Crusty has been replaced by thrusting these days

Fiona’s attempts at covering up her age appear to be working – and with all the help available, she is finding it an easier job than ever

Occasionally you do get a compliment. Like the jolly ticket inspector on the train to Edinburgh who asks to see my concession card. “You shouldn’t have one of these, love. You’re not old enough,” he bellows down the jam-packed carriage. Folk are staring. I smile – and yes, it is welcome flattery.

But the thing is, I am trying to stop telling people my age.

As Oscar Wilde famously said, a woman who would tell you that would tell you anything.

Yet hiding the ageing process will be hard because when you’ve been on TV they can announce it in the newspaper birthday lists.

It is too late, of course, to follow the example of my mother, who has been 59 forever.

In fact, I am now technically older than she is – which is a source of great amusement to the younger grandchildren.

But back to compliments. Later that week there is the middle-aged man at the RAF event we attend.

He takes the chief to one side and tells him that for someone who’s been broadcasting for 35 years I don’t look at all bad.

In fact, he confides to my husband that he’d be happy to take me on a date some time.

I don’t think he knows the relationship between us. Mercifully, the MacGregor is not a jealous man.

Yet it leaves me thinking. What does anyone senior look like in these modern days?

These days you’re more likely to find thrusting rather than crusty. Fewer A-lines and more pencil skirts. Less lambswool, more denim.

And, let’s face it, with all those fillers, wretched wrinkles can be banished forever.

I do not like injections, so that is not a route I have gone down so far. But there is always time.

If there is money, that is. For there is always something else to spend it on.

This week, the car tax and the MoT. Next month, the annual jabs for the dogs.

Rummie and Barra are inoculated against distemper, rabies and all sorts of nasties.

And although they enjoy a ride out in the car, it is not something they look forward to.

Neither do we. Each year the MacGregor and I take it in turn to transport them to the vet.

The thing is, our pets know what is coming. So trying to get them out of the car is the first hurdle to overcome.

Then they must either be lifted, or

It is too late, of course, to follow the example of my mother, who has been 59 forever

dragged into the consulting room on leads.

The Norfolk terrier is the worst. When they attempt to put kennel cough drops up his nose, war breaks out.

This year it is my turn to get them vaccinated. This year I may wear thick gloves and advise the vet to do the same.

I will take along a pocket of biscuits which may go some way to soothing hurt feelings.

And if they really play up, I will remind them that they are old enough to know better.

Fiona has not been tempted to take the needle route – but admits she could be.