CHILDREN CAN TELL I’M NOT A GROWN-UP

Rowan Pelling Real age: 51. Spirit age: 15.

I HAVE never lied about my age and told everyone when I turned 50 last year. But that might be because I am certain, deep down, that the largest part of me remains resolutely 15. I have spent my life avoiding certain adult responsibilities (tax returns, form-filling, housework, the duller side of childrearing) and veering off into my own vivid, imaginary world.

I still make the kind of intense friendships I made at school and like sloping away from chores like a naughty schoolgirl having a ciggie behind the bike sheds.

My life would have fallen apart, I suspect, if I hadn’t married a proper grown-up who provides the necessary domestic balance. I happily wear clothes many peers would judge to be age-inappropriate, such as skinny jeans, short skirts and bikinis, and only yesterday I received a Sex Pistols T-shirt in the post.

Children (little girls in particular) often recognise I’m not a real grownup and are happy to talk to me about unicorns, imaginary friends and dragons. If there’s a trampoline or a game of ‘It’, I’m first in the queue.

My chief guilty pleasure is nestling in an armchair with a clutch of favourite children’s books.

I don’t think I chase youth: I’ve never had Botox or filler and I’m happy with my wrinkles. But I suspect feeling young is what makes a person buzz, not looking it. If I were ever to have a tattoo, then it would say simply: ‘There are no rules.’