Boning gets my vote

It's not all doom and gloom being an ageing crone. Saturday was wonderful. I spent it at Goodwood Revival, celebrating a friend's 50th birthday, and I made an incredible discovery. Boning.

Dressing up for big girls

At the request of the birthday girl, the dress code of the day was vintage, and a few weeks earlier we'd hot-footed it out of Godalming and headed up to Holloway. Not to the women's prison I must quickly add, but to the utterly delightful homage to the 50s that is Vivienne's of Holloway. What a shop! It's chock to the brim with peplum skirts, petticoats and all things glam. We were like kids in a sweetie shop, with our eyes on stalks at all the gaudy glad rags. The assistants are all kitted out in it too, with bee-stung lips, not a hair out of place and every little detail done to a 't'.

Bones of contentment

Rugby tackling each other out of the way to get to the best things first, we quickly hit the rails, grabbing as much as we could, to the amusement of the girls. "You need to get measured first", one of them politely pointed out. "Our sizes aren't the same as the high street."

Just as well we did, because my uber-slim size 10 friend is actually a curvy size 14 in a Vivienne, and I measure up to an absolutely voluptuous size 18! It's worth getting over the shock quickly though, because the dresses are absolutely divine and completely built for curves. The secret? Inbuilt boning!

I love it! I stepped out of the changing room in a red and white polka dot number, and looked into the mirror. Suddenly, in front of my eyes I acquired a waist - something last seen around Christmas 1989 before I got pregnant with my first son. My bust was lifted from its usual place (somewhere around where my waist used to be) to the new and heady heights of my chest - where it stayed, proud and pointing, like a throwback to those Playtex cross your heart bra ads my bothers used to swoon over. My stomach disappeared, and when I looked behind me, so had my derierre! I stood there at the mirror for what seemed like hours, dumbstruck at the transformation. My friend was equally entranced at her reflection. If we'd had the money we'd have bought the whole shop right there and then!

Back to the 50s for me!

So off we went to Goodwood, and while we were there I discovered more and more 50s glamour. Stalls that were jam-packed with little vintage fur jackets, elbow length gloves and pillbox hats. Curvacious silk dresses, and rack after rack of frilly, frou-frou! Lots of people had made a wonderful effort and dressed up for the day, and the glamour of their hair and clothing added a real sense of occasion. Good manners seemed to be 'de rigour' too - everyone we met was polite and charming.

So, at my vintage age of 50 I've decided that the 50's are my thing. Red lippy, lacquer, the lot. I'm embracing boning. And I'm making no bones about it!

A beautiful moment

I had a Beautiful Moment yesterday.
I was in House of Fraser trying on clothes. I was spending hundreds of pounds on myself, for the good of my new business. Oh yes. I wasn't enjoying looking at this season's shoes, boots, jackets and dresses. No no no. I HAD to you see. I HAD to smarten up, on orders from the MD/CEO (my husband).
We are going out to meet clients face to face, and I have not updated my 'smart' look for 8 years as I have been employed. So, everything smart I have has wing collars and fat lapels and smells faintly of cardboard packing. Well, not all of it. But enough that it matters to The Boss. So he gave me the brief to go out, spend money and attempt a new look for me which is to 'Look smart, look professional, look business-like ... but look creative.'
Oh dear.
So ... I began by being easy on myself, tried on a few 'safe' items and got a lovely zip neck jumper (black naturally) from Jaegar and some posh other knitwear ... then I started trying on smart business dresses and jackets. I was fitting in them. FITTING. I am so used to high street chains where a size 14 skimps on fabric and may as well be a size 8 for all it bears to the reality of the average woman's curves but here, here, amongst the lofty sales girls and snooty floorwalkers I was actually finding clothes I could slip into, and look good in. I was so pleased I was fitting into a size smaller, looking and feeling slinkier and better than I have for years that I actually began to enjoy myself (a little).
So ... 3 items in the HoF bag!!! I was on a roll.
By now I was feeling braver, getting the buzz of a retail rabbit. I started to edge into the more exclusive areas -- Hugo Boss, DKNY, Episode ... a beautiful doe-eyed shop asssistant approached me as my bumbling size 14 fingers handled a £180 blouse and she said "These come in 6 colours ... and go up to size TWELVE" .
Was it me or was I being measured critically from afar? Perhaps a warning light had come on under her cash desk (or maybe a silent 'FAT FAT FAT' alarm?) and she had quickly (well, as quickly as a size 0 shop assistant can move and still look calm, possessed and cool) intercepted me before i stretched or be-greased her precious fabrics. I moved swiftly on.
Then. Then I found the most gorgeous dress. The colour was the bluey purple that I love, the cut was post-industrial so retained that edgy ex-punk look I love ... and it was belted so it showed off my best bits whilst disguising others. Well I scrabbled through the rack frantically looking at the sizes 0, 8, 10, ... 16 ... 8? ... 10 ... 16 ... ... oh. (An aside: isn't it bloody annoying when you find something you like and the fashion fascists only make it available in a size 8-12? Like they don't want their clothes associated with a fat ass.)
So, knowing I have what is kindly termed a 'curvylicious booty' (i.e. fat arse, plump thighs and well defined hips) I thought I would give the size 16 a go. I knew it would gape and bag at the top, but the colour was so good, the style was so nice. As soon as my hand lifted the hanger the SA (sales assistant) popped up from nowhere (a bit like in Mr Benn). Attractive, groomed, dark eyed, raven haired and with a sultry Spanish accent that could melt chocolate over chouros.
"Allo, can I elp you?" I mumbled about trying the dress on and she showed me the dressing room.
Now, being a bit fed up by now (and yes, I admit, lazy) with changing my clothes and taking long boots off, jeans off etc. I decided to be practical and keep the boots on, roll down the jeans below my knee and simply try the dress on like that.
Sorted
Well, of course the size 16 was far too big. Pity I thought, as I surveyed the colour. I could imagine this would look good. There I was in my rolled down jean-over-boot, exposing chubby knee, with £100 worth of baggy couture over the top, but I called out to MM that 'Shame it was too big'. Well, Spanish SA (unknown to me) was sweetly waiting outside and said 'Let's 'av a look' (not cockney: remember she has a beautiful rich Spanish accent). Argghhhh! 'No No .... it's alright' I spluttered, but too late she had got her foot in the changing room door and there I was, exposed in my stupid lazy changing attire. But ... would you believe she actually gasped. And not at my half on state of dress.
"But Madam!" She exhorted, 'Zat size is far too BEEG for you!" ... "But zee colour, it is beautiful on you! It is YOU." I mumbled about it was a shame she had no size to fit me and she (amazingly) said "Ah but you are TINY! I will get you zee sise 10 ..." Before I could stop her she was gone.
I moaned aloud to MM "I'll never get in a size 10! It won't even go round one leg! She mustn't be looking at me properly ..."
Well, I tried on the 10 just to prove a point to SA. BUT amazingly, it DID button up. I mean, I looked a bit like a blue sausage in it, but if you'd ever told me I could even dream of trying on a size 10 again, I would have choked on my onion bhajee.
So, SA is still saying 'You must 'ave it! You MUST! It is made for you!! It suit your eyes, your hair, your colouring .. I order it for you now ... See? I am going to order for you and you get it." OK, I think. And I ask SA to order me a size 14.
Her beautifully groomed eyebrows once more shoot up into her coiffured hair "Oh noh noh NOH! Zat iss too BEEG for madam. I get you sise 12 ..."
I could have been her best friend forever at this point, but I remembered it was me who was going to wear this dress, not her. My maturity kicked in (damn it) and I said politely, no, I preferred to wear a size 14. "Oh ... if madam is sure? but zis size is too BEEG you can change if you like ..?" I was definitely falling in love with her.
You have beautiful eyes
As I was paying at the cash desk she said once more "I sink ziss is a lovely colour on you ... you have zee most beautiful eyes. Zee dress just brings zem out. It is beautiful. Beautiful."
Falling in love
And that, my dear Crones, is what I call a Beautiful Moment. Shopping that becomes a real pleasure and an ego-trip, instead of a dreaded hot sweaty dismissal of your fatness and decrepitude.
Thank you Spanish SA in House of Fraser. Thank you. xxx You have made a middle-aged overweight woman very happy.

The wailing wall

Hi Botox,

Arghghghghggghhhh i wish i was in a spa with a rich husband paying for me to look beautiful. I've had some photos taken of me for our new updated website. Honestly there were 200 of me to choose from and in every one i had crinkly saggy baggy eyes or that horrible soft old woman's chin/cheeks or my hair looked see-thru etc. etc. it was so depressing ... :(( when i was younger every photo of me was lovely and now i look like an old sad old old woman.

Seriously, I may have to seriously look into that eye bag and hooded eye surgery I was thinking about (not to have them put ON, have them take OFF) it is so depressing :((

On a hopeful note, I am being weighed later. I hope to have lost at least 2lbs as I've been ultra good this week (apart from last night where I drank too much wine and ate a bag of Walkers Baked crisps)!! wish me luck.

Bags xxxxx

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Oh Bags,

I know what you mean about photos - as you know I've had the horrendous job of hunting some old ones out for my birthday - and I now have to go through the hellish torture of seeing them projected on the wall in the bar at the Borough Hall. I've chosen mine carefully, and veered towards anything under thirty with good lighting. But Gill has been emailing people willy nilly asking them to send her any pics they have of me. I am praying to god that she won't have included the utterly hideous one of me about two stone overweight and bra-less, wearing a clingy red spotty dress and looking like jabba the hut. I want to cry every time I see that one. But I know that to my utter shame it will be there, along with other just as sick-making evidence of my misshapen mass.

When you book in for your deputy dawg op, please book me in too for a full face and body lift. OMG I saw the most horrible thing the other day and I apologise in advance, but you are the only person I can ever share this with. I was sitting naked at my dressing table and turned round to grab something, legs akimbo. I caught sight of my Fann-ann tut full on in the mirror - OMG it has gone all saggy, crinkly and GREY - grey skin I mean not even hair! The lips (sorry this is so graphic) resemble a clam - kind of frilly but not in a nice way. Overall it looks (and I kid you not) like an elephants arse! How can Ben bear to even go near it?! I am turning into a shambling gargantuan monstrosity of a woman with an overblown blimp of a body...this is what life does to us crones. This is where I am heading fast. I don't know whether to laugh or throw myself off Beachy Head.

xxxxx

--------------

oh Botox
oh oh oh
oh
It's like living death this growing old lark.
I feel like our faces and bodies are literally sagging and crumbling away while we are still moving about -- a bit like living a half-life, or a pair of old zombies.
you have hit the nail on the fanny head too, about how the bits you love and men find most precious decay along with us.
My right breast was always my best and my most favourite breast - full, ripe, pert, bigger than the left by a fair bit, lovely nipple placement, perky and sexy. Now it seems to be shrinking back into its skin leaving a deflated bag behind topped with a wrinkled sunken-in nipp. My left boob is now the bigger of the shrunken two. I hate it when i am lying in bed (bra-less) and my man goes to feel my ex-best tit and he gets a strange handful of baggy flappage instead of a rounded beautiful breast.
:((

The years the years.
There's only one thing for it. live fast, and die young (well, before we are really decrepit).
Bags
xxxxx

Return to sender

I've just spend a precious lunch-hour returning the results of yet another fruitless, disappointing round of internet shopping to its rightful owner (ie some 14 year-old stick thin, swan necked antelope, who can actually get away with a polo necked funnel sweater dress). You'd think I'd know better by now - but dammit I get caught every time, seduced by artfully-posed imagery and carefully crafted lies into thinking I can still pack my lard-arse into a pencil skirt, or get away with a sleeveless top.

I never learn. How many times have I started off fully resolved to buy nothing but black/empire line/neck to knee coverage, only to be totally mind-washed by endless pages of alluring, figure skimming temptation?

How many times must yet another red-faced, over-burdoned delivery man blindly transverse the well worn route from his van to my front door, his poor old face obscured by mounds of heaving plastic bags containing my latest forays into fashion? How much longer can my partner stand to walk innocently into our bedroom, only to find me stuck, helpless, halfway up an unforgiving lycra body stocking, or trying to stuff mounds of fat inside a pair of hipster jeans.

I really don't know why I give hipsters the time of day anyway. They have to be the most uncomfortable, unflattering jeans ever invented - suitable only for washboard stomached waifs of skeletal proportions. But jeggings! Now you're talking. How my sad old heart soared when this made in heavenly combo of stretchy denim and waist elastication appeared on the fashion scene. Off I rushed to Next to buy up as many size 14 long as I could get my greedy little paws on. But even jeggings have changed. The first, pioneering jeggings, had a lovely comfy waistband that sat right across the belly button and suctioned securely to the roll of fat where they'd been positioned, mercifully encasing muffin tops and superfluous chicken skin. Now though, they all seem to have surrendered to the follies of fashion and have dropped below naval, unable to capture the wayward bits and pieces the blight the life of crones. Out it all hangs, like two bags of granulated sugar covered in chamois leather, wobbling away over your waistband for all and sundry to point and snigger at. No matter how determinedly you tug them they refuse to move upwards until the sudden ping of perishing elastic announces that you've gone a tug too far.

I have no excuses when it comes to choosing clothes. I KNOW both my shape and my colour - cool winter and soft curves - having undergone two long and informative (if a tad painful) sessions with the lovely, patient and thankfully, tactful Fiona – a body image and colour expert for House of Colour.

It was my friend Gill's idea. Gill is an avid shopper. Always on the search for the perfect cardi/dress/bag/coat/shoes. Never flagging, always searching. She's the only woman I know who can start at 9am and, 5 minutes to closing time, has the gall and the energy to head for the changing rooms with most of the store's fashion stock slung over her shoulder.

Shopping with Gill is tantamount to running a half marathon and she never, ever tires of it. Anyway, Gill decided that it would make life a lot easier if we all knew our colours and our shapes. 'It would simplify things', she said. 'Make shopping more straightforward and a lot quicker'.

By 'we', I should tell you, I mean Gill, myself and my friend Lis. The three of us have known each other for years and we've seen each other through a maelstrom of husbands, lovers and career changes, washed down with lots of gin. We are great friends but we are also very different. Lis hates shopping as much as Gill loves it and is proud of the fact that most of her purchases are made in charity shops. Me, I'm somewhere in the middle, but I have embraced internet shopping with an almost manic obsession - how I love having the fashion world at my fingertips - if only I could get choose the right things!

So, having invested in a colour analysis day (the ultimate birthday gift to one another!) and chosen the lovely Fiona as our trusted guru, we all set off for a new world of discovery at her apartment in Primrose Hill, on a crisp Saturday morning last November.

My first mistake was to go out the night before with the girls from work. One too many bottles of Pinot Grigio later and I was placed in a taxi and sent firmly to my bed. Needless to say I woke the next day with a pounding headache, bloodshot eyes, skin so dehydrated I could pinch it and it still hadn't moved twenty minutes later, and a lovely grayish green complexion.

Too ill to even consider putting on make-up, I dragged myself onto the train, berating myself and trying not to be sick all the way to London. Lis and Gill on the other hand had been sensible and gone to bed early. Thus they were bright eyed and far too perky for that time in the morning, which only made me feel worse. By the time we got to Fiona's I was distinctly wobbly (head as well as body) and only just managed to teeter down her very steep steps to the basement room where she sees her clients.

Then came the realisation that this colour analysis lark is not a five minute exercise and that part of the process involved a close-up scrutiny from Fiona - a lady so polite, composed and utterly well-groomed that I doubt she's ever turned up for any meeting reeking of last night's alcohol and the colour of rancid pond water - which thankfully is not part of the House of Colour's spectrum wheel! I hastily shoved a polo in my gob and vowed never to drink again. Anyway, to cut a long story short, after being draped with various coloured pieces of silk for over an hour, and having my face shape closely analysed (turns out I'm not a gamine pixie face, but more of a lusty round-faced milkmaid, with double chins to boot!) the 'winter' pronouncement was made.

The good news is that I can officially wear black - winter is the only colour that can apparently. Yes! Yes! You cannot imagine how happy this made me feel. I had been in mortal fear of being told I couldn't do black, and having to abandon 99% of my wardrobe in favour of girly pinks and pastels. But no - Fiona saved me. I can wear black, white, and all the bright jewel colours, but no yellows browns or golds. What's more, Lis turned out to be a mellow autumn with no noir allowed, so all of her monochromes were bestowed to me, plus lots of silver jewellery! Gill turned out to be summer much to her surprise and slight annoyance (you try finding the right shade of raspberry), but she never wears black anyway.

So now we knew our colours, we booked in for another session to get the official verdict on our shapes.

I vowed not to be hung over on shape day as I really wanted to get the most out of it. I stayed over at Lis's the night before and managed not to be too seduced by the wine, so I was raring to go the next day. But what do you wear to a shape day? Fiona had told us to arrive in an outfit we felt was flattering, and bring a selection of items - some we loved and some we hated. Yet despite hours of internet shopping, resulting in two overflowing wardrobes and a jam-packed chest of drawers I could find nothing I truly felt good in. Lots of things I hated though!

Bearing in mind my official winter colouring, as decreed by Fiona, I decided to enjoy my shape day experience in a black stretchy mini skirt, low cut black top and voluminous drapey cardi/coat thing in guess what - black. I finished off the 'not quite a nun' look with a startling (and I thought rather dashing) splash of magenta-coloured tights and matching platform shoes. To tether everything in place, and give me a what turned out to be false sense of slimness, I struggled once again into my old faithful Trinny and Susannah sausage thong-thing, which as ever groaned against the overwhelming might of my midriff bulge. I thought I looked okay actually - I was fully made up in all the colours Fiona had suggested for me, and my newly coloured hair resembled a raven's glossy wing. Down the steps to Fiona's basement studio I trotted once again, little imagining the horrors that lay ahead.

The first horror was the shock on Fiona's face when she saw me. As I teetered in on my stacked soles and tottered to a seat I caught her looking me up and down with a kind of Miss Jean Brodie expression of distaste. I could almost see what she was thinking (something along the lines of what the hell have we got here, or what am I supposed to do with that?) but she managed to compose herself and arrange her face into something resembling a smile.

The next horror was the realisation that I had to strip off and stand in my underwear in front of Fiona, Lis and Gill. We all had to do this. But Lis and Gill are both very slim whereas I am very not. Plus, they had thought ahead and were wearing pretty, new, and suitable underwear. I was encased in sweaty, straining elastic with what looked like an old musty cheese wire separating my dimpled bum cheeks. And my bra! Not thinking things through, I'd packed my boulders into a well past its sell-by date Wonder bra, which was so old that the underwiring was at breaking point. The wire was in fact beginning to make a break for freedom and poking through the seams into my skin, like little devil's teeth. I hadn't brought a slip - mainly because I don't actually possess one. So I really did have nowhere to hide!

I felt I had no option but to warn Fiona about what lay ahead, so I took her to one side and whispered my apology. Then I had to strip off my outer layers and stand there, displaying my saggy egg on legs body for all to see! Its the first time I've ever seen Lis and Gill stunned into silence, with the sort of expressions that tell you they are trying to find something nice to say and failing miserably. But I have to say, respect to Fiona, she is a true professional and a woman of stamina. Once the nervous flutter had died down, she only visibly winced once or twice when she had to actually touch my skin with her tape measure.

So what shape am I? Not the shape I want to be that's for sure. I wanted to be an Audrey Hepburn, all gamine and girly. It turns out I am more of an Ena Sharples - as solid and bulky as a lump of Northern lard. The sort of woman that wears whale-bone stays in her corset and likes a pint of stout. Nothign wrong with that of course, and you can't help what you're born with I suppose, so I'd better start enjoying (or at least coming to terms with) what nature gave me.

Fiona's careful measuring confirmed what I already knew. That I have been blessed with a shorter than average neck - I have a sort of bulldog-ish, solid lump of a neck that can't wear polo's or chokers, and only gets worse with age. This means that I can never be a graceful ballroom dancer. I remember when Letitia Dean did Strictly Come Dancing a couple of years ago. The judges just went on and on about her not having a neck, so she'd never be able to look good as a dancer no matter how great her moves were. She was really upset, and so am I.

From neck (or should I say lack of neck) we moved down to body. Fiona had a lovely chart with lots of different shapes on it - I hankered after the long, lean lines of the rectangle, or the womanly curves of the hourglass, but the box she ticked for me was a kind of roundish oval. Apparently my bust is bigger than my hips so I have to be careful to balance them, or risk looking too top heavy. On reflection I think I am turning into my nana. She had a bust so big and shelf-like that you could balance a cup of tea on it. Also, I have no waist to speak of - my torso just goes up and down in a kind of triangular way, which explains why the hipsters don't do it for me. I am seriously considering investing in a whale bone corset, and in the meantime am awaiting a delivery of a shocking fuschia Gok Wan half-corset which no doubt will swiftly be re-packaged and returned to its shelf in the stock room thirty seconds after I receive it.

There was one bit of good news though - my legs are longer than average. In fact there was an audible intake of breath when this unlikely discovery was announced. Gill immediately demanded a re-measure, as my legs were almost as long as hers, and she's at least two inches taller than me. But it turned out to be true. Ha! At last, something to feel good about.

So, that's me - no neck, round body and long legs. In other words, I am beginning to resemble a wine goblet, which I think is very apt considering how many I've drunk out of over the years! My face is round and my body is a soft curve. And this means I am a nightmare to dress.

I can't do round necks as this makes my short neck look even shorter. I can't do shift dresses or anything too boxy or straight up and down as this makes me look like a stout, plump tube. I can't do above the knee skirts as they make me look too top heavy - I also can't do skinny jeans for the same reason. I can't do smocks as my big bust turns them into tents. I can't do double breasted jackets and I can't do shirts. I can't, in fact, do any of the clothes I actually own.

So, back to the drawing board and back to the internet. But this time I'm determined to restrict myself to ordering only shapes that I can actually officially do - which boils down to v-neck and empire line. With it narrowed down to that level, surely even I must be able to find something?I swear if I can't I'll return myself to sender.

Invisible, I feel like I'm.....who said that?

So I'm 50. How the feck did that happen? Feels like just the blink of a cataract since I was a young, carefree slip of a thing who thought nothing of slinking into a full length spandex unitard and dancing the night away at Camden Palace. Aaaah, those were the days when I could turn heads for all the right reasons and didn't even realise I was doing it. Now, it seems that overnight I've become invisible. I walked past a group of workman at lunchtime and they didn't even look up, never mind give me a cheery wolf whistle. I used to get all feminist and disgruntled about being whistled at. But now the only backward glance or sharp intake of breath I inspire is from the strange trolly stacker at Waitrose, when I dare to leave my empty trolly in the bay nearest to my car instead of pushing it back to the entrance.

One of the birthday presents I got from my long-suffering partner was a book about life after 50. You know the sort of thing, a wry, humorous peek at the decrepit side of life - usually written by someone who hasn't reached that stage yet so still has a sense of humour. And there I was - on the cover! I wish I was kidding, but the cartoon on the cover was too near the truth to be funny. A lumpy, bumpy woman with a whiskery chin, wearing rollers and clutching a mug of cocoa about to climb the stairs to Bedfordshire at the ripe old time of 8pm. OMG! how uncanny! In the past 12 months I have started taking a mug of cocoa up to bed with me...and wearing curlers (but only in the morning, as I can't stand sleeping in them) and these days I start yawning at around 7.45pm. I haven't quite got the whiskery chin yet, but I do have a strangely wiry tusk of hair that keeps emerging the side of my mouth. No matter how many times I pluck it out it grows back again, thicker and wirier than ever. And, I've noticed that I have to remove my lady-tash more often these days. What's next? Sucking nana sweets in front of Cash In The Attic? Swapping my high heels for a nice comfy big slipper? Fancying David Dickinson?

NO. I refuse to give in and act my age. I plan to grow old disgracefully and annoyingly, wearing skirts that are too short and tops that are too low, despite the ever-spreading cellulite and the newly discovered horror of crinkly cleavage. Ahhh how I mourn the steady loss of my once plump and bouncy bosoms - my skin seems to be morphing into some kind of badly fitting, faux leather cushion cover. Not only is it changing texture - think horny-scale lizard. It is also separating itself from my body and is beginning to hang in handy folds that could soon cover another whole person. Perhaps I could sell it, or make something with it like a handbag or nice pair of boots.

Actually, its not all bad. I have recently made a new and exciting scientific discovery - that a whole new person is growing out of my back! It's true. with the right kind of elasticated top and a bit of manipulation I can now fashion a fairly decent handful of back boobs that look far more pert and smooth than the ones hanging out front. My back is smoother too - not a saggy stretch mark or bit of chicken flesh in sight. And best of all, no downwards smiling belly button - If only I could swivel my head round and learn to walk backwards, I'd be sorted.

As I keep reminding myself. Things are bad, but they are only going to get worse. So stop whinging and enjoy. Now's the time to do all those things you never dared to when you were younger.

With this in mind, I celebrated my half century as I mean to go on. In a field, at a festival, breathing in other people's marijuana and drinking warm cider. I can recommend it, but only if you choose your festival wisely. Crones should on no account go anywhere near the heady, thrusting youthfulness of Leeds, Reading or horror of horrors, V. Even GuilFest, our nearest local thing to a proper concert, is to be treated with caution. Go by all means, but be careful. Avoid the mosh-pits (and on day three the arm-pits). And do not on any account camp unless you enjoy being woken up at 5am by a young man relieving himself down the side of your tent.

Be cautious, but never worry dear crones, there are plenty of festivals where age is no barrier to enjoyment - as long as you can still bend low enough to get through a tent flap. And talking of tents, make sure you pitch yours as near to the toilets as your sense of smell allows. As every crone knows, life has to be planned around toilet trips and there's nothing worse than a two mile track across a muddy field every half hour, especially in the dark. A friend of mine just stands there in front of her tent and wees on her wellies. I used to think she was a wild and wanton free spirit, but these days I'm not sure she even realises she's doing it.

I've always wanted to be in a rock band. So abandoning all hope of ever performing with one, I decided to latch myself onto one like some sad old, wreck of a wannabe groupie. Amazingly, this works wonders for your self esteem. Here's my tip. Pick your band - usually the ones who open the show are the best because they'll be a) almost certainly be past it, so you can pretend you were once a backing singer with them and they'll believe you (a surefire way of getting 'in' with them), and b) have never quite made it so they'll be grateful for any attention. Buy them a few ciders, then find out where they are camping and just rock up at around 4am when they are stoned out of their minds and playing Spanish Civil War songs on their mandolins. If you wear enough black eyeliner and cover any spare bits of flesh in old net and silver bangles you'll look like a wanton rock goddess through the mists of their cider and spliff-induced haze. Then, just knock the nearest wife/girlfriend/child to the ground, grab their deckchair and you're all set. Your rock chick status will only flounder when your partner and two friends turn up looking for you, clutching a nice mug of cocoa, pack of Tena-lady and your comfy big slipper.