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I used to think 40 was the age when you signed off from a life of fun and frolics. I did approach my 70th birthday with trepidation but, two years on, I found it means nothing if you have a young outlook and laugh a lot. I keep fit by scrambling up my Devonshire cliff-top garden to weed and plant.

I have to come down on my bottom, but it’s safer that way.

Admittedly I needed frequent breathers to stay abreast of fellow baby boomers.

It’s arranged like the dance version of speed dating, changing partners every five minutes so you’re never caught in the sticky embrace of an over-amorous fellow dancer.

I’ll say, ‘Sorry, I’m not playing’ if a partner or friend is determinedly argumentative. My mother died of cancer when I was 25 and she was 50.

I spent my midlife years imagining I would get a tumour at the age she died.

As much as anything, I celebrate my 70s for being a time when my ego is no longer on high alert, in case others are doing better at a career, being lovelier, funnier, cleverer than I am.

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