Quite a few of my closest friends have gone down the route of cosmetic surgery.

Most have had Botox, several fillers, and one, who swears she’s just naturally wearing well, has – without question – had a face lift along with lip and breast augmentation – she just has that look about her.

It’s not something I have considered. Not that I’m anti surgery it’s just I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to needles et al.

Plus, I’ve always believed that I don’t actually need it, looking a fair bit younger than I actually am.

I’m one of the oldest mums, by some eight to 10 years in a lot of cases, at Master A’s school but I’m pretty confident that I don’t look it. Although, the toll of single-handedly raising Master A is beginning to show but not, yet, enough for me to start worrying about – or so I thought.

I was working on a project with some new clients on Tuesday. It was the first time I’d met everyone – an opportunity to put faces to names.

They had an intern working with them. We got chatting.

She was telling me how she was off to Columbia University in New York on Thursday, to do an MA in Journalism. Oh, to be a bright young thing starting out again.

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She suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Talking of New York, do you have a daughter, about my age, studying over there?”

A 20-something daughter. Obviously, picking up on my horror, she quickly added: “Or a sister... There’s someone who looks an awfully lot like you living there.”

She couldn’t get out of my company quick enough, realising her faux pas.

In suddenly hit me; I could have a daughter of that age. She’s never met me before so was not seeing me through familiar eyes or rose-tinted spectacles. She was just telling it how it is, what she saw: A 40-something woman, who probably reminded her of her mum.

Ouch. The truth certainly hurts.

Working Mum, currently looking online for the nearest clinic that does Botox.