Celebrate hitting 70? Not on your nelly!

LATeR this year I will reach that age. There’s no point in being coy, and I know it’s a surprise, but I will be 70. Yes, I have survived seven action-packed decades with a few wrinkles but absolutely no regrets. I’m of sound mind, and relatively firm body.

Hurrah! There’s much to be happy about, but I promise you one thing: I won’t have a big celebration.

You can forget ice buckets filled with fizz, silly cocktails or even karaoke followed by dancing around my handbag with a bunch of girlfriends. No special frock or expensive facial. No tasting menu in a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Instead, I will spend the evening in exactly the same way as usual: with six mates in a bowling club cafe, eating Thai curry.

My no-nonsense attitude is hardly the norm these days. Where once women celebrated their 21st with enthusiasm, then kept quiet about any date afterwards, now 70 has become a significant date, something to be celebrated with maximum fuss.

This week, BBC Woman’s Hour made a huge hoo-ha about celebrating its 70th anniversary, and last week Mail advice columnist Bel Mooney told us she’s embarking on a big project to celebrate her 70th — in body, mind and spirit. Then there’s my friends planning trips to New York, cruises, and fancy dress balls.

Until a decade ago, 50 was the ‘big one’: from then on, it seemed life would be downhill. It marked the start of old age, of being sensible, wearing comfy clothes, not making new friends, following the same routine. The kids had left home, we were stuck with dreary partners, and the future seemed grey, job prospects limited.

For women, turning 50 meant being resigned to being ignored at parties and social gatherings.

Today, many feel that life really starts at 60 or 70.

It is no longer the start of the end of your life, it’s just a stop on the journey. People in their 70s are not now written off.

We are the generation born immediately after the last war — the first teenagers who wanted to stay youthful for as long as possible and we have re-defined ageing every decade of our lives.

Once, you got married and were settled by your 30s, then the baby boomers made it acceptable to be a 30-something singleton.

They went on to declare that 50 was the new 40, and now are re-inventing the world of senior citizens as they reach 70.

By this age our parents were often stuck in loveless marriages, embittered. Now, there are more single women of a certain age than ever, spending money on themselves and looking great.

Divorce is no longer stigmatised — this generation have become known as the ‘silver splitters’, because once the kids have left home, why stay together?

Starting a family also changed. If you yearn for a child after devoting your life to your job, it’s possible in middle age.

Seventy, not 50, is when your new life begins, not ends. So why don’t I feel like celebrating?

In the past, I’ve had legendary birthday parties. My 50th took place in a half-finished London nightclub, and we were served rum punch made by my friend’s Trinidadian dad out of a dustbin. I dimly remember people queuing up to be insulted by Johnny Rotten and meet Stephen Fry.

My 60th took place in my local village hall. I put up hundreds of yards of fairy lights, made the lamb stew and seated Daniel Craig in a hidden spot so he wasn’t bothered. We played musical chairs and pass the parcel, let off fireworks and got drunk.

Now, though, I’ve called a halt on big celebrations.

It’s not that I’m depressed about the march of time — far from it. It’s just my time is too precious to spend organising a 70th extravaganza. More importantly, why celebrate being 70? It’s just another date.

OFCOURSe, there are downsides to ageing. What’s worse than an attractive bloke telling you: ‘I never guessed you were 70 — you don’t look a day over 50!’

There are many things I don’t want to draw attention to. My face is definitely looking saggy, although once I start chattering, the jowls are less noticeable.

There are also some small changes that make turning 70 different from turning 60. I rarely sleep for more than six hours, although it’s joint pain, not regrets, that keep me awake.

I still play tennis every week — against my coach, a 46-year-old man — but know I will spend the next 24 hours stumbling around like a 150-year-old.

I also worry about spending my final years alone. It’s not as if I’ve led a celibate life, but I do wonder how much more sex I’ll be lucky enough to enjoy.

Then I remember Judi Dench found a new partner in her socalled mature years, and am optimistic.

So why celebrate 70 when I’ve got three decades to plan my centenary?

It will definitely include a tennis match — I wonder if Andy Murray will be my doubles partner?