I would be the first to admit that at 41 I can probably no longer refer to myself as young.

Somewhere in the last 20 years I have got married, had three children, and gained grey hair and crows feet.

None of these are anything I’m ashamed of – in fact quite the opposite.

However, the fact remains that getting older is something that is happening to us all.

The physical act of ageing doesn’t bother me too much; there is always hair dye and I’m not sure I could ever be bothered with plastic surgery.

Mentally I’m still in my mid -20s – the three children aside I’m still sometimes surprised by the level of responsibility someone somewhere has given me.

I don’t remember giving too much thought to the millstone of a monster-size mortgage at the time.

Perhaps having boys makes the ageing process a little easier.

I’m not continually comparing myself to a svelte teenage daughter with thick, glossy, uncoloured hair and unblemished skin.

At the moment all three of my boys still look up to me as the only significant female in their lives.

Despite the fact that two of them have vowed they never want to leave home, I’m fairly sure they’ll change their minds, or the gentle nudge they’ll be getting in their early 20s will come as a bit of a shock to them.

I think it’s pretty normal for a 10-year-old boy to still think his mum is the most beautiful woman in the world, perhaps not so normal at 16.

One of the upsides of the advancing years is the comfort of enjoying the things I actually like doing and not the things I think I should like doing.

I’ve never been a wild child. Late night clubbing wasn’t really my scene.

These days I don’t mind admitting I enjoy listening to Radio 4 and that Desert Island Discs is one of my favourite 45 minutes of the week.

Only two years ago the BRIT Awards were a highlight of my year. This year it was a very different story.

The very thought of trekking from Oxford to London on a wet February evening to be herded into a stadium so far away from the stage that you may as well watch it on TV filled me with horror.

Whilest my heart says that if Fearne Fern Cotton can work it then so can I, my head says that there’s still 10 years' age difference.

And if I channelled the pop sock with stiletto look modelled by Fearne I’d look a proper plum.

Not being quite ready to throw in the young and trendy towel I sat down to watch the BRITs.

Partly out of curiosity and partly to give me some talking points with anyone under 21 coming in for their dental examinations.

After 20 minutes it was clear that I had only heard of around half the bands and there definitely seems to have been a move in the last couple of years towards shouting instead of actually singing – a sure sign I'm getting old.

By the end I was asleep and so I missed Madonna’s stage dive.

Clearly there is a parallel universe where people are hanging out at gigs and following the band of the moment instead of producing spreadsheets for after school activities.

But it’s not a universe I’m all that sad to be missing out on any more.

Although hopefully I’ve picked up just enough to stop me sounding like a granny the next time a 21-year-old comes in to our Botley Road surgery... We’ll see.