I HAD to stop what I was doing yesterday after I was hit by the sudden realisation that I was “getting on”.

I had been hit by a double whammy: I found myself singing “it’s bin day!” as I rummaged around for extra rubbish to throw in the paper bin, then I cried with joy when I realised it was sunny and blustery enough to peg a few loads of washing on the line.

Back in the day I took pleasure in saving up for a new lip gloss or waiting outside Woolworth’s to buy Wannabe on cassette; now I’m ecstatic when I see that Douwe Egberts is half price in Tesco. What’s happened to me? I’ll tell you what’s happened, I’ve crossed the bridge from Excitement-ville over to adult town, then driven down the M6 and taken the turn-off for Middle-Age-upon-Avon.

“You’re not THAT old and boring,” a twenty-something colleague told me. “Would someone past it leave the works party early to watch a Great British Bake Off marathon on Netflix with a box of Maltesers and some scotch and Drambuie? I think not!”

I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic – I was too busy fantasising about said night to care.

“I’ll be getting a syrup of figs and a reasonably priced convertible next!” I cried. “I’ll be wearing shell suits and living on a sun bed!”

“You’re not that old, Shell,” she said, sympathetically. “Plus, my gran says that shell suits hide a multitude of sins, like cellulite and the effects of osteoporosis.”

I knew at that moment that I had to revisit my inner youth. I needed to revisit everything that made me ‘young’, otherwise I’d be spending the rest of my Sundays cleaning the garage and shopping for cheeses at markets.

“We’re going to see some bands on Friday,” the infant in the work’s uniform told me. “Come along! That’ll make you feel young again.”

So after I’d arranged a babysitter for the cats and left several notes detailing the budgie’s food intolerances I headed out to the concert in my youthful attire. “Are those jelly shoes?” one asked me. “Don’t you have any Doc Marten’s?”

“Well, I did like the series….maybe not enough to buy the VHS…”

After explaining to me what Docs were and after I’d convinced them that my Crosby, Stills and Nash t-shirt was NOT a nod to disgraced comedian Bill, we set up camp in front of a loud, shouty band who seemed to enjoy adding at least nine expletives to every verse.

I watched as several of the youngsters started drinking cans and stripping down to unnecessarily short shorts and vest tops that had the same surface area as a plaster. “Get a cardy on!” I shouted whilst handing out straws. “You’re all gonna get tinnitus with this! Is there not a fella doing Roy Orbison covers?”

After watching the kids go from excitable and healthy to tired, nauseous piles of youth in the tent, I sat sipping on a raspberry tea, enjoying the silence. I covered them up with my blankets (who’s trailing surplus rubbish along now?!), and One turned to me: “You’re not old, Shell,” she whispered. “You’re just the Mammy of the group. We all love you.”

So I guess it’s nice that I’m a bit more of an antique, because my value is going up with age.