You know what they say about middle age: it's always about a decade ahead of where you are at any given point in time. There comes a point, though, when you know that particular stage of life isn't just waiting round the corner anymore; it's lurking, sniggering into its hand, steeling itself to leap out and yell, "Got you!" 

And there are those unmistakable signs, that tell you middle age is decidedly on the horizon, if not lurching its way up the next street. Husband and I have fun, from time to time, trying to come up with new indicators of middle age. For example, you know you're middle aged when:

Your reaction to rainfall is that it will be good for the gardens. 

Your pelvic floor just isn't up to the mothers' race any more. 

You live in a street that young people come home to for Christmas. 

Words and phrases come out of your mouth that you last heard your mother utter thirty years ago. 

Just lately, we've found we can tick just about all those boxes. 

I suspect I've become extra- sensitive to the business of age having spent a fair amount of time the last couple of years talking to journalists. They always, to a man, woman and cub reporter, want to know how old you are.  And you have to tell 'em. Because, "None of your effing business' is unlikely to result in favourable copy in the Oxford Mail. Nor can you lie. Knock a few months off and your in-box will be inundated with people who remember you from when you had licorice on your face and hand-me-down navy blue knickers. 

Earlier this year, my French publishers, the lovely Fleuve Noir, embarked upon a rather innovative marketing campaign. They had six new, young (ish) female crime writers to promote. First up, they put us in a calendar.  I was Miss February (see above).  How cool is that?  Then they did a Wanted poster, in the style of the old wild west, with pictures of each of us.  Under each photograph appeared our names, country of residence and our age: Robin Young, UK, age 34; Chelsea Cain, USA, age 35; Sharon Bolton, UK, age unknown. 

Now, Fleuve Noir knew my age only too well, but clearly honesty isn't the best policy when you're trying to promote the new "black babes" of French crime writing. No doubt, being French, they did a bit of creative air-brushing on the picture as well. And I'm female enough to be grateful they did. 

I'm wondering if the solution is take a leaf out of Clara Benning's book. Clara, the protagonist of Awakening, has no mirrors in her house. She avoids reflective surfaces like most women avoid small black creatures with many legs. As Clara knows, mirrors only work if you approach with care, in soft light, at the right angle. Let them catch you unawares and you're going to have to accept that the wrinkles are there whether you're tired or not, that those extra five pounds really do show and the bone structure around your jaw-line probably won't be seen again this lifetime. 

And that, as any woman in her forties will tell you, is hard. What do we listen to? Our hearts, telling us the better part of our lives is still to come; or our heads, saying 'get real girl, it's all downhill from here'? 

I'm with Clara, I've decided. The mirrors are going. Because without them, I can still be that slender girl of 20, with waist-length red hair, striding through life in search of adventure.

Editors eh! They always want to cut your best bits. The first draft of Sacrifice had a particularly steamy sex scene that my English editor thought  "too strong" and instructed me to cut. I sulked at the time, but in retrospect, I admit, I'm heartily grateful.

The one remaining intimate scene, mild as a milkmaid in comparison, still had tongues wagging, eye-lids winking and elbows nudging in the part of rural Buckinghamshire where I live. For weeks after Sacrifice was published I couldn't go to a dinner party without someone giving me a knowing look and muttering, 'window ledge, eh!'  'Just the right height, is it?' I couldn't enter a room without feeling like every person in it had an intimate knowledge of my sexual habits and preferences.

Funny thing this, no one ever imagines a crime writer has actually committed their on-page violence in real life. Not a single person has ever said to me, 'So, Sharon, have you actually taken a blunt instrument, forced it through a woman's rib cage and then used a surgical scalpel to remove her still-beating heart; and was there much blood?' Somehow, though, they always imagine the kinkiest, most adventurous sex is based on personal experience.

Now, let's just think about this for a moment. I'm a middle class English mum, with a home, a child, a job, a dog and a pile of ironing that continually and magically replenishes itself. Seriously - how likely is it? 

What were we talking about? Editors cutting scenes. My UK editor, (nicest girl in the world until she picks up her red pen) has just made me cut my favourite scene from my third book. True, it was a bit gory. Yes, it featured a young girl wearing a decapitated pig's head over her own like a carnival mask. But it was all very tastefully done, you understand. C'est la vie! It's gone and the world will never know how great it could have been.

And then there was the dead badger story in Awakening. My agent didn't like it. I ignored her. My English editor suggested it be cut. I pretended I hadn't heard. My US editor got on the case and at that point I gave in. Red pens on both sides of the Atlantic defeat me every time. But you know what, I still think it would have worked, providing a welcome note of levity in what shapes up to be a very dark novel. Anyway, judge for yourself. Here is the badger tale the world will never read. 

By noon, Jim had started to cheer up. He even went so far as telling me, for what was probably the tenth time, his favourite badger story.  A good friend of his - an amateur taxidermist (I know, you didn't think such people existed but, believe me, in the south-west of England, they do) was driving down a country lane one night when he hit a badger. He stopped, examined the beast, concluded by its complete lack of movement and any sign of vitals that it was dead and decided to make use of the carcass. He loaded it into the back of his car and set off for home feeling mightily pleased with himself. As he was driving through Honiton, he heard snuffling, grunting noises coming from behind him. The badger, not dead at all, had woken up with a sore head and a bad attitude. Now, the car was a hatchback - no barrier at all between the driver and the increasingly irate badger. So, what would you do, says Jim at this point, you're in the middle of a large town, not a mile from the police station, on a light summer evening when just about half of Devon is out to take the air and you're trapped in a car with fifteen kilograms of pissed-off badger. 

What Jim's friend did, according to Jim, is get out of and lock his car, beat a hasty retreat from the scene and then report it stolen. The car was found - very soon of course, I imagine it would have attracted quite a large crowd by this time - the badger captured and released back into the wild. Devon police are still trying to solve the puzzle of how a 1.8litre, Ford Mondeo could be stolen by a badger.

I'm sorry, I still think this if funny. Especially as it's 95% true. Someone I used to know really did put a dead badger in the back of his car, only to discover some very real consequences of resurrection.