When people talk about my age ...

The other day I was texting a 24-year-old prospective date He seemed a really sweet guy, unpretentious, with none of those naff chat up lines or lame ‘banter’ you get with most guys in London.  We were talking about our respective jobs, so I mentioned that I was a journalist which brought the predictable comparisons to Rebekah Brooks (‘oh you won’t be hacking my voicemail, madam’ etc.) He seemed a nice enough lad. Then I got the question that hit me like horse-kick to the stomach.

‘So are you looking forward to being 30?’

Uh… what am I meant to say to that? Mind your own business, you cheeky young whippersnapper? I tried to laugh it off but hoping he would take the hint and move away from the topic.

‘Well you shouldn’t ask a lady about her age.’

His response?

‘I thought there was a mistake when I saw how old you were.’

Again – thud! I mean seriously?

‘Well, I didn’t realise 29 was old ...’

Does he quit while he's ahead? Nope. He keeps on digging …

‘I don’t mean that. I mean you look a lot younger than you are. More like 21.’

It struck me that I’ve officially reached an age that can’t be talked about. 20 years ago, if someone asked how old I was, I would proudly state that I’d reached the grand old age of nine. (Almost a teenager!) Now the question, indeed even the topic of age is somewhat of a hot potato. One to be greeted with the same derision my menopausal auntie showed when I used to ask her about her age. ’18!’ she’d snap back. (Mind you, that’s not as bad as when, aged 6, I innocently asked her why she cared so much about what colour knickers she bought: ‘It’s not as if anyone’s going to see them anyway, is it?’)

Have I got to that age now? Am I basically my highly strung auntie, who blows a fuse if the subject of age comes up? I’d always felt happy about reaching 30 and for the most part, I still am.  I don’t have the hang ups I did at 19, I’ve achieved most of the milestones I set out to achieve – plus I can now afford that dress in Whistles and not just dream about it. My face looks, not wizened exactly, but slightly less plump and more defined. And in a way, I like having a few lines and looking like I’ve lived a little, as opposed to the naïve little hamster-cheeked undergrad I was back in 2004.

So why should I be getting so tetchy about the age issue? I did feel a bit bad for the guy, he probably didn’t mean to offend, but it does still touch a nerve when people talk about me ‘not looking my age’ as if I’m Madonna or Helen Mirren (as fabulous as those ladies are). I guess I’m just not ready to admit that I’m not 'young young' anymore, and although in many ways I’m bloody happy to be out of it, part of me is still sad to wave a part of my life goodbye.

However, last night, made me look at the situation a little differently. At a press event, I bumped into an ex-colleague who I first knew when I was a work experience girl. Fresh out of uni, it was my first job in London. I was a bit of a loose cannon back then, didn’t know how to behave in an office and basically made an absolute tit of myself the whole time I was there (snogging the skinny stoner who worked in the post room was a particular career low).

Unsurprisingly, my time at that place (and in TV in general) didn’t last long and after my unceremonious exit from the company, me and the ex-colleague - lets call him Ben - would message each other over Facebook and occasionally talk about ‘hooking up’ (I didn’t fancy him, but again I was young, feeling along living in London and insecure). Luckily this never happened, but nonetheless made it rather awkward to run into him again yesterday evening.

Luckily after a few drinks, the awkwardness dispelled and we managed to have a good chat - despite him making a point of telling me he had a girlfriend (‘cheers mate, will try to restrain myself!’) Ben also delighted in reminding me about a certain vile woman we both used to work with, who smoked so much that she sounded like Frank Butcher in a blonde wig and had a creepy obsession with Howard Donald from Take That. She also took it upon herself to make my life a misery (screaming at me down the phone and at one point actually threatening to beat me up). Ben talked about how well she was doing and how successful she’d become. I managed to politely smile and nod, as opposed to getting wound up and spitting venom - which 21-year-old me probably would have done.

He then mentioned another ex-colleague of ours who was on the same level as me and with whom I’d had a massive screaming row in the middle of the office (not a good idea, but he was so lazy and had only got the job on having 'the gift of the gab'. He also had one of the most punchable faces I'd ever encountered). ‘You guys really had it in for each other, didn’t you?’ Ben remarked knowingly. It was an embarrassing moment in my life, one I didn’t like to be reminded of, but again I didn’t rise to the bait. I told him about my writing career and he seemed a bit surprised that I had since morphed into a half-decent, moderately successful human being myself – and more importantly, one who was less of a tit.

With that in mind, I’m really not sure why anyone my age wishes they were younger. Looking back at my 21-year-old self, I’m slightly embarrassed and relieved that I’m not that person anymore. And yes, the next time someone asks if I'm looking forward to being 30, I’m going to respond as loudly and proudly as I did aged 9 (but hopefully won't celebrating my birthday at Quasar ... ).