The Rule of Three

Cheerful James and I have at least one thing in common - we are both Librans. Yes, well balanced, with elegant homes and dress sense, plus a marked inability to make a decision. That's what my horoscope profile always insists, at any rate. As I've never seen Cheerful James out of his regulation Virgin Active PT kit (black T-shirt, black shorts), I have no idea what his dress sense is like. Naturally, I have no idea if he has an elegant home. I've never asked him to make a decision (other than when best suits him to make me flail around doing lunges, boxing, tricky manoeuvres with large rubber tubes called ViPRs - no idea why; makes them sound like an iPad crossed with a snake, and they resemble neither - and other ungainly but improving things for an hour at a time.) You get the idea.

But yes, we both had birthdays over the weekend. I asked him how old he was, knowing perfectly well he'd just turned 29. He's never asked me how old I am, even when, last year, I said one of the reasons I was doing all this Bionification (that's definitely a word) in the first place was because I was having a Big Birthday Party, and wanted to look, as the young folks say, Amazeballs. He never asked, so I never said. But of course when I asked him how old he was, he had to ask me how old I was. So I made him guess. This has turned into my favourite game of late - not long ago, I was out in a very dimly lit bar and a boy (no other word for it) was talking to me. I asked how old he was, as he didn't look as though he was even legally able to buy a drink, and he said 24. I then made him guess my age. It was, as I've said, dark, and he was really drunk. He said, '27', which made me laugh like a hyena. 'Is that the oldest he can possibly imagine a woman being?' I wondered.

Mind you, I've decided I'm going to have to start lying about my age - it was one thing saying, 'I'm 40', it's going to be quite another saying, 'I'm in my 40s'. People in their 40s have their lives sorted - they organise holidays more than a fortnight in advance. They have a capsule wardrobe. They get their shoes re-heeled before said heels actually fall off. They hoover regularly. They have pints of milk in the fridge, just because that's what you're supposed to do, not because you're having people to stay and they might want milk in their tea. They don't have teetering towers of Grazia that date back three months by the bedside. They probably don't buy Grazia at all! They've moved on from caring about whether Poor Tragic Jen is over Brad and whether Cheryl Cole has a 'job' in telly and they now read The Economist. Gaaah. I've decided I really liked being 38 - you didn't have to worry about any of this stuff.

So, Cheerful James has been seeing me, at close range, in the glaring strip lights of Virgin Active for over a year. Most of the time, I have my hair in a ponytail and practically no make up on, as it's the end of the day. I am a sweaty mess. How old did he think I am? '32'. 32! 'So, you think I'm three years older than you?' I asked. He nodded, a bit bemused (he'd given it a bit of thought). Aww, could I love him more? I told him how old I was and that the Big Birthday last year had been in aid of me turning 40. I have come to the conclusion that if you imply that you're a bit older than someone they either a/ just assume you mean 'about three years older' or b/ have such a great fear of being punched in the noggin that they will only venture an age that's three years older in order not to cause offence.

Either way, I know it's incredibly vain and shallow, but being told you don't look your age is the best free ego boost you can get. Let's just hope that when I suddenly age overnight, I've managed to save up enough cash for industrial amounts of Botox and fillers to fix things. I'm aiming for a look that's between Kylie Minogue and Lulu on the age spectrum. Alternatively, I suppose I could just add a decade on to my age. Which would be infinitely cheaper and no more deceitful.