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There’s something to be said about turning 40, it kind of knocks you over, pummels you into the ground, and then brings you back to reality with a smile. Suffice to say I’ve just reached this stage and there’s definitely something about this age that agrees with me.

Some wise woman somewhere on the planet – who no doubt had just turned 40 herself, and needed to boost her lagging self esteem and widening derriere – said that being forty is actually the being 30 stage of your life. It’s no longer looked on as reaching middle age, or the time when you should be considering the shade of blue that will adorn your locks in the not too distant future.

No, indeed it is the time to take control of your destiny regardless of what anybody else thinks of you. You no longer bite your tongue when somebody challenges you; instead you rise to the bait and feel satisfied with your honest response, as opposed to agreeing to keep the piece or not to offend.

I’m also finding that the most bizarre thoughts come to mind. They seem to pop up and make me cringe or laugh, and at times mortifyingly both. Take this morning for instance. I suddenly found myself back in time to when I was about 10 or 11, and was enjoying my first trip to the local Youth Club; a grimy looking hall, with a pool table, and a tuck shop that took up most of my pocket money with no mercy.

Within this Hall, that attracted teenagers like flies to dead meat, was an additional Hall that we called the Disco. Wow this place we held in awe. It was amazing, magnolia walls and matching floor tiles, large windows, and the cherry on the top the 2 steps you had to clamber down to reach the dance floor. The lighting was state of the art, activated by a single switch that allowed the lighting to be either on or off. It was dead easy to use too, flick it up and then flick it down, you could do it for hours, and you never messed up.

So on this first trip to The Club, with my pals, all girls I might add, I was nearly having panic attack on panic attack as we arrived. The premise of this trip was to meet boys, but more importantly to leave with a boyfriend. I think I can say with all honesty that I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with this boyfriend that I acquired, I just knew my friends said I was supposed to find one.

What made it worst was that I was a short, chubby, Ok fat girl, who blushed without reason and always needed to wee when she was nervous. I was looking failure in the eye even before I crossed the threshold into the Club, actually even before I left home.

My friends on the other hand were giggling girls, skinny, pretty and confident. They already knew who they fancied and saw no problems occurring during the few hours ahead.

The night dragged on, the lights went on and off, on and off, on and off. The music emanated from an old stereo in the far corner of the dance floor, ranging from head banging noise to soppy lovey-dovey songs. And boy was it loud.

You always knew when the end of the evening was nigh. The lovey-dovey tunes took hold, and all the young loves gripped each other whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.

I stood around for much of the evening, feeling really, really sorry for myself. If I’d been brave enough I would have run when the first record connected with the stylus. But finding myself frozen to the spot I could do nothing more than endure the discomfort I felt. I couldn’t even free myself to go wee.

At this stage my friend Sharon decided she’d hook me up with somebody. I wish she hadn’t. It was awful. He was about 5, ok, 10. But blimey was he short, and his shoulders seemed to have forgotten they needed a neck; his name was Johnny.

Johnny I’m sure has grown up to be a really nice bloke, but at the time he was awful. I felt like I was dancing with a toad, he was shorter than me too.

Now not having ever slow danced with anybody before, I didn’t know what to do. What didn’t help is that to this day I have no rhythm. So you can just imagine the picture we made that night, a toad and his chubby girl with two left feet plodding around the floor.

So there I am, no rhythm, blushing like a beacon, trying desperately hard not to make eye contact with my friends. We moved around on the spot in a sort of circle in what was supposed to be a romantic dance. I knew you were supposed to hold each other, but I wasn’t sure how tight. I clutched poor Johnny to my body in a bear like grip that tightened in its intensity as the song dragged on. Why he didn’t pass out I do not know. There’s a good chance I ended up carrying him around in a semi-conscious state without realising it. Boy I bet he was glad when that song was over.

I’m not sure why, but he didn’t ask me to dance anymore that night, in fact ever again. In all the subsequent years I lurked around the Disco floor Johnny remained safely at a distance. And as for me, well I spent a lot of the time hiding behind a pillar or inside the girl’s loo.

Oh to be young again. NOT!

I'll settle for 40 thank you.