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On 19 July 1995, at the dead of night, a piece of legislation called the Pensions Act was passed which will greatly affect me and my two sisters, and which is causing us increasing interest as the years roll by. 

The reason for this long-term interest lies in the fact that I am 57 years old, my middle sister is 54, and the youngest is 51.

Our respective ages are significant because we will not be able to retire at the grand old age of 60 but will have to stagger on at the chalk face or, in our case, the lecturing, IT and media face until we are a fair bit older.

We are, in fact, a test example of the 1995 legislation, illustrating the sliding scale of retirement age for women.

Carol said make-up is a must

Attention to appearance

Retirement age is not significant for me as I work for a large company and enjoy what I do but the implications are wide-reaching.

For example, I suspect that I am probably one of the oldest people in the office and daily sit at my computer surrounded by people barely out of their baby grows, whose voices are still breaking and whose chosen daytime drink is fizzy pop.

Being the oldest person in the office is odd. How did it happen? Was I not paying attention?

One moment I was one of the kids, going out after work and drinking a lot, being taken home after panicky phone calls to my mother-in-law, begging her to look after my kids for another hour or two.

The next minute I am quietly responsible, finding it difficult to function the following day after three glasses of wine the night before, not wanting to go to clubs, even if I could find them without my glasses, and looking forward to an evening self-medicating on Desperate Housewives.

Being the oldest person in the office means that I have to give undue, constant and morbid attention to my appearance.

Pink hair

From the top then. My hair. I don't particularly want grey hair so I have to keep on dyeing it and sometimes it turns out a bit unlikely.

Carol has experimented with hair dye

At one stage I was going for the warmer blonde tones. A baby chap in the office leaned over, tapped me on the shoulder with his rattle - just kidding - and asked kindly: "Why do you have pink hair?"

He was right, I couldn't even argue. He merely confirmed a vague feeling I had harboured that the warm blond tone was actually old lady pink. It was OK when I was young to dye my hair burgundy, that was wild and fun and out there, but pink is a bit too Barbara Cartland.

On another occasion I experimented with low lights - lovely. But one evening I had the leisure time to stand in front of a mirror and was amazed to find that I was going bald from my hair parting. Closer inspection revealed that my grey hair was growing back and the low lights were lowering rapidly - not a good office look.

Aside from the hair I need to wear make-up all the time; well, either that or a mask. Nothing too startling, just a bit of mascara, lipstick, eye shadow, liner, foundation, concealer and so it goes on.

Sometimes I don't wear make-up and look horrible, but I reason that it does my work mates good to see me au naturel so that they appreciate the degree of effort I put in to simply look OK.

Bingo wings

Working further down then; cleavage is out. I don't want to alarm young and impressionable people with my crêpey skin.

Strangely enough, when I go out with friends roughly my own age I don't really care about the crêpeyness. We've all got it and the men who might be tempted to peer down my crêpey cleavage are no oil paintings either; they generally have a bit of a paunchy tum and receding hairline.

Cleavage for work then is out, but I'm not all that bothered about showing my bingo wings.

They aren't too bad and, when all is said and done, they are simply arms which have decided to go south for both winter and summer. Incidentally, if you are middle class could you call them wine club wings or flower arranging flaps?

The red boots

Moving swiftly on to shiny and glittery garments. I do have a penchant for bits of glitter going on here and there, but have reluctantly concluded that, if everyone around me is clad as if they are going backpacking round Europe during their lunch hour, then glittery jumpers look a bit passé.

The backpack look is popular and relaxed but you do have to possess flawless, luminous skin and swinging blond hair to look good in tones of grey, khaki and brown. I don't and so don't.

Footwear confusion

And finally footwear. My sister gave me a pair of red, and what can only be described as S&M, boots.

They're laced, lovely, high and mighty and I adore them but, again, they do not fit into the yomping modus operandi and I have to be firm with myself and not wear them for work.

Footwear confuses me because, in a bid to belong, I wore a pair of silver trainers to work and was firmly told by not one, but two people that they would not do. I humbly asked what I should wear with jeans and was tersely informed: "Shoes". 

Well yes, but what kind of shoes, what colour, how high a heel? These questions and many more continue to perplex me and clearly require answers - but who to ask?

The old person at work problems clearly do not exist if you work at Asda which is currently the UK's biggest employer of the over 50 and leads the way in employing older people as greeters, customer service staff and car park and trolley attendants.

Or B&Q which also makes a positive virtue out of employing older people. Marks and Spencer is coming up on the inside track too, but I don't work for Asda, M&S or B&Q and, much as I admire their employment policies, I am at my least dexterous when wheeling one trolley, never mind a whole line of them.

So, I know about Facebook - and am even on it after considerable pressure from my nephew in New Zealand - and I listen to music via YouTube, but choosing clothes and make-up for work, when all around me are fresh faced babies working the urban guerrilla look, well that's something the legislation forgot and, for me, that's a major omission.