I think I must be entering my second childhood. I always thought this meant going back to childish ways; dribbling your food, banging cutlery on the table. Wetting your pants. But at the grand old age of 52 (believe me it doesn’t seem like much from where I’m sitting) I’m missing the wild part of me that I spent years trying to forget.

I’m never going to go bra-less under a tight tee-shirt again but I may start wearing clothing with statements emblazoned across my chest. My sister has bought me many over the years and I regret I didn’t have the confidence to wear WONDER WOMAN out and about. I wore it for exercise and knocking around the house. It was my nick-name for a while in my London days.

Today I wore my REVOLUTION a la Russell Brand tee-shirt to pick up a prescription from the chemists. A silver haired man engaged me in conversation. It felt good and safe that he wanted to know all about revolution and not just to stare at my ‘charlies’. I may dig out that PARIS IS A STATE OF MIND I’ve always felt too awkward to wear. Just because I’ve never visited said city, but I do have plans to. So there.

I asked my husband for a leather biker jacket for my birthday. Of course I had one, back in the day. With a leather fringe which went out of fashion too soon. I wore it to the Anti-Heroin festival in Crystal Palace, and on the back of BSA’s, Triumph’s and Suzuki’s. Holding on to long haired boys while my own waist-length mane twirled into knots in the wind.

Thinking about it I used to wear a lot of statement tee-shirts – the one with tyre marks that I wore to Stonehenge Free Festival. And the rather scary graveyard one that I leant to my cousin and never saw again.

I wore stockings of every colour and print, coupled with mini-skirts before they came back in fashion. If I had been born later I would have worn them with shorts but I stopped wearing shorts ten years ago. I donned ripped jeans because I’d climbed mountains in them, gate crashed parties by crawling under fences with an opened bottle of French red in one hand. I’d earned those rips. The store-bought, ready-made torn jeans of today wouldn’t suit me. It’s been a long time since my ‘scotch eggs’ (rhyming slang) were skinny.

A couple of years ago I started buying scarves (which I hadn’t previously got the hang of – what to do with them?). Not just to hide my ageing neck, they suddenly seemed like a good idea. And I love them still but I want to wear them with my Connies and my kick-arse second childhood threads. I’ve discussed dyeing my hair purple (once the grey arrives) with the husband. He’s not sure but I want to be Helena Bonham-Carter not Jackie O. There’s life in the pre-menopausal, temperature-challenged, slightly moody old cow yet.