I had the same routine every morning. I woke up, got dressed, applied my make-up, then burst into tears.  I hated my reflection.  At the age of 17 1 got my first wrinkles and by the time I was in my early 30s, my skin was so saggy I felt as though I resembled a Shar Pei dog.

When I put on my eye shadow, I had to pull my eyelid up to apply the colour before letting it drop again.  I wondered why I even bothered.

My boyfriend Michael didn't see it that way.

He was always telling me how sexy and desirable I looked.

But I was painfully aware that he was eight years younger than me and that the age gap would appear even greater as time passed by.

One evening we were out having dinner when I dropped my keys.  The waitress came over and then said somethin g to Michael that I didn't hear.  When I stood up, he looked very upset.

'What's the matter?' I asked him.

'Nothing, Lindsey,' he said, 'let's just leave.'

But I kept badgering him until he said: 'She asked if my mother had dropped her false teeth.'  'Your mother!' I exclaimed.

I was determined no one would make that mistake again, so I made some enquiries.  My friend suggested a clinic in Cyprus that offered a facelift, an upper and lower eye job, Botox and fillers to plump out my lines.   It would set me back £5500.

Our surgery went ahead and 24 hours later, my friend and I were well enough to enjoy a gin and tonic on the hotel terrace.

Next I had my hair cut and coloured, and then we boarded a plane home.

On my first day back at work, my colleagues barely recognised me.  One said: 'You look so well.'

'It's the haircut,' I said.

Recently I entered a cosmetic surgery pageant, organised by Linda Briggs.  To my delight, I came fourth, beating dozens of younger of women.

I'm 56, but I can now pass for late 30s and I don't cry any more when I see my reflection.

Best of all, I look like Michael's partner—not his mum!