God, I am exhausted and I haven't even started. At my age, your knees creak, you feel constantly tired, your features start sliding down your face, you are forever in some souped-up cardy or improbable shrug because of the "arms crisis", and, as if that were not enough, you have to compare yourself to bloomin' Madonna in her bra and knickers. I have always compared myself to her, not because I am an all-singing/dancing army of one, but because she is always there: the prism through which women and ageing are refracted. Her relentless quest for hipness, her groin thrusted into my face, her humourless attempts at self-deprecating ordinariness, her trying-on of personae - the hunting, shooting, fishing/lady author who likes a pint one was particularly bad. All of this drives me mad. But then, like any old flame, she reminds me suddenly of the original fire by doing what she does best. I love that she annoys so many with her collection of children/boyfriends/dancers, that she will insist on making another record, and that she does not know the meaning of "age appropriate".