The Picture of Doreen Gray

So, my weekend got off to a cracking start - I was purchasing wine in Thresher's pre- going to a friend's for dinner. I was about to pay for my bottles of Merlot (the nice fellow in the shop had upsold me two bottles for £8 - bargain), when said fellow says to me, 'Oh, just to check, you are over 18, aren't you?' I collapse in a gale of laughter. He is not raising so much as an eyebrow, much less a storm of matey, 'Ha ha, I'm trying to chat you up by flattering you' guffaws. He is looking totally serious.

'What, for real?' I say, still thinking this is an elaborate joke. He points behind him at the sign which declares, 'If you're lucky enough to look under 25, we might ask for ID' or whatever it says. Which I've always found perplexing anyway - if you only have to be 18 to buy booze, then why do they have to ask you how old you are if you look 25 or under? Makes no sense. By this stage, I'm getting a bit concerned that I am the subject of some sort of Punk'd/hidden camera feature (especially as I don't have any ID that proves my age - nobody has ever asked me if I'm old enough to buy booze, as I was a late developer and only started drinking when I was in my mid-twenties). I bellow, 'Jesus Christ, I'm 38!' at him.

'Well, I don't believe that' he says. 'What year were you born?' This is getting ridiculous. Quick as a flash, I reply, '1970', which shocks him somewhat (what, more than someone who might be 17 randomly adding a full 20+ years onto their age? I've known people who had a crisis about ageing when they turned 25; you're rarely going to be in a position where it seems like a great idea to pretend to be rocketing towards 40.) Thankfully, this stops him in his tracks (probably whilst he tries to do the maths to see if 1970 taken away from 2009 results in an age of 38). 'Oh. Well. Right. Um, I'm still not sure I believe you,' he says, 'but it's nice to meet someone who was born in the same decade as me'.

WHAT? The guy's in his 30s as well? This is nuts. I'd assumed he must be in his early 20s, so he couldn't imagine anyone being over the age of 30. Or perhaps he really couldn't see what I looked like - it was unfortunate that he had those eyes which, as my cousin says, look as though one's gone to the shops and the other's come back with the change. I decided to avoid having to try to prove my age by getting him to check my teeth (like you do with horses) or something, and just segued neatly into how infuriating it was dealing with 80s Babies who don't know the lyrics to Duran Duran songs, and how wrong it is that I now find myself regularly having to deal with work experience people who were born after 1990 (subtext: see, I have a job, I am definitely old enough to buy Merlot. Besides, if I were under age, wouldn't I be buying WKD, or Chardonnay, or something?)

This seemed to do the trick. I had my booze. He had an evening of wondering why any woman would (apparently) pretend to be 20 years older than she was. I had a very good laugh and skipped down the street (well, as much as you can skip anywhere when you're 38), delighting in the fact that the grey hoodie I was wearing, which I'd been cursing 5 minutes beforehand for being alarmingly casual, clearly marks me out as a Young Person. Who'd have thought it: hoodies, the elixir of youth. Bin the Botox and get yourself down to Gap for a cheap bit of jersey fabric with a zip. Quick, easy, and means that you can still frown if someone inadvertently goes the other way and guesses your age at five years older than you actually are...