When I feel dispirited about getting older, I remind myself that the only realistic alternative to ageing is to die young and, luckily, I’m already too old for that to be an option.

One of the (many) sources of resentment is the fact that I am having to devote an increasingly large proportion of my time attempting to slow down the ticking clock.

With daily exercises for my knees, back and shoulders, a dental regime requiring so much diligence and assorted accoutrements that it might reasonably be classed as a hobby, and a losing battle of attrition against my hair’s yearnings to be grey, fighting the ageing process is turning into a full-time job.

I am constantly at war with myself over whether I should graciously surrender to the fact that I’m getting older, which, after all, will happen whether I accept it or not, or if I should rage, rage against the dying of the light.

For now, I have settled on an uneasy truce with sporadic outbreaks of hostilities and grumbling.

One particular source of annoyance is that my sister, who is three years older, now looks younger than me.

When we were teenagers, I used to console her when she suffered from spots with the promise that her oily, more Mediterranean complexion would be an asset as we aged while my non-spotty, dry skin would surely crumple like autumn foliage.

But I thought I was just being nice! In those days of youthful dewiness, the idea that my face would start to look like a withered leaf seemed like comic hyperbole not a reasonably accurate description.

In my family, we are all vehemently anti any kind of invasive intervention — no lifts, no Botox. We colour our hair because we go grey so young (in our thirties), but that’s it. I will be 60 next year and recently decided that this might be a good point to stop dyeing my hair.

As a transition, my hairdresser switched to a semi-permanent colour — but the grey has come through only two weeks after I saw him and even The Husband (who usually knows when to comment and when to keep quiet) is asking nervously if I’m thinking of having my hair done.

I text my hairdresser the crying emoji and beg for him to restore my former self, so he zooms round on his motorbike and starts mixing up the magical elixir of youth.

While chatting to my hairdresser about ageing, he reveals that he dyes the grey patches in his beard as well as his hair. He is 47 but only admits to 37.

His entire life is centred around his quest for the holy grail of eternal youth — not only does he spend a lot of time at the gym, he also adheres to a rigorous dietary regimen (no food before 4pm), does facial exercises to tone the muscles, drinks no alcohol, and wears SPF 50+ on his face all year round.

But, hearing him talking about it, as if nothing else on earth could possibly matter as much as this ever-elusive goal of looking young, I suddenly realise that — there is something quite, well, childish about wanting to stay youthful for ever.

I always thought that by the time I reached middle age, I would be so at peace, so mature that I wouldn’t even mind ageing but would view it with zen-like detachment, just part of life’s journey.

But, despite the fact that my face now bears so many lines that it looks like a map of somewhere you wouldn’t especially want to linger, I am still immature and get cross about my increasing decrepitude with the sulkiness of a tired toddler.

That said, there is a significant part of me that doesn’t care enough. I would like to look younger/better/slimmer but not if it involves too much maintenance/exercise/dieting.

I want a regime where I could simply apply a facemask, say once a week, while I relax in a deep bath with a book and a glass of prosecco, and then peel it off to reveal a younger, more gorgeous me.

Our son tells me that there’s a Korean beauty mask based on snail-slime that might do the trick…

Maybe it’s the snail-slime, maybe it’s taking time to relax while in the bath, but I have the thought that, actually, there is no point trying to run up the down escalator: it only leads to stress and frustration.

I remove the mask, get out, pat my face dry and look in the mirror — at the lines across my forehead and around my eyes, at the furrows from the sides of my nose to my mouth.

And I decide that despite or maybe even partly because of these signs, testament that I am no longer a youth but a person of age and experience (I was going to add wisdom, but let’s not push it), that it really is all right. And I gently accept, accept the dying of the light.