I'm not one to exaggerate (no, truly I'm not), but something absolutely devastating happened to me on a train from Lewes at the weekend.

I was sitting opposite two spiky-haired roughnecks, probably about ten years old, when the ticket inspector came through the carriage.

The two boys had been punching and generally manhandling each other for most of the journey, bless 'em, and when they saw the inspector they let out loud whoops and dashed off down the train, obviously hoping for a quick getaway once we reached Brighton.

"Those two belong to you?" the inspector asked, glancing at my ticket.

I glared as I told him that no, they most certainly did not belong to me.

That was bad enough. Worse was to follow.

"Oh, sorry about that," he said. "I thought you might be having a day out with the grandchildren."

That man may never know how lucky he was to escape with his ticket machine intact and not wrapped tightly around his neck.

Ok, I am probably just about old enough, biologically, to be the grandmother of two ten-year-old boys, but actually looking the part... now that is a major cause for concern, especially as I'd made quite a bit of effort to make myself presentable that day.

I'd been generous with the makeup - concealing the ravages of time beneath a layer of something expensive from Boots called Age-Defying Foundation - and I was wearing red which is definitely not my idea of a granny colour.

On days like this people used to express shock when I told them I had a son in his 20s.

"Surely not," they'd respond. "A teenager, perhaps but not a grown man!"

But not, it seems, any more. Now I have become the sort of woman who gets mistaken for some brat's granny - the bloom of youth has finally faded, replaced by the menopausal flush of late middle age.

Actually, I had an inkling that all was not as it used to be a couple of months ago when I was invited to a business lunch in London.

I was wedged between two rather large men, the one on the right I knew, the other was a stranger.

The buzz of conversation hadn't reached Mr Left. He sat, silent and ignored, staring at his plate. I felt sorry for him and introduced myself.

He responded listlessly and I assumed he wasn't feeling too well. He didn't smile, he didn't say much beyond 'yes' and 'no' and I almost offered him an aspirin for his headache. Well, he looked as if he'd got one.

But suddenly he was transformed, he positively twinkled. Gone was the dour boor, replaced by a man who not only smiled, but giggled and well, flirted.

The reason was about 30, tall, slim... oh, you know the rest. And she'd come to sit on Mr Left's left.

The next day I was having lunch at my mother's and telling her the sorry story, when suddenly she interrupted me - which is not, of course, unknown.

"That reminds me, I knew I had something to show you," she said and handed me one of her women's magazines.

It was opened at a page on cosmetic surgery."I read this and thought of you," she said.

Oh, just pass the Polyfilla. It's cheaper.