Growing old gracefully. That's what I always planned to do.

I always thought I'd be content to sit back and let the ravages of time take their toll.

The wrinkles, the grey hair, the bingo wings - the inevitable effects of ageing.

Having reached the wrong side of 45, I thought I was managing it all quite well.

So far, so good.

I even managed to laugh off a close-up photograph I recently had taken, which revealed a face like a 90-year-old Maltese sailor who had spent his entire life exposed to sun, wind and salt.

It didn't matter. I reckoned that as long as I stayed reasonably healthy, a few extra crinkles and crusty bits here and there shouldn't matter.

And the physical changes associated with growing old are, after all, linked to lifestyle changes - to retirement.

So I was looking forward to days of pleasing my wrinkly old self with no job or children to consider.

I was starting to get excited at the thought of afternoons spent sipping tea with friends or ambling around the gardens at county houses.

But now, after a routine check-up with my dentist, the so-called golden years have turned a mucky shade of grey.

Plaque, tooth decay, gum disease - throughout life I have taken them all in my stride.

But on my last visit, my dentist used an expression that sent a shiver down my spine, that made me feel like a female version of Albert Steptoe.

She used the term receding gums.' Now I don't know about you, but I associate those words with certain images: dentures in a glass of water by the bed and a bathroom cabinet full of Steradent.

Receding gums are like receding hairlines - it eventually results in loss.

Receding hairlines leave you bald. Receding gums make your teeth drop out.

And I'm not alone in feeling that of the two, I know which I'd rather lose. According to a new survey, most women are horrified by a bad dental diagnosis.

Apparently, they are twice as bothered about losing their teeth with age as they are about their hair thinning.

There is something about not having your own teeth that leaves you short in the sex appeal department.

I also link it with a shrivelled mouth - the sucking a lemon' look. Not the sort of luscious lipped image I strive to maintain.

My dentist's diagnosis sent me into such deep shock I found it hard to close my mouth. "Receding gums, moi? There must be some mistake," I wanted to say.

But, instead, I stared into space with my mouth wide open, on show to the world, receding gums and all.

I wanted to ask: "How long have I got?"

If I'm going to lose my gnashers within the next five years I ought to be prepared.

Join a private dental plan or something.

If they've got to be replaced, I want a Hollywood smile.

But, NHS dentistry being so ridiculously under-funded, I can't see it happening. I genuinely think I'm destined to look like Albert Steptoe.