I booked my hairdresser in the morning of the shoot. On the way there I passed a shop, popped in, bought three outfits without trying them on, and then sauntered back to my office to meet the make-up artist, Carol Hart, who is familiar with every nook and cranny of both my visage and décolletage. It all seemed so casual and normal. A driver chauffeured me and Tony to the studio, where a tall, slim, young TV director and his film crew fell over each other to introduce themselves. I was presented with an ice cool beer and a sober cameraman. Perfect. Even the outfits fitted. Can this really be true? I kept asking myself. Is this what happens when you are 60? It all becomes easy?
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