WHEN I TURNED sixty last year, I entered a year’s worth of birthday celebrations with friends to mark the milestone. I was the first cab off the rank in March, with other birthday celebrations punctuating the subsequent months. There were seven of us in total, born in 1959, the same year as Barbie. To have your life run parallel to a plastic icon is more than a little strange, and although I may not have reached the heights of some of her sixtieth anniversary incarnations, such as Astronaut Barbie, I have tried to do my bit in the battle for gender equality waged by so many.

At each birthday celebration we reflected on decades of love, friendship and achievements, the ups and the downs, both personal and societal. We have indeed seen and done a lot, and we know we’ve led privileged lives. Being happy and healthy, we concluded that sixty is the new forty after all – even if our bodies are suffering from some long-expected wear and tear.