I recentlyhad a very sobering insight into the generation gap after eavesdropping on a teenage train conversation. As they chatted about ‘olden days music’, one youthful voice suddenly piped up, ‘So when was Madonna famous, was it like the 1960s?’ It took all my powers of self-restraint to remain silent. But the threat of being labelled ‘that crazy old lady born in, like, the 1840s’ won out. So instead, I chose to call it karmic retribution for once being young myself and saying infinitely worse. I was, after all, the seven-year-old who asked an elderly writer friend of my parents if he was alive at the same time as Charles Dickens.
Besides, I find it hard to feel anything but joyful about ageing right now. That’s because my patron saint of mature elegance, Victoria Beckham, turns half a century this month. Like a fine whisky, or a favourite pair of jeans, the woman just improves with every passing year. And what a beauty evolution it’s been from Posh Spice to pared-down queen of minimalist chic. Who knew that the girl who brought you ‘zig-a-zigah’ would go on to create one of the most high-end luxury beauty brands in the world?