On a Spanish beach, my daughter Charly lifted her phone and took the photo that would show me just how far I had come.
I was wearing a red bathing suit, mid star jump, grinning into the lens. I had asked her to capture that precise moment because it was my 60th birthday and I wanted a record, unfiltered and untouched, of the day I proudly reached a milestone that once would have filled me with absolute horror.
Because for most of my life being open about my age had been unthinkable.
Since my 30s I had dodged, deflected or outright lied when the subject came up - even to my own children, Charly, now 23, and Bonnie, 18. In fact, for years they believed I was a whole decade younger than I actually was.
I'd never given Charly a specific date of birth, but I had claimed her dad - my partner Ian - was ten years my senior, when actually we were both born in 1962.
'So, you were a little girl in the 1970s?' she would ask me, and I'd nod and smile, agreeing her dad was already a teenager by then.
Fortunately Ian, who knew full well how old I am, is incredibly laid back and just shrugged off what could easily amount to an insult in some men's eyes.
I, too, believed my behaviour was harmless, something many women did in a society that tries to write us off once we reach a 'certain age'.
But then one day Charly, then aged ten, arrived home from school mortified after an argument with her best friend.
The girls had been talking about their mums and Charly had said we were the same age - both 39 - only for her friend to whip out her phone, Google me, and declare she'd been lying.
Charly was so upset she convinced herself the internet must be wrong. I hated knowing my silly fib had left her defending me against the truth.
It felt like I'd crossed a line. That, plus the absurdity of locking myself out of Facebook because I couldn't remember which fake birthday I'd used, told me it was time to stop. I owed it to her and to myself to start being honest.
I thought we'd all laugh about it. After all, I'd grown up with a mother who batted away any attempt to pin down her age. She refused an OAP bus pass, just in case she ever lost her purse and someone found out she was old enough to qualify.
Once she even ended up at a police station for declining to tell an officer her date of birth after being stopped for speeding. Her stock answer was always 'I'm over 21', something we teased her fondly about.
So after Charly's fight with her friend, I took her for hot chocolate at our favourite cafe.
Somewhere between the marshmallows and the cream, I dropped in what I imagined was a harmless, funny confession: my next birthday would be my 50th, not my 40th. Mummy was 49, not 39 as I'd told her I was. I thought Charly would find my fib as amusing as I'd found Granny’s. Instead she stared down at her drink and said nothing. I could see she was upset so I changed the subject, but inside I was rattled.
I'd always thought of myself as strong and forthright, yet I'd fallen prey to society's negative messages around older women.
And, worse, I'd perpetuated them to my own daughter.
So why did I do it?
My TV career began when I was 22 and I enjoyed being the youngest among my peers; being 'ahead of the game' felt like my trump card.
But by the time I was in my 30s and surrounded by a new bevvy of bright young things, I'd already begun to feel a bit past it.
Society reinforces that message constantly, particularly for women in the public eye.
There's this sense the moment you hit a certain age, you risk being replaced by someone younger - no matter your talent.
And regardless of what other people thought, I just didn't find the prospect of 'old me' very appealing. This horrible notion really took hold when I had Charly at 39.
A doctor called me an 'elderly primigravida [a woman pregnant for the first time]' during pregnancy and it burned into my brain.
I wanted Charly to think she had a cool, young mum, like her friends' mothers.
At school one of my friend's mothers was considerably older and seemed so staid and straight-laced. I remember feeling sorry for my friend and I didn’t want Charly to be pitied in the same way.
Pretending to be ten years younger soon became a habit - one I got away with thanks to vague answers, Ian’s laid back nature meaning he never outed me, and the fact that challenging someone’s age isn’t really the done thing.
I have always looked after myself through diet, exercising and taking care of my skin, which I hoped would help me get away with shaving a few years off. I have also had fillers in the past, though nothing since I turned 60.
That cafe confession aged 49 signified a clean break in the sense that I never lied to Charly or Bonnie about my age again.
But I still didn't embrace the truth. For another decade I kept my age on a tight leash, dodging the question wherever I could or delivering the number so quickly it was almost inaudible - though I don't imagine I fooled too many people. I think I was kidding myself more than anyone else.
Turning 60 changed me. I'd spent my 50s muddling through middle age in the same way so many women do, juggling work, teenagers, elderly relatives.
Suddenly, turning 60 felt like stepping into a different chapter. The kids were independent and my caring responsibilities were lighter. For the first time in years, I could stop and ask myself: what do I actually want to do now?
I knew I certainly didn't want to vanish into a faceless 'over-60s' bracket, where people assume you've quietly left the main stage of life. I wanted to make 60 visible, to prove it can be a decade of energy and opportunity rather than the beginning of a decline.
I thought: here I am. I feel good. I watch my diet and my drinking. I'm active, energetic, curious and I want this to be a positive decade.
So I finally stopped hiding my age and instead turned it into a talking point with the launch of How To Be 60, the podcast I co-host with my friend Karen MacKenzie, which is now a live stage show.
My friends found it hilarious that I was finally coming clean. It had been a running joke for decades that I was more likely to give you my credit card details than my age. Although had my dear mother been alive she would undoubtedly have been horrified. But I'd tell her I now feel more honest, more authentic. I respect myself more because I'm not lying to myself or others.
Standing on the Edinburgh Fringe stage earlier this month in front of 250 people and saying 'I'm 62' was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measures.
It's been like ripping off a plaster: painful at first, but freeing. The podcast has been a space to talk not just about the fear of ageing but the joy of it - and the joy of not caring so much what other people think of you.
And it's further shown me how foolish it is to define yourself by your age when it is such a narrow indicator of who you are as a person. What matters far more is attitude. If you stay curious about the world, interested in new things and new people, then the numbers really don't matter.
My own mum, despite her age hang-up, never became 'old', and was running a business until she was 80. It's a state of mind we can choose to adopt or reject.
I regret lying in the past. I fell prey to social conditioning and it was pretty shallow of me.
For the sake of other women, I don't want to perpetuate the idea that getting older is a mark of shame. I want to push against the false notion that as women get older they lose value.
I lied about my age for ten years because I thought youth was the only currency worth having. But after coming clean I felt a surge of joy, confidence and freedom.
I only wish I'd given myself that birthday gift years ago.