I never went through with my facelift – and on my 45th birthday, I'd like to explain why

'Look in here, please, and tell me how much you like your face out of 10. Not how beautiful you think you are, but how much you like it'

Liking your face isn't always about analysing how conventionally beautiful it is or isn't

(Rex)

It’s my birthday today, so please allow me a little more than my usual self-indulgence. If it’s your birthday too then I would like to congratulate you on choosing 8 June. We share our birthday with Kanye West, so according I am wishing you all a day filled with joy and, erm, dragon energy.

I work in an industry where it’s considered unwise to shout out the age you are as you get older, so may I first of all shout “SOD THAT” and tell you I am 45 today.

If that hinders my job prospects, whatever. I’ll run away with the circus where they still employ woman over 40 as part of the freak show, as long as they can double up as a human cannon ball on a Friday because that’s Zippo’s day off.

Recently, I was out with a friend who has had great success in his show-business career this year.

“Are you getting lots more attention from women now?” I asked him.

“Yes!” he said, then wailed, “but they’re all 45-year-old divorcees!”

I reminded him of my own age and marital status. He spluttered and coughed his apologies and flattered me: “I didn’t mean you! You’re hot!”

In other words, “You’re an all right 45-year-old; it’s those other ones, coming over here with their bingo wings and jam recipes…”

I wasn’t insulted. What I suggested to him was bad too. I had implied that he wasn’t attractive to women until he’d got a bit of fame. Happily he was too mortified to pick up on that.

I like getting older. It’s a reassuring reminder that I am alive and still at the party. I do notice I’ve changed a little; I admire hanging baskets outside pubs before I go in them. When I see very young women in heels and short skirts at night, I worry about whether they are chilly.

The downside is knowing that if you died, it wouldn’t be regarded as quite as tragic as if you were in your twenties. Imagine:

“What happened to Shappi?”

“She got eaten by a lion.”

“Awful. How old was she?”

“45.”

“Oh. Wine gum?”

You can’t help but be conscious of your age on TV. Before I went into I’m A Celebrity, I will confess to seeking out a highly recommended plastic surgeon for a bit of “help”.

The first thing my partner at the time had said when I agreed to do the show was, “But people will see you without make up on! I really don’t think that’s good for your career!” (I know. I know. I had three years of this sort of thing from him and he was eventually “sent away to live in a farm”.)

My confidence eroded somewhat by my silver-tongued cavalier (this can happen over time without you realising it’s happening), off I trotted to Harley Street. I just wanted Botox and fillers, nothing dramatic.

What a strange thing it was to walk into a fancy building, give my details to the receptionist and plonk myself down on a glossy chair, waiting for a consultation on how I could alter my face to pretend I haven’t lived for as long as I have.

Before you can actually have the work done, this clinic makes you have an expensive consultation. Just a way to make more money, I thought. I was getting fillers, after all, not a new head.

The consultation room was huge with shiny white walls, floors and furniture. Everything looked super “This will how your face will look!” smooth.

“So,” the softly spoken Indian doctor said, “why are you here?”

I told him I was going on a TV programme where I’d be filmed at every angle, 24 hours a day and I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up. I left out the part about my boyfriend thinking I should hide my bare face from humanity. The man was a cosmetic surgeon, after all, not the Loose Women panel.

He gave me a mirror. “Look in here, please, and tell me how much you like your face out of 10. Not how beautiful you think you are, but how much you like it.”

I looked at my face. I’ve always liked my face, if I’m honest. We have been through a lot together. I look like my mum, dad, son and daughter all mixed into one. Theirs are all faces I love, so I said, “10.”

The doctor nodded wisely, as only a man getting paid £300 for a chat can. He explained that my face would look different to how it does now if he filled it and froze it. If I liked my face “10 out of 10”, then I was perhaps just anxious about being on a primetime TV show and I was looking to the wrong thing to fix my anxiety.

“I think your issues are more emotional,” he continued. “For now, my advice would be to meditate, find emotional coping strategies for adventure into the unknown and come back here when you are 60. If you still want cosmetic enhancement then, we can discuss it. But I will charge a lot more by then. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a very good doctor,” I said.

£300 is a lot of money to spend on being told “You’re just panicking: relax” – but in this case, worth every penny. That said, I do sometimes wonder if he was actually a porter having a laugh while the real doctor was at lunch.