Sweethearts Candy Blog's

This morning, I'll be standing naked in front of a full-length mirror. Happy birthday, 70-year-old body. 

I can see a few stretch marks, some bits have drifted an inch or two south, the earlobes seem to have mysteriously grown longer and the elbows look well used, but the rest appears to be in working order. 

How nice that at three score years and ten, at last I appreciate what you have done for me. 

You've got me here, to the birthday the psalmist decreed was all humanity could ask for in a lifetime. 

The birthday many people around the world never see. The day my own beloved husband never saw. 

I admit, body, I wasn't always kind to you. I used to blame you for everything that went wrong in my life, especially in my teens (ah yes, I remember them well. At 70, we can recall vividly what happened 50 years ago; it's last week that gets a bit blurred). 

I thought you could do nothing right. No wonder I was unsuccessful with boys. 

You were hopeless at tennis, your waist was too thick and your teeth way too prominent. And you incited me to binge-eat, and then outraged me by putting on two stone. I took for granted the fact that you resisted so many diseases and disabilities, and stayed fit and energetic when I needed you. 

You infuriated me because you weren't pretty enough. Now, at 70, that's not an issue. 

The fact is that over 60, none of us is pretty any more. Who cares? Some of us never were. 

When I turned 50, to celebrate I ran naked around the garden wearing only a hat and necklace. On my 70th, I may well not wear the hat. 

Recently, I was invited to my college reunion. We last met as a group 50 years ago. 

Hovering over us were the ghosts of ourselves at 20 - unsure about what tomorrow would bring. How had we imagined we'd look 50 years later? 

We never gave it a thought. We were going to stay young for ever. Occasionally, we would spot little old ladies, white-haired and bent-backed, wandering around the college in a fog of nostalgia. 

That was what 70 looked like to us in those far-off days. I remember how, with the arrogance of youth, we pitied those old ladies. I challenge any of today's undergraduates to have dared to pity us or call us 'little old ladies'. 

We still feel 20 inside. That's why our reunion was filled with laughter, as we shared stories of our past wickedness.

All the same, there were dramatic differences between us. Some had become high achievers, others were not. That didn't matter. Physical and mental health were the deciding factors. 

A 90-year-old millionaire once told me: 'Health is the only thing that counts. Nothing else.'

At the time, I thought he could afford to say that, given his private jet and many wives. 

But the truth was that all the money in the world couldn't buy him what he most desired - freedom from pain. 

Crippled with emphysema, every breath was a struggle. As I looked around my college hall, though all of us at the reunion were within a year of each other in chronological age, from our appearance we could have been 25 years apart. 

The difference was in our health. Looking at my contemporaries, I realised how much the suffering caused by illness and disability can add years to you. 

I am lucky to belong to a generation that has refused to accept barriers or stereotypes. 

A few of the women were dressed in the uniform of the old - yards of grey and black material, tent-like drapery, baggy cardigans and flowing skirts. 

No doubt I went too far the other way, with a plunging neckline and short, tight skirt. But that was my act of rebellion. 

I'm not ready to be written off at 70 just because I have reached an age when I can see things in context and can use my life experience to come to a decision. 

Quite the reverse: I expect to be treated at least as an equal by the forty-somethings who rule the world. 

If I had time to waste being infuriated, I would be indignant at the way we oldies are underused and under-estimated. Never before has an older generation had so much to offer. 

We have ample energy and our families are grown up, so we have time to spend usefully. We should be treated as a resource by the state. After all, it has invested so much in us. 

Thanks to our wartime diet low in fat and high in rosehip syrup, we have survived with our health and strength. Thanks to the early days of the welfare state, when my direct grant school and university education made me literate and (fairly) numerate, I have enjoyed a fascinating career. 

Thanks to that remarkable British creation the BBC, I have been trained by the finest broadcasters in the world. And thanks to suffragettes and feminists, I have been expected to take on a challenging career. 

Furthermore, I have an extra quality to offer: I am old. There, I've said the forbidden word. Old. Not the softer, gentler older. Not mature. I'm not a senior or in my third age.

Let's say it like it is: 70 is old. That means I can share with you the secrets we old people in our wisdom have accumulated over the years. So pay attention and show some respect, please. 

SECRET NUMBER ONE: If, as the millionaire told me, health is everything, don't jeopardise it. Time was when the risks of tobacco were not understood. 

These days, young women are smoking as much as men. Some of them no doubt understand the risks and don't care. But I suspect that many of them believe, as I once did, that they are immortal. 

Reach 70 and you realise you are not. The tragic truth is that one of my most precious friends, the brilliant humorist Alan Coren, died before he reached 70 because he smoked. 

The even more tragic truth is that he deprived himself and his glamorous wife Anne of some of the best years they could have spent together. 

Another dear friend has drunk himself into a slurring, shaking, premature old age. He was never a wino, he didn't fall down in the gutter; he was a high-functioning drunk who pushed his luck, and the luck ran out. 

SECRET TWO: Stop worrying. We could all be wiped out by a collision with an asteroid. According to the climate scientists, we almost certainly will be wiped out by droughts or floods or both simultaneously. 

But 100 years ago the experts told us we were about to be buried in a mountain of manure because horse-drawn traffic was overwhelming our cities. Not that I'm arguing against going green. Obviously it's sensible to take precautions, to avoid waste, to be prudent. 

But then we of the wartime generation automatically save small pieces of string and reuse envelopes. We were brought up to be thrifty, which is not the same as living our lives as if catastrophe were imminent. I wasted at least 20 of my precious 70 years worrying needlessly about things that turned out fine. 

Would I get a job I enjoyed? Would I ever fall in love with a man who loved me? Would I have children and a labrador? 

Against the odds, the answer to all these questions turned out to be 'Yes'. So why on earth was I so worried in my youth? 

SECRET THREE: Happiness is a knack you can cultivate. We all have sorrows in our lives and some leave deep scars. But equally we all have the opportunities for joy, if we take them. 

A glorious sunrise. A shared joke. The fragrance of a spring flower. The trick is to remember and treasure those moments consciously, until it becomes a habit. 

SECRET FOUR: Envy is a waste of time - no one else's good fortune deprives you of yours. So are bores, snobs, malicious rumours and negative criticism. 

If you allow yourself to dwell on any of them, your wrinkles will deepen. 

SECRET FIVE: Express your love. Life inevitably brings losses, and these can inspire regret. The worst regret in my life is that maybe I didn't tell my husband often enough I loved him. I hope I did. I can't be sure. 

SECRET SIX: Failure doesn't matter. Women are notoriously terrified of failing, of looking and feeling foolish. Go for it, girls. If a thing's worth trying, it's worth failing at. Hence I took part in Strictly Come Dancing, spent weeks in an Australian jungle and a year fighting a General Election as an independent in Luton. 

Did I think I'd win? Absolutely not. Did I enjoy the experience of competing? I wouldn't have missed it for the world. 

SECRET SEVEN: Dinner parties are not obligatory. If they are the kind of thing you like, go ahead. Certainly the hit TV show Come Dine With Me makes excruciatingly good viewing, capturing the bitchiness and exhaustion entailed by inviting friends to your table. 

Late in life I have discovered a labour-saving alternative. Create an informal dining club of your most entertaining and supportive friends, meet once a month in local restaurants, each of you paying for yourself. The pluses? Company, good food, no anxious menu planning, no washing-up and all at a fraction of the expense. 

SECRET EIGHT: Stand up straight. Anton du Beke, the endearing dancing professional on Strictly Come Dancing, taught me to lift my diaphragm and throw out my chest. If you suck in your stomach at the same time, and somehow manage to keep breathing, you look ten years younger, and you can usually hold that position for long enough to have your photograph taken. 

SECRET NINE: Yes, there is such a thing as original sin. Chimpanzees and humans are the only animals that hunt their own species in packs, in order to rob, maim and kill them.

Working with abused children has taught me how evil we humans can be, even to our own young. So we have to work hard because, as Edmund Burke said: 'All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.' 

SECRET TEN: If we are lucky, old age can become the best time of our lives. Yes, we need to protect the vulnerable old, ourselves and others, against neglect and injustice.

Hospitals are notorious for allowing elderly patients to go without food or water, to treat them without respect or dignity, so we need to be vigilant. Broadcasters sometimes treat the old, especially women, as if they are unrecyclable garbage. 

But still the compensations of age are huge. By the age of 70 we have discovered who we are and what we like. And because we realise that time is short and precious, we are more selective than hungry youth. 

Yes, we can still have adventures, but we pick them carefully. We can still feel needed, not just by our families (and the nation depends on the time and skill of grandparents more than ever), but also by the charities who need enthusiastic volunteers. 

We have an obligation not to allow ourselves to be shouldered as ide or stamped with an indelible sell-by date. Young people need us as role models if they are to enjoy the longevity doctors have predicted for them. 

As U.S. President Teddy Roosevel t famously said: 'Old age is like everything else. To make a success of it, you've got to start young.'