It's nearly a whole year since I was dragged kicking, screaming and drinking gin into my fifth decade but after the initial, frankly terrifying, trauma of getting there, being 50 hasn't been the long dark tea-time of the soul that I was expecting.
True, I might as well dance through the precinct every Wednesday afternoon in nought but tassels and a tutu for I have become one of the invisible women. That age group of women whose opinion and ideas excite no-one and mean nothing except, perhaps, to supermarket retailers. Still, could be worse I suppose. I could be Angela Merkel. Or Kris Jenner.