuvenate at the gym.