At least one part of me is now getting bigger! I

THOUGHT you were supposed to shrink with age, but my feet seem to be getting bigger.

For years I took a size six shoe, which meant I was just out of the children’s section.

Over the last few years, I have expanded to a seven. My feet are in proportion to my size. I am below average in height, although not so diminutive that I could audition as a Hobbit (three feet six inches, apparently).

For years I have been buying tracksuit bottoms for youths aged 13 because even a small adult pair concertina so much I could play a tune.

This has never given me a complex, and I have always consoled myself with what my mother told me: they diamonds as big as bricks.

She also said my widow’s peak was one of the seven points of beauty but, as she didn’t mention the other six, I presume I never had them.

Leonardo Di Caprio has a widow’s peak, probably as part of the complete set, particularly if wealth, fame, talent, looks, height and charisma are included.

So a seven shoe size is fine, but when I bought a new pair of trainers the other day, I thought I would need an eight.

Am I regenerating into a different shape? Perhaps I will be the next Dr Who?

The new sevens were tight and uncomfortable when I put them on at home. At my age, I avoid trying anything on in a store.

“Can I try these on?” I might ask of the young lady doorkeeper to the changing rooms, holding up a selection of casual tops.

“You? In those?” her look might suggest.

And, let’s face it, sitting down to try on a pair of white trainers in Sports Direct might also attract a raised eyebrow and the unspoken query: “What do you need new trainers for at your age?” So I bought them untried and now they were so tight that I walked like a ballerina. “Shall I take them back?” said Maria. “No. I’ve got an idea,” I said. “What’s that?” “I’ll cut my toe nails.” And do you know, they now fit perfectly, which is a relief that my body is not shape shifting, but disappointing that I won’t be the new Dr Who.