When I was told I was being moved to this Page 3 slot I couldn’t resist grinning.

It made my day, my week – maybe even my year.

After all, it's not often that you get to have one of your wildest fantasies fulfilled, even if you hadn’t actually even realised it was one.

True, I have a few attributes you wouldn’t normally expect of a Page 3 girl, such as a spare tyre, crows’ feet, the odd liver spot and possibly around 30 additional years.

Most of them probably don’t enjoy a spot of weeding in their spare time or religiously tape every episode of Eggheads to shout out the wrong answers to either.

One thing that I am pretty sure that we do have in common is a tendency to dye our tresses.

However, I would bet good money that it’s not normally from the necessity of covering up all the pesky grey ones rapidly coming through – I’ve reached the stage where plucking the blighters out is no longer an option.

For most, it would be a matter of tantalising others by changing their locks to shiny brunette or becoming a blonde bombshell.

I bet there aren’t too many females gracing said page who experience the nuisance of regular hot flushes either.

Nope, the kind of power surges they experience are likely to be at the hands of their personal trainers.

And, let’s face it they are the very reason that many observers of their talents feel the need to step into a very long cold shower.

Nope, I am definitely not what you’d expect from your typical Page 3 girl.

Don’t worry, you can all relax. There is absolutely no danger of me ever publicly removing any of my clothing.

It has been made quite clear to me that I am not even to think about doing anything even very slightly risqué. Not even so much as undoing the top button of my cardi.

Suits me, I pack a small marquee to change in on the beach and I always avoided using communal changing rooms in clothes shops – which thankfully now appear to be extinct.

However, it’s undeniable that I am now thrilled at the prospect of one day sitting in a floral-print winged armchair with a hand knitted rug over my knees, sucking a mint imperial (sounds like so many of my Friday nights) and reminiscing with my peers.

I can see it now. We’ll all be encouraged to sing along to some old time favourites, maybe a number from the Sex Pistols or Siouxsie and the Banshees, and we’ll all be crafting a replica Tracey Island out of used cereal packets.

And I will insist on telling anyone I can make listen, repeatedly and annoyingly, of my previous Page 3 status.

People will refuse to be wheeled up and parked next to me. And, yes I might be being somewhat economical with the truth – but a fact is a fact – and it’s my best claim to fame to date.