Warts and all

I'm quite happy with my appearance and I don't care what other people think about it. I don't care if they think I'm ugly or wrinkled or doddery or ancient-looking. They're not going to tell me how they see me anyway so why should it bother me?

As I see it I just look like a typical 77 year old bloke and I've no wish to look anything different. I certainly don't wish I looked 50 years younger, or looked like George Clooney, or looked like a body-builder.

Neither have I ever considered any kind of cosmetic surgery. Once you go down that road you can easily get hooked on it and end up trying one procedure after another - until you look totally artificial. And in any case I have a horror of operations.

But some elderly people hate the way they look and wish they looked young again, or wish they were wrinkle-free. They just can't accept the way they look as perfectly natural and normal and not worth obsessing about.

The way I look is less important to me than whether I'm physically and mentally healthy and able to enjoy life to the full - which I am.

I was never especially eye-catching even when I was young. I had very ordinary looks. I was never going to be pursued by bedazzled women or for that matter bedazzled men. That was something I missed out on, but I don't think I would have enjoyed that level of attention anyway.

I am what I am, warts and wrinkles and all.

Crows' feet and wrinkles

An American beauty magazine has decided to stop using the term "anti-ageing" as it suggests ageing is "a condition we need to battle" rather than a natural and normal process.

Well, I wish them luck with that. However much you change the language referring to it, physical ageing is still going to be something people dislike and fret about and try to reverse. Thousands of us will still peer in the mirror every morning and look askance at the wrinkles, crows' feet or double chin. Not many of us will dismiss what we see with a casual "che sera sera".

Though I tend to say "che sera sera" most of the time - well, I was never a glamorous male heart-throb in the first place - there are still times when I look at my battered, ancient appearance and think it would be quite nice to go back a few years.

It's hard not to dwell on the ageing process when the media focuses so obsessively on youth, on looking young and on "not showing your age". And when so many people are resorting to cosmetic surgeons to hold back the advancing years.

Of course I never thought about ageing when I was young. Old age seemed like something way into the future that would probably never happen. It never occurred to me that I might end up looking like those wrinkly old codgers on the bus. Then suddenly (or so it seemed - I barely noticed the gradual changes) I looked like an old codger myself and I thought, how did that happen?

Secretly I rather like the fact that my face looks lived-in, the outcome of a lifetime of hard knocks and challenges, a thousand swirling emotions, so many extraordinary and astonishing events. The face that knows a thing or two.

Anti-ageing cream? Thanks but no thanks.

Kiss me, kiss me

I love kissing. I love the sheer sensuality of it. And I love the different dimensions of it.

A kiss between loved ones or friends is an innocent and beautiful experience. It is affectionate, trusting, playful. It says I like you, I enjoy your company, I want to share myself with you. It says my soul wants to kiss your soul.

But a kiss is also the classic sign of an illicit relationship. An over-intimate kiss between two supposed acquaintances suggests something much deeper, something sexual.

However much you deny it, it speaks for itself. There's something going on here, something that shouldn't be going on. Or maybe something that should be going on, but it's going to hurt somebody else badly.

Then there are the kisses you don't really want to give at all. You're a bit reluctant to kiss granny or grandpa because, well, they're a bit wrinkly and funny-looking, and kissing all those wrinkles and saggy bits might feel a bit yukky. But after all, it's granny, so you overcome your squeamishness and give her a nice big kiss. And she really appreciates it.

And of course there are the people you're just dying to kiss, desperate to kiss, but you can't because they're remote celebs, or they're your boss, or your student, or you're sure they'd run a mile, or they're uptight straight men, or they just jilted you, or they're complete strangers in Sainsbury's.

There was a guy* who set out to kiss a complete stranger every day for a year - because he thought it was such a delightful and friendly thing to do. And he managed it. He recorded the reactions of all the people he kissed. Surprise, amusement, embarrassment, happiness, gratitude, flirtation. It was touching and heartwarming.

The human body is just made for kissing. The textures, the contours, the pliability. I'll happily kiss just about anywhere, from the forehead to the ankle and most spots in between. Whoever invented kissing was a genius.

* the wonderful Philip Thiel from Melbourne 

Veronica's wrinkles

By a lucky coincidence, as Jenny was flying off to an academic conference in Glasgow, my dear friend Veronica, the dazzling supermodel, was jetting in from an assignment in Dubai.

I had the champagne ready as her limo purred up the road. As soon as she'd dismissed the chauffeur and rushed inside to escape the leering paparazzi, she was giving me the low-down on THAT story.

"That f***ing tabloid said I had wrinkles. What shit-faced bastards they all are" she fumed, sprawling seductively across the Cath Kidston cushions. "I don't have any wrinkles, do I, darling?"

"Of course you don't, sweetie" I lied. "Still as smooth as a baby's bottom. Don't take any notice of those vicious toerags. They're just sick with jealousy. How do you keep those fabulous looks, anyway?"

"It's meditation, Nicky. I've discovered this wonderful place, the Order of the Ninth Beatitude. It's run by this fantastic guy called Swami Kevin. He's sooo sexy, that soft, soothing voice like a mountain stream, it turns me to jelly. Anyway, he has this sensational meditation method, it really really works. Ten minutes and I'm so relaxed I'm practically floating. All the stress just melts away. And all those horrid wrinkles. They're all doing it now. Madonna, Kate, Amy, Lily. He's a miracle worker."

"Funny, I heard you'd had a bit of work done, sweetie. A smidge of botox, a discreet nip and tuck."

Veronica stiffened and ran her razor-sharp fingernails down my cheek. "Wash your mouth out, Nicky, that's a very hurtful thing to say. No way would I hand over my precious, God-given body to one of those hack-and-stitch merchants. I swear on my granny's grave, meditation is all I need. Thirty minutes in the morning, thirty minutes in the evening."

"And the odd thirty minutes in Swami Kevin's bedroom?"

"Nicky, you're so mean. His spiritual perfection excludes all forms of physical and carnal lust. He's in a state of permanent bliss that makes such things meaningless."

"Sure, and I'm a pineapple. Those boobs are as tantalising as ever, by the way."

"And your mind's as filthy as ever. Any chance of some booze?"

Pic of the new-look Veronica courtesy of Trinket Holdings