A new year, a new you, so the glossies say. Well, the new me, the Helen Mead of 2006, isn't quite the picture of fabulousness I would like to have blossomed into.

I know that once you're over 40 - and more to the point, once you've had children - your body starts to fall apart at the seams. Mine lost the plot (that being to gradually morph itself into a Julia Roberts clone) a long time ago, but recently, the rot has decided to set in with a vengeance.

My stomach resembles a quivering blancmange. The skin on my face feels like tree bark - not even the famous Crme de la Mer at 80-odd quid a jar could save it. And my once luscious locks look like they've been crocheted by a group of pre-school children.

The one thing I was proud of - until recently - was my eyes. I have always prided myself on my sight - on being able to see for miles. "Dad, look at that sheep on the hill," I would shout when, as a child, we were out on a family walk. Or "Mum, look at that funny car number plate." The fact that both sheep and car were several miles away was to most people awe-inspiring.

Yet, over the past year, something dreadful has been taking place. Something I would never have thought possible. My 20/20 vision has started to deteriorate. I first noticed this when I mistook Mike Baldwin for Jonathan Ross on TV. Then I mistakenly identified Griff Rhys Jones as Bruce Forsyth.

I thought at first that our 50-year-old telly was on the blink. But as I moved towards the set to twiddle the knobs, it dawned on me that, the closer I got, the clearer the picture became.

An eye test was called for. To my horror, I had trouble reading even the largest letter on the prompt card. Lenses placed over my eyes worked miracles. "I can see - I can't believe it!" I yelled, much to the amusement of my daughters who had gone along with me.

The bad news followed - I would need glasses, and, the optician told me, I would also need to be tested for diabetes. "People of your age don't usually become short-sighted," he said.

What a state - failing eyesight, abnormal blood sugar levels. I expected to be run over by a bus as I left. A great start to a new year.

Thankfully, my blood tests were fine. But choosing specs did not meet with such a rosy outcome. For close on £150 (I expected the whole package to total about £40) I could transform myself into either Austin Powers, Elton John or a smug-looking advertising executive. And did I want anti-scratch, anti-glare, anti-freeze, anti-natal? All at extra cost. It got me thinking that maybe I didn't need glasses after all. I could forego the television, and I'd passed my driving test, so I unless I was witness to a heist, I wouldn't be called upon to read number plates.

And friends have all told me that their eyesight grew markedly worse after wearing glasses. The way I look at it, once I start to wear glasses, it's another nail in my coffin. So I'm putting it off. Unless I start watching London's Burning in the belief that it's Fireman Sam, then I'll be only too pleased to sport some milk bottle bottoms with pig iron frames to help me see.

Updated: 10:58 Tuesday, January 10, 2006