Like Kate, I am about to turn forty.  Unlike Kate I am not about to stick a bunny tail on  my bottom and frolic provocatively in front of a camera to celebrate my oncoming middle age.  Had I not given birth twice in the last three years of my thirties I may have considered it but non, no nudie shots, that window has officially closed.

On the brink of my fortieth birthday I thought I'd be having a mega-meltdown.  I assumed there'd be tears over strict pre-fortieth birthday diets, perhaps a new hair colour or a total restyle.  But I'm feeling relaxed about The Big 4-0 because A: I'm way happier than I was in my twenties and early thirties and B: with so many fantastic-at-forty women to behold (Rachel Weisz, Cameron Diaz, Phoebe Philo, Stella McCartney, SJP, Naomi Campbell, Gwen Stefani) why should I panic?

My twenties, like a lot of young women, were a messy mix of no money, crap boyfriends and bad decisions.  I spent most of my 'leisure' time perfecting the art of waving my hands in the air to repetitive beats.  As for the so-called sorted thirties, I dated an array of useless boyfriends desperate for a whiff of 'The One' and my idea of personal development was swapping nightclub podiums for the dance tent at Glastonbury; aged thirty I was about as grown up as a sixteen year old living at home with her parents and childhood cat.

But I wasn't alone in my arrested development; I've always had Kate The Great to compare myself against, ok, not in terms of beauty, wealth or amazeball boyfriends (oh come hither, Johnny Depp).  Kate's hairstyle changes and iconic outfits were remarkable (the bleach blonde undercut and khaki military jacket remains a firm favourite) but knowing I wasn't the only thirty-four year old woman who still liked to go out dancing for two days made me feel normal. Thank you, Kate.

"The fashion industry recognises the beauty – and the spending power – of the 40-something female"

I'm part of the Acid House generation of women who as teenagers lived by the 'you can have it all' feminist mantra only to discover twenty years later a career, kids and being as hedonistic as you fancy didn't really work.  We've swapped our smiley face T's for a uniform of skinny jeans, Isabel Marant, botoxed brows and long locks that symbolise perpetual youth even if at a deeper level our bodies continue to march cruelly towards old age.  We were so busy building a career and having fun some of us even forgot to find a boyfriend!  I had my two children at the very end of my thirties thanks to a successful spin on Guardian Soulmates, (which, by the way, is where women of a certain age go looking for a boyfriend of a certain age). My advice to the next generation? Your dog cannot father your children, get off the dance floor and read a book!

I reckon it's good news for us ladies with Vaseline-covered mirrors, regardless of the fact Hollywood continues to cast positively foetal actresses as the love interests of men old enough to be their fathers. At least the fashion industry recognises the beauty and the spending power of the forty-something female, this season's catwalks (modelled by foetuses) were filled with fashion created with us in mind and Saint Laurent, Prada, Stella, Givenchy and Celine are the grown up labels confident, powerful women want to wear. 

As I bid farewell to my thirties, I'm with Camp Kate, a woman who, according to middle England, is growing old disgracefully.  I prefer to see it as growing old courageously.  At least she's honest. She's a wild child with longevity and I am looking forward to seeing the forty-something Kate unfold, wrinkles, crazy snaggle-tooth smile n' all.  If forty is the new thirty then surely fifty is the new forty?  We've got a lot to look forward to, ladies.