"I was waiting for something to happen," I said.
"Like what?" she said.
"I don't know," I said. "Just something."
"But nothing happened last week," she said by way of explanation.
"Couldn't you have made it up?" I said. "Some people might be living vicariously through your column. Like... well, not me, obviously, but... other people."
Mrs M is a card-carrying member of the music press and I know she has an impossibly glamorous life and I wanted some of it. I wanted to bathe in the reflected glory of her rock star associations. I wanted to drink bourbon and thrash about in mosh pits (whatever they might be) instead of rushing for the school run and trying to get the kids to eat their broccoli.
And then, over coffee this week, Running Mum - she of the fabulously manageable hair - mentioned that she had been shopping in Zara and that the sales assistants looked right through her. She supposed it was because she was a good twenty years older than all the Bright Young Things leafing through racks of Fashionable Attire. (I can only assume that their sales assistants are just rude, as the store apparently caters for the 18-34 age group and RM is only a smidge over the upper limit. Not that you'd know. She looks like a teenager with her perfect skin and petite frame and is quite hip for an old bird.) Anyway, things got worse when she dropped her water bottle on the shop floor and went up to the till to report the mess.
"I'm afraid I've made a bit of a puddle," she said.
All of which has led me to one question:
IS THIS IT?
I'm awfully afraid it might be. And I'm not sure I want to get my kicks second-hand and become invisible in shops. So I am damn well going to squeeze every last drop out of my middle age before I need a walking frame and incontinence pants. Starting now...*
*Well, in a minute. I've just got to make the dinner and bath the baby, fold the laundry and stick the hoover round. And then I'm ready for life in the fast lane. Instead of the bus lane.