ONE sunny afternoon last week I sat outside on the garden bench with a nice cup of tea - a rare event in itself (both the sun and the relaxing) - opened the paper, and suddenly felt old. Very old. And a bit depressed.

Under the headline 'Crazy housewives' was a large photograph of a crowd of women, arms aloft, going wild at a rock concert. These women were all my age and were reliving their youth at The Seventies revival tour that is touring Britain. They were once again screaming, crying and reaching out for their heroes - the Bay City Rollers, the Osmonds, David Cassidy and David Essex.

It was a bit too much. Compared with photographs of adoring female fans taken three decades ago - which also appeared in the article - there was barely any difference.

What had changed were the women. Gone was the sleek, shiny hair, trim waists, slender arms and shoulders, and carefree 'world's my oyster' looks so typical of teenage girls.

In their place were perms and dyes, Michelin waists, plump upper arms (and, horror of horrors, the first stages of the dreaded 'bingo wings'), and 40-something, careworn faces.

The women were clearly having a good time, going back to those days when at least one of the stars featured nightly in their dreams.

Only now their idols, too, are past their prime. They look middle aged - and that's being kind. Half of them will soon qualify for their free bus pass. With their cardigans and sweaters, some of them look more like Val Doonican than the fresh-faced heartthrobs I remember.

Yes, I was among that hysterical band of girls who worshipped Donny Osmond and David Cassidy. I truly believed that their songs were written with me in mind. "I cry at night, these tears for you." Or whatever it was that Donny (sadly not touring with his brothers) sang, I believed were meant for me and me alone. The same with "Daydreamer, walking in the rain." I loved David Cassidy, but went off him when the teen magazine I subscribed to carried a picture of him in jeans with the top button undone. I thought Donny was less wayward and more likely to be faithful.

I also liked David Essex, but he was quite a bit older than me and after seeing That'll Be The Day and Stardust, I put him out of my mind - he was far too experienced sexually and would expect too much of me on our first date.

Having them resurface after all these years, I can understand why women are clamouring to see them. But, however much I adored them, I would not want a ticket. I would not want to relive the past 30 years. It would burst the bubble, shatter the dreams I had as a teenager.

And it would remind me that I'm no longer a young, carefree girl with her life ahead of her - and an (albeit slim) chance that marriage to Donny may take place - but a middle-aged woman with children, whose life appears to be mapped out and who will almost certainly never end up living in the Osmond Mansion in Salt Lake City.

It would be too depressing. I don't want to see the gorgeous men who adorned the walls of my bedroom with grey hair and dicky hips. I don't want to see their trendy shirts replaced with Fair Isle sweaters.

And, more importantly, I don't want them to see me with a frizzy mop, crows feet and - although I haven't played the game for five years - bingo wings.

Updated: 09:34 Tuesday, July 05, 2005