The Hertfordshire woman who has it all but can't remember where she put it!

In a world where the perfect mother juggles work, home and a bloke, Julia manages to keep a pint of lager, a pizza and a baby all in the air at the same time.

I vividly remember turning 30 because I hit an all time low in misery and depression, and I clearly remember being 21 because I was at college and had a hangover that lasted well into Christmas Eve. But 34? How on earth did that sneak up?

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This is what happens you see. One minute you are merrily thinking that being over 25 is the first step to incontinence, and the next minute you realise that you are in your mid-thirties.

And that means that it’s only a matter of time before you reach 40. And for all everyone says that life begins at 40 (no one under 40 ever says that you’ll notice) it all starts to feel rather like the sands of time are slipping through your soon to be arthritic fingers and there’s nothing you can do about it!

So I have realised that I am becoming obsessed with getting old. Old people, ie those over 60 ( it used to be those over 40) always say that the years fly by. And boy are they right! Fly? They’re going at Mac 4!

My early thirties have disappeared into a supersonic boom. At this rate I’ll be in the back of my son’s Volvo heading for the Old Folk’s Home before I’ve done today’s pile of ironing.

And of course there are all the other things to consider. I found myself reading an article about the "Pension Time-Bomb" the other day.

It nearly sent me over the edge because I am still about 22 in my head and I’ve got years to start off a pension…..I think I aged another ten years in the time it took me to read the blasted thing.

And of course there are the changes in the body. Like it or not my body and face are already starting to show that 1968 was quite a long time ago to be born.

I seem to be growing wrinkles in the strangest places (by my ears for example) and I must have spent my entire life scowling because you could grow potatoes in the trenches on my forehead. And having done some research I can report that Olay don’t make agricultural trench filler.

Happily I have been short-sighted since birth so loss of 20:20 vision is something I came to terms with when most people were potty training, but grey hair is a new challenge altogether.

Due to neglect and, well, neglect, my hair has recently started to emerge from the rainbow of bleaches, highlights, lowlights and late nights, and there is no mistake. I have grey hair.

Not the sexy Richard Gere type that my other half has, oh no I have the clapped out given up the ghost type that only women seem to get.

I noticed that my hands were looking a bit gnarled the other day as I planted my new apple tree (a birthday present) and put it down to a bit of dry skin. Three tubs of hand cream later they are certainly not dry but they are definitely a bit tired looking.

I pinched the skin to check the elasticity, rather too hard actually as I now have a bruise, and the skin seemed to take ages to go back to its original state. It was as if it couldn’t really be bothered to move itself. I know the feeling.

I am also ashamed to report that while I can cope with policemen looking young, I practically asked for a Registrar’s degree certificate the other week at Watford General before she examined my son.

She was ridiculously young looking! No grey hairs there! No trenches on her forehead! She was quite stunningly pretty which I just about forgave her for (though I was deeply suspicious of why she wasn’t on a catwalk) but I thought she was about 22.

Ten years ago I would have called the Samaritans if I had had the sort of birthday I had last week (Long lie-in what joy – it’s a luxury now not a God-given right, trip to Hatfield House with Douglas and Charlie, two pints at lunchtime which meant snoring through my new Harry Potter video, and planning where to plant my pear tree and apple tree) but to me it was a perfect day.

And anyway, who wants to be pulled out of the gutter unable to remember their name by a policeman younger than Michael Owen?