[ I was wondering around with some friends and our kids...]

I WAS wandering around with some friends and our kids. It's a lovely leafy spot not far from Peebles. The children scampered ahead. The grown-ups stopped to admire a plant, feeling at one with nature, when a middle-aged man stared directly at us and loudly announced to his wife: "Women are having babies much later these days, aren't they?"

If my face wasn't so crumbly and capable only of sagging limply, I might have looked aghast. Being reminded that you are no longer a zippy 19-year-old, but 36 with a garden shed and a petrol lawnmower, comes as a horrible shock. It means you look your age. No one will be fooled into believing that you have just started sixth form.

Tragically, though, we old timers feel as if we have. We think we are still a Friend of Teenagers, au fait with every group in the hit parade - er, I mean top 20. Most of my late 30s/early 40s friends still shop at Miss Selfridge and TopShop and use teen speak such as "snogging" or "I fancy so-and-so". They get angry with their parents in a teenagerish way and still - after all these years - forget that drinking lots of alcohol makes you prone to repeating yourself endlessly and, ultimately, feel unwell.

We don't grow up these days. At least inside, we don't. We no longer hit that crucial point when we desire a dining table with six matching chairs and start ironing tea towels. We are enjoying what's known as prolonged adolescence or extended youth. Psychologists say we're acting around a decade younger than our real age.

This set-up seems ideal. The great thing about prolonged adolescence - as opposed to real adolesence - means having all the fun without the bothersome bits like exams or raging acne or living with one's parents. We can do daft things (spend too much money on CDs) while enjoying the good stuff that comes with growing up (being able to drive, buy alcohol, see rude films, stay up as late as we like).

It's far better than first time around. I was a lousy adolescent and no wonder. The late Seventies/early Eighties were a terrible time to be young. Who was there to fancy? A load of po-faced two-tone bands and Bruno out of Fame. And what did we wear? Polka-dot ra-ra skirts and leg warmers over jeans. No wonder I spent the entire period in a state of hotness: burning cheeks, blotchy neck - like a premature menopause that stretched for three terrible years. Your teens are wrecked if you possess the blushing gene. The most unlikely incident can trigger a beamer; when my RE teacher debated whether Adam and Eve had bellybuttons - having never been attached to umbilical cords - my face simmered so vigorously I feared it would be burned irreparably. "Sorry," he boomed cruelly. "Am I embarrassing you, Fiona?"

These days it takes a lot to make me blush. It's the main benefit of being ancient. After having a dozen medical persons gaze at your intimate parts while you push out a baby and wee all over yourself, you become nonchalant about minor matters such as the wind blowing your skirt up. Who's looking anyway? The other day I thought a twentysomething man had glanced in my direction when we stopped at red lights. But my companion pointed out, "You don't think he's looking at you, do you? You're driving a Mondeo Estate with three child seats in it."

That's the tragedy of it: extended youth might feel great, but it's terribly unfetching. To genuine young people, we are repulsive. We think we're in with the kids as we gyrate horribly while yowling, "I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baybee," but real adolescents are thinking, "No you're not. Please go away and do the crossword or something."

Copyright 2001
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