Am in state of mild shock. Apparently there are now ten signs of ageing. TEN! I was just about coping when Oil of Ulay (along with a Neanderthal hairline and a tendency to gingerness, I have also inherited from parents a refusal to acknowledge any change in brand names, thus I still use Jif and hate Marathons) told me there were seven signs I needed to tackle immediately lest I be left on shelf like withered crone. But imagine my shock this morning when I flicked over to ITV only to be told by L’Oreal that I now need to panic about ten.

Ten? Really? And they don’t even give me helpful list like Ulay did, so started frantically working out what they might be. Thus:

1. Lines (tick)
2. Wrinkles (tick, though not sure how these differ from lines. Is like trying to tell a tangerine from a satsuma or any one of made-up mini oranges that Waitrose stocks these days)
3. Freckles on hands (tick, though have had these since age two so this is non-starter really)
4. Sagging (appear to have fended off basset hound face so far, so one point to me

Which is where I floundered. So have had to invent several:

5.  Not even getting cross about prospect of staying in on a Saturday night, as opposed to staggering around provincial town centre high on heady mix of Jager and self-righteousness of youth.

6. Purchase of thermal vest from M&S, as opposed to screeching at your mum that you would rather freeze to death in a black lace cami top (Goth phase, very short-lived) than wear sensible anything.

7.  Interest in cheeses bordering on obsessive.

8.  Hours spent poring over entire works of Nigella to find recipe for home-made chutney to go with said cheeses.

9.  Overuse of phrase “these days”.

10. Refusal to acknowledge change in brand names.

All boxes ticked. It is official. I am old. I blame Pudsey bear. If I hadn’t been forced to change channel to avoid his grinning, gormless form I would be none the wiser.