Is it my insecurities or society making me dread turning 40?

“LOOK daddy, there’s mummy,” said Luke pointing at the TV.

“No son, that’s Amber Rudd,” said Pete.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

No offence to the Home Secretary, she always looks smart. But she’s 53, I’m 39.

The story, as relayed to me by Pete, hit me like a ton of bricks just as I thought I was coming to terms with turning 40 in September.

I don’t even like writing the words because in my head in many ways I’m still 25 and struggling to make sense of the world. When will I start to feel like a proper grown-up?

But even though I still don’t feel like a proper grown-up, I certainly look it and being mistaken for a 53-year-old has not helped my self-esteem one bit. Perhaps Luke made the mistake because we both wear glasses – at least I hope that’s what it was.

It sounds ridiculous and it probably is. But even when I entered my 30s and had my own home and mortgage I still felt like I was playing at being an adult.

I had no other responsibilities to speak of – no family at that point – and would still stay up late watching TV just because I could.

I still relished that feeling of rebellion.

I used to feel as though adulthood was still to come and that I had plenty of time.

Now I’m getting hit by waves of sadness and the Amber Rudd moment was like a huge breaker crashing onto my head and pushing me down underneath the surface, leaving me struggling to find my feet and stand up again.

Perhaps I’m having some sort of early mid-life crisis or is this actually classed as mid-life?

I’m not even mature enough to know the definitive answer to that.

As a journalist I am constantly asking the people I interview how old they are and I never understood why people would cast their eyes down and whisper “40”, like it was a dirty secret.

But at least that mystery is becoming a bit clearer now.

I feel a slight sense of shame that I am (whisper it) turning 40 in just over two months.

Is it my insecurities making me feel this way or is it society’s treatment of mature women? Probably a bit of both.

Yesterday I was driving when a news report came along about the birth rate in the UK and how the latest figures show more women than ever are giving birth in their forties.

It was purely a statement of fact but I immediately felt defensive and offended, believing the underlying meaning of the statement was that women shouldn’t be doing this as they were too old.

I’m surprised at how sensitive this whole turning 40 business has left me.

Sometimes I’m comforted when I look in the mirror, believing that I could still pass for 35 or 36.

At other times I look and see exactly why Luke mistook Amber Rudd for me.

The last 39 and threequarter years are etched all over my face for all to see.

It’s like a period of mourning I suppose.

I’m mourning the passing of the alltoo-brief period in life when it seems like you have forever ahead of you and you can look towards the future with a fresh and unwrinkled face. There was always plenty of time to lose weight, get fit, get serious, have that holiday, get more organised, sort out my pension, switch to the cheaper utility tariffs, try that restaurant, play with Luke, have that “date night” we’ve been planning forever, try that spa, buy those clothes, see that show, enter that race.

Now I feel that time is running out and I can’t keep putting things off. It’s great in a way. My impending birthday has finally pushed me to try to get properly fit and I’ve joined the lovely Pencoed Panthers running club.

But it’s also properly scary – and that’s the hardest thing to come to terms with.