'Oooo, isn't she lucky," women across the country will be muttering, as they read about Caroline Quentin's new fella.

The father of her unborn baby, Sam Farmer, is just 21. Quite a catch for a woman of 38.

Or so many females in their late thirties may think. Only not me. Okay, so I'm the same age as Ms Quentin, married, with two kids, a steady job and a mortgage. My life could do with a little spicing up.

But not once have I toyed with the idea of a toyboy. That's not to say I wouldn't welcome a young lad around the house. He could bring in the shopping, clean out the car, put up the occasional shelf, build the odd kitchen extension.

But as for sharing my bed and fathering any future offspring... A 21-year-old may provide the necessary ingredients biologically, but it's the day-to-day life you've got to think about.

I lock horns often enough with my husband - and he's only one year my junior. I shudder to imagine the potential areas of conflict were I to shack up with a man who has been on the planet 17 years less than I have. Some of these spring to mind straight away:

HOLIDAYS: I'd fancy a week of self-catering in the Cotswolds, while he would be itching to get over to Ibiza for a fortnight's 24-hour clubbing in a sweaty, windowless Hell hole called something like Jon at Xen.

MUSIC: Nowadays, young people go to clubs for the DJs not the discs. I'd struggle to name any DJ other than Tony Blackburn, and I'd be extremely hard pressed to name any band in the current top 20. (Plus, I doubt my young beau would be too impressed with my recent attempts to actually open a CD).

KIDS: He may say he loves kids, but making the three-year-old in the trolley in front of you at Sainsbury's laugh and getting up at 4am to change a dirty nappy are two very different things.

CLOTHES: Would any woman in her thirties want to introduce her friends to someone who wears a baseball cap back to front?

FRIENDS: I've got two or three close ones who pop over occasionally when they can get a babysitter. He's got 90 casual acquaintances who come round at all hours expecting a party.

CARS: I'm still content to knock around in my tatty but reliable old Metro. He may not admit it, but he'd hate to be seen in a car which qualified for cut-price tax and cost less than £7,000 to insure.

WORK: My job offers security, a means of paying the mortgage. He works intermittently to save up for six-month back-packing stints in India.

HOBBIES: He'd be into things like snow-boarding and surfing, while I'm happy to potter about in the garden.

BEDTIME: By 11pm I'm ready to hit the sack, while he's ready to hit town.

All things considered, the relationship would be nothing short of a recipe for disaster. And perhaps worst of all, I couldn't handle the inevitable. I know I don't look 21 any more, but I'd hate being out with my boyfriend and being constantly told: "Oooo, he doesn't look at all like you - does he take after his dad?"

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.