It's that time of year again. That time of year when I start to feel a little physically dejected.
Don't get me wrong, I love summer. I love sunshine and I love the fact that I no longer have to experience the daily struggle of hoisting up the crotch of my 60 denier tights from their inevitable downwards creep (can someone please invent tights that stay UP? Is this too much too ask?).
It's just that now I am irrefutably thirty-something (ugh, the very words stick in my throat) preparing for the Grand Unveiling Of The Flesh is an increasingly mammoth task.
Just two years ago, although I was most certainly thirty-something even then, the beautifying regime was a little easier. What has happened in the past two years that a tub of fake tan and my trusty Epilady can no longer remedy? And if this slippery slide is to continue, what fresh horrors are in store as I start to edge unwillingly towards forty-something? Will I forced to trade in the au-pair for a team of live-in beauticians, hairdressers and cosmetic surgeons? Will the term au naturel become a dirty word, evoking visions of cracked hooves, rogue chin-whiskers, broken veins and the kind of skin more commonly seen gracing a Hermes handbag?
I keep on hearing that 50 is the new 30 - well, not if Mother Nature has her way. It may well be time to stop growing older gracefully; personally, I'm planning to kick and scream all the way... via Harley Street, obviously.
Damn it, Alpha, where did you hide my credit card?