The problem with being 48 is I’m so in limbo.

Yes, 48 isn’t 21 anymore but equally it isn’t saline drips and motorised scooters either.

Realistically, I still think can sunbathe without causing 48-hour sickness to those around me, but I’m also aware that I’m in great danger of becoming one of those seaside attractions that everyone under the age 30 can’t help but gawp at.

At the same time, when it’s appropriate, I still feel I can slip effortlessly in to some little black dress, while the truth is that the “effortlessly” part has normally had to include some degree of lipo- suction or the kind of girdle that weighs more than my week’s consumption of alcohol.

This of course would be cause enough to get depressed, comfort eat, and lie out in front of Jeremy Kyle like some Kidlington-version of Jabba The Hutt.

But curiously, it has had the reverse effect on me. And whom do I have to thank for this 180 degree turn-around in mood and self-confidence? Why, my daughters of course.

They are young, beautiful and full of swagger. Their skin is faultless, their energy intense enough to run a small Caribbean island for a year or two, and their confidence joyously awe-inspiring.

Their waists are the size of young palm trees and whatever they wear – and yes, some of it looks decidedly odd on the hanger – miraculously transforms itself into the catwalk event du jour.

Yet – and allow me to wallow indulgently in this small victory for the over-40s – no matter what nature has bestowed on them, it still takes them hours to get ready.

Dogs lead shorter lives than the time it takes them to prepare for a night on the town. And even if it is just an errand I want run to Sainsbury’s, it can still require at least a three-day booking period because of the demands of their exfoliation routines.

Now me, I accept that Sainbury’s and its customers aren’t really going to care if I turn up in a pair of grubby jeans, a similarly aged T-shirt and a lack of foundation that almost borders on insanity. I’ll look crap for 15 minutes but then so would Elle MacPherson.

And even when out on a date of an evening, I have at last realised that three hours spent primping myself in front of a mirror isn’t going to make a whole lot of difference when it’s my bladder that needs to be constrained. Chatting to someone nice always loses its allure if every five minutes you need to keep excusing yourself and re-appearing five minutes later unable to pick-up the said conversation from: “... and then your third wife was also killed in an unfortunate Botox accident”.

No, on a Saturday night when I can be dressed to kill (or at least not anaesthetize) in 15 minutes, I can’t help but think that Mother Nature is kind; 15 minutes isn’t even enough time for my daughters to have a cosmetic breakdown because they’ve both forgotten to buy false eyelashes.