Now, logically, this hideous apparition of my aged self is unlikely to become reality for a few years yet. I am only thirty-four this year. I still get asked for ID when buying alcoholic substances, and feel a smug sense of satisfaction when the salesperson recoils in shock at my DOB. My pupils still think l am 24 (oh, the innocence of youth). I write all of this nonchalantly, as if my age does not bother me in the least. In reality, l am shitting enough proverbial bricks to build a brand new pyramid. I scour my head for hints of grey. I count the lines around my eyes. I attempt the 'pencil test' to see if my breasts and buttocks are still as pert as they once were. Yes, I have suddenly found myself as the target customer for magical creams that fend off wrinkles with swords and bombs laced with secret ingredients that have more 'Oxy's than l ever thought possible, hair colourings that promise to cover those dead follicles with a blanket of fluorescent red, and hydrochloric acid treatments that will eventually peel away all your skin to reveal your baby faced skull underneath. And, yes, I have read 'Bad Science', l do understand that most of these potions are ineffective, but still l find myself stood in the aisle at Boots, wide-eyed and drooling at the seductive promises the packaging offers me. And as l leave with a shamefully clanking bag, l shudder as l try and hide from the truth: l want eternal youth. Or at least the appearance of it.
Inevitably, one has to accept that preventing the ageing process is as impossible as preventing a starved cheetah from tearing a dead carcass limb from limb. No matter how many nights l sleep hanging upside down from my bedrooms door, how much duck tape l use to fold my face back over my ears, or how many layers of acrylic paint l plaster over my skin, those pesky lines will appear whether l like it or not. I can clench my buttock muscles until l have to hobble around as if l have rocks in my knickers; l could string my breasts up around my neck with dental floss; if l bench pressed enough weights to give me the muscles of a steroid munching gym bunny, the collagen in my skin would still leak, unwanted, into the atmosphere. The nights l have spent painstakingly applying whitewash to each and every tooth are essentially worthless, for they will end up replaced by a set of clacking dentures that will have to be removed after every meal and picked over for scraps. Although, secretly, l am quite looking forward to giving small children nightmares with my falsies by hiding them in their bed. Or in their porridge.
So, as l sit here in my nightie and slippers, pointlessly injecting my forehead with a potent mixture of toilet bleach and bicarbonate of soda (the effervescent qualities pump out those fine lines miraculously), l am forced to accept the fact that slowly, but surely, l will morph into a mad old lady. I will be wrinkled and lined; l will push a trolley laden with cuddly toys and royal paraphernalia around town; l will attempt to lame young people with my walking stick; I will wave my Bus Pass fiercely as elbow my way to the front of bus queues; l will live in a junk filled house that smells vaguely of cat piss and rotten half-eaten ready meals; l will wear low cut leopard print blouses that expose my wrinkled sagging breasts, with pop socks, tartan slippers, fuschia lipstick and blue mascara; and l will consider it my right to stand on street corners and verbally abuse passers-by as l glug milk from a bottle, stolen from a passing milk float.
But for now, l will cling on to my youth as tightly as possible. And hope that when l start to resemble Barbara Cartland, someone will put me down.
