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.