People often talk about things they want to do before they’re 50.

Fifty is seen by many as some sort of crossing point, at which you pass from relatively vibrant, middle age to old age, the Third Age, the age of free bus passes and cold weather payments (those can’t come soon enough for me).

It is seen as the point at which you start winding down, sowing the seeds for retirement.

For those reasons and many more like them, people feel that if they’re going to do something exciting, adventurous, or life-changing, they must do it before they’re 50.

That doesn’t give me much time. Because this week I am 49. I only have a year to go before I cross to the other side of the tracks. And don’t I know it.

Already I’m receiving catalogues containing sensible shoes and hoof-shaped slippers with Velcro fastening.

I’ve somehow got on the mailing list of companies selling shapeless slacks with elasticated waists, support tights and baths with a door that opens at the side.

It’s all too depressing, so I checked out some websites offering suggestions as to what I could do to make life a little different before reaching the half century.

Many suggest adventure – travelling to far-flung destinations to explore, teach, or work as a volunteer. All well and good – but while I’m volunteering in deepest, darkest Africa, who’s going to volunteer to look after my children?

‘Adopt something’ another urges. ‘A baby or a pet’. Would anyone, other than Madonna, put adopting a baby on a ‘things to do before you’re 50’ list?

Surely that would curtail any other life-changing plans, unless there’s a pushchair-friendly route up Kilimanjaro.

The suggestion to reconnect with a friend you’ve lost touch with is to me to fraught with danger.

If the stories I read about reconnecting websites are anything to go by, former friends – particularly 40-somethings – could end up stealing your husband and wrecking your life.

I’d love to learn something new, but the idea of doing it in a ‘fantasy destination’ – art lessons in Paris or a cookery course in Tuscany – is fine for loaded aristocrats, but I can barely afford a paint brush let alone strut around Montmartre pretending to be Picasso.

I could change my hair, but wouldn’t dare. The last time I had a re-vamp I ended up looking like Suzi Quatro (yes, I am old enough to remember her).

I can’t do much before I’m 50. But I shouldn’t panic. Last year my 80-something neighbour jetted to America on her own, has an amazing social circle and lives the kind of life I envy.

There’s always time to fulfil dreams.