When I was 49, I posed for Playboy - I was very flattered to be asked. I was quite honoured, really, considering that most of the models they feature are in their twenties.

I don't buy into you're on the slag heap when you're 40 or 50 or 60 or 70 or whatever.

I don't know why people are so obsessed with age anyway. I mean, 90 is the new 70 70 is the new 50 and 50 is the new 40 so the whole act-your-age thing? Only up to a point.

Every time an article is written about me or any of my contemporaries who's had the fortune and discipline to look good at a certain age, I am struck by the tone of astonishment, and the certainty that something is being done secretively to beat the devil.

My grandmother spoiled my father rotten and he grew up expecting women to do whatever he wanted. When he married my beautiful mother, Elsa, he expected her to give up her career as a champion ballroom dancer and become a good wife and mother, which she dutifully did.

We live in a quick-fix society where we need instant gratification for everything. Too fat? Get lipo-sucked. Stringy hair? Glue on extensions. Wrinkles and lines? Head to the beauty shop for a pot of the latest miracle skin stuff. It's all a beautiful £1 billion con foisted upon insecure women by canny cosmetic conglomerates.

I'm a bit shy, I suppose, and a bit lazy.