To tell, or not to tell? Should I keep silent or break cover and tell the world I've joined a club for the over 50s?

There, I've done it! I mean, who cares if you're over 50? (with the exception of potential employers or prospective suitors and who needs them anyway ...?)

I say that but actually I'm still smarting from a response I got after applying for a course at a local college a couple of years back.

"We take people of all ages," I was told reassuringly when I phoned. So I mentioned exactly how many half centuries I'd knocked up.

"Oh, I didn't realise you were THAT old!" the voice replied.

So I've decided to be more up front and in yer face about my advanced years.Which is why I'm now a card carrying member of a body called the Association of Retired and Persons Over 50. Motto: "A force for the Over 50s".

I was hooked by the fact the association was being promoted by the avuncular John Carter, the travel broadcaster who unashamedly sports the handsomest head of grey hair in Britain. But then men, of course, can actually get away with the greying process.

It makes them appear distinguished, mature, sexy. Look at Bill Clinton and John Major (go on, just for a second) and think how going grey enhanced their prospects. As brown-haired political wannabes in their 30s they looked a couple of right bozos.

Now ... ? OK, maybe I was off-target but I still believe a few more strands of silver will eventually do wonders for young Tony.

Unfortunately, grey/silver hair does nothing for a woman's appeal (sorry Your Majesty, it really doesn't) which is why I spent last Sunday morning lathering my locks with something described as Sahara Gold. This, judging from the results, might more accurately be described as Sahara Mud.

But I shall not let this mishap deter me in my quest to grow old disgracefully. I'm already counting the benefits of advancing years, among them lower premiums for insurance policies and reduced rate seats on National Express buses. Hey, the 50s are such fun.

One aspect of getting older I don't enjoy, however, is being bracketed, for commercial purposes, with people in their 70s and 80s. I've nothing against people in their 70s and 80s except that they're not 50 and tend to wear dentures.

Today I seem to be the unhappy target of firms who manufacture stair lifts, walk-in baths, commodes and support stockings. Most days a selection of this literature pops through my letterbox.

The latest was a leaflet offering an insurance plan for all of us in the "50 to 80 age range". The policy, it said, would help pay for my funeral expenses. A well-known actress, very much a senior citizen herself, was pictured on the front of the leaflet.

"It's so reassuring to have a plan like this when you get to our age," she cooed.

Excuse me, luvvy, but I'm nowhere near your age and as for funerals, when I die I intend to pop off smartish and leave someone else to pick up the tab.

Imagining the howls of resentment this will produce from family and friends will keep me exceedingly cheerful in my final days.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.