There it was, lurking in the shadows as I turned my head in the mirror.

It was a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but I’m pretty sure it was what every woman dreads – the early signs of a Deirdre Neck.

When it comes to the ageing process, there’s nothing more cruel than a wrinkled, sagging neck.

You can fill in the cracks on your face with make-up, but there’s no disguising the papery wrinkles spanning chin to cleavage. It’s a screamingly obvious giveaway of age – just as broad shoulders or an Adam’s apple betray an otherwise well-turned-out transvestite.

Although I wasn’t blessed with a graceful, swan-like neck – a ‘Paltrow’ to categorise it in celeb terms – I’ve managed to reach middle-age with a relatively smooth neck. But for how much longer? If I stand in front of the mirror in a decent light, at a certain angle, I can see those flashes of Deirdre Neck just waiting to erupt.

Deirdre Neck is, of course, a nod to Deirdre Barlow, whose famous lined neck is practically a Corrie character in itself.

It’s one of the most feared of my celebrity categorisations of physical features, which range from receding hairline and stumpy legs (two iconic girl band members) to protruding veins (Hollywood sex goddess). I’ll leave it to you to guess their identities.

Wincing at the flash of Deirdre Neck in the mirror the other day, I imagined myself as one of those women-of-a-certain-age with leathery, tanned skin, unfolding in frills around the neck and cleavage, who spend their days chain-smoking in baking sunshine on the Costa. I’d be draped in layers of gold necklaces, with a raspy laugh and a permanent G and It on the go.

The sinister thing about Deirdre Neck, or turkey neck as it’s also known, is that it lurks with intent, choosing its moment to strike. Does it creep up, like crow’s feet around the eyes or aching knees when you’ve been sitting down for a while, or will it just go ‘ping’ one day?

My sister-in-law and I have regular conversations about nips and tucks we’d opt for if we had the money but, to our dismay, there doesn’t appear to be a solution for Deirdre Neck.

“What are we going to do?” I asked, running my hands down my neck, trying to smooth back the years. “Wear scarves,” came her reply.

So that’s the future; old lady scarves fastened with brooches.

Or we could migrate to the Costa and become rasping chain-smokers, drinking in the sunshine and letting it all hang out.

I know which I’d prefer, and it doesn’t involve brooches.