Why we think we’re more beautiful than we are after 50

Here’s a research finding from the journal Psychology and Ageing that is unlikely to surprise anyone over the age of 55. Apparently most people between 55 and 80 (59 per cent of those studied) believe they look younger than other people their age.

Not to boast, but I’ve been on to this since my mid-40s, the age when you begin to form the impression that you not only look younger than your peers, you look younger than women in their 30s. This is because you’ve taken up Pilates, stopped experimenting with pleats, got yourself a good colourist, and so on, but the main reason – as we’re all now surely aware – is the gift of age goggles.

Age goggles are one of nature’s kinder tricks, providing you learn to err on the side of caution and accept that what you see in the mirror, and hear and witness on the faces of your rapt audience (is that mesmerised, or bored?) is not necessarily what others are experiencing. So far it seems that age goggles can go in phases, and some last longer than others. Here are the ones that come to mind:

The “late-life bikini” phase. This kicks in as you approach 50 when you might buy a bikini after a long stint of one-pieces, because you think you look better than you did 20 years ago (later on, you will concede this was not the case but, at the time, it feels like you’re guaranteed awestruck admiration because of how fit you are for your age). Then you get some very short shorts and tiny skirts, until one day you catch a glimpse of yourself, or your nephew looks like he’s accidentally swallowed a fly, and you think again.

The “my youth is fascinating to everyone” phase. Well, yes, you did kiss David Essex (on stage in the interval of Godspell; it was a thing) and you once fainted because your jeans were so tight (someone else had to help pull them on with the assistance of a wire coat hanger) and you did dance with Ben Volpeliere-Pierrot in a nightclub without realising it was Ben Volpeliere-Pierrot. Good times. But all this is only so interesting to people who have never heard of David Essex, and all of us will take it too far. Next thing you know we “sort of ” knew the guys who kept the pet lion in the antiques shop in the King’s Road; we may have once been chatted up by James Hunt. This phase goes on forever, really, but you learn to know your audience (other delusionals your own age).

The “my house is bohemian” phase. Or is it just really untidy and rammed with moulting ibex skins, chipped pottery, Welsh blankets, leggy geraniums and so forth? The older you get, the more you realise that the shabby chic you aspired to is everyone under-40s’ nightmare. They want underfloor heating and a power shower.

The “my music taste is incredible and original” phase. I have to admit I am among those midlife festivalgoers who, once a year, head off with the adult children (step- in my case) to a cosy, possibly Waitrose-sponsored music festival and, while I really look forward to it, how they can stand it I do not know. What is it about the midlifers and their determination to own the music? True, there are a lot of old rockers at these festivals (“Oh my God, this was playing when I got my A-level results”), but don’t they get tired of us nodding along and then whispering: “Very UB40, I saw them at Colston Hall in 1981.” This phase is ongoing.

The “my travel tips are second to none” phase. Or they were when the Lonely Planet guides were the only source material.

The “people still fancy me” phase. Of course they might, but the glittery-eyed, piratical ones who weren’t even born when you were planning your 40th? The young man selling the craft gin at the food market… you think?