When I greeted my half-century at the end of March, I finally realised what people meant by ‘facing 50’. All of a sudden, things looked different, and my usual make-up — stylised, all flicked liner and power brows — made me look ten, if not 20, years older. Sprucing myself up, once an enjoyable diversion, had become akin to painting the Forth Bridge: the moment one dilapidated area was fixed, another started to fall into the sea. Still, I refuse to resent ageing: my mother died at 69 and would have welcomed the opportunity to age more. So I tweaked and I softened, lessened and layered, adjusting myself to a new cosmetic reality in which less is more.