On my 20th birthday, I locked myself in the bathroom of my bungalow in Billericay and cried. Having achieved my dream – becoming a published writer – at the tender age of 17, I thought it was all downhill from there. Yes, some of this had to do with marrying the first man I had sex with; the idea that I was only ever meant to do the deed with him alone appalled me beyond words. But there was also a general feeling that my value was in some way intrinsically bound up with my extreme youth.
Fast-forward to the day I turned 60, when I woke up in an Art Deco flat with the sea at the bottom of the street, married to a man (third time lucky) who could still make me laugh after a quarter of a century. After some years in the wilderness (albeit a very luxurious wilderness, having been living the high life for a decade due to selling my house to a developer for a lot of money) I had a newspaper column and a book contract.
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