That's why the old lady is a tramp

My mum was filling in her census form the other night and her pen ran out. She pronounced this ironic and meaningful, given her relatively advanced years. She's been known to be darkly triumphant about this. When she sees something on telly she doesn't approve of, she remarks stoutly; 'Well, I'm just glad I'm going to die soon and don't have to put up much longer with that woman's suggestive voice in the Marks and Spencer food ad'. As a wind-up, my sisters and I have taken to asking each other if we are having 'sexy chicken' for dinner, in front of her.

She has had great funeral plans in place too for some time now, which we have all talked over, with that gallows humour that naturally accompanies the thought of such an event. We cannot all allow ourselves the Elizabeth Taylor grandeur of making everyone wait 15 minutes for the guest of honour to make a final appearance. Even a show-off like I has only got as far as insisting that my least demonstrative sister sings 'You were the Wind Beneath My Wings' at my own funeral. This should ensure tears and gulping, I am unconcerned as to their true source.

I have, however, long been interested in plans for myself as an old lady. The hair has been a preoccupation for some time now, as you have to have a proper style and it can't be too long -just look at Jerry Hall these days. She is going to look homeless when she hits 70, with that great swathe over one shoulder. I could have a bun but, as I am not Margot Fonteyn, would risk that Anthony-Perkins-in-Psycho effect. I definitely can't pull off a Judi Dench and I don't want to pull off an 'ambassador's wife' blow dry, so it will have to be a bob. Oh god, I will be running about like French and Saunders when they were doing those ancient, posh 'stuff and nonsense' women.

Mind you that might go along nicely with the old lady personality I am working out. I will probably make the transition from intimidatingly outspoken to positively waspish. Difficult though it may be to believe, I do actually restrain myself at times. When I am old, however, I will have the time and the licence to go up and down the high street with a rubber, erasing all the apostrophes on the signs outside the fruit shops: 'orange's', 'leek's and worst; 'peache's'. I will be able to bellow , when confronted by a waitress with a nose-ring; 'Excuse me, am I at a Rodeo?' I will tell my local restaurant why they cannot have 'Chicken Coq au Vin' on their menu and make them explain how they came up with 'Kerr Royale' as a cocktail. Is it champagne with Irish whiskey? I might try that later in life. It would certainly take the edge off when I am at the cinema with people using their mobiles and digging into a skip of popcorn throughout the film. I will demand that the music in shops be turned off and refuse to put back stuff I have tried on. Ok, I did that once already when asked if I would mind leaving the clothes back where I'd got them. I replied equably; 'No. I don't work here.' I've never had the nerve since.

You may be astounded to learn that I have , in fact, rejected the notion of becoming a millie old lady. There's one in my gym I've been observing. She chews gum all through Body Balance and has a fag in the car park after. For one thing, I'm not going to exercise classes when I am old. I plan on seizing up. I'd much rather be pushed about in a wheelchair in a fur coat and diamonds. Maybe a turban. Very Liz Taylor.