I have a birthday this weekend. It isn’t one that, in the grand scheme of things, is particularly noteworthy. Not like reaching the giddy heights of 18 or 21. Nor does it end in a zero or even a five, yet there is something about turning 47 that feels a significant milestone.

Partly as it means the big 5-0 is now only a veritable hop, skip and jump away, but also because when I was younger, I used to think of 47 as my “scary age”. It was the point at which I couldn’t visualise what my life would actually look like.

It reminded me of the song Que Sera, Sera, but instead of ruminating “Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?”, I wondered whether I’d have caved to the outdated stereotype that women of a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Or finally managed to save a sufficient deposit to buy a house.

The answer to those questions, as I now know, are no and yes in that order. I was reflecting on this the other day when it suddenly occurred to me that there was one thing I had felt absolutely certain about when I used to picture being 47.

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I reckoned that by this stage, I would definitely feel like an “adult”. So, when does that kick in? Did I forget to tick a box somewhere along the way? Am I even in the right ballpark? With this in mind, I have rated some recent life events to see how they rank on the grown-up scale.

Calling the AA A weekday morning and I’m rummaging around in the glovebox of my car for the little leaflet that has the telephone number for roadside assistance. I finally locate it and type the digits into my mobile phone.

The call handler asks for my location. My face grows red. I haven’t even left my driveway. Yep, it turns out that I accidentally left the dashcam plugged in for days and it drained the car battery.

When the lovely chap from the AA shows up an hour or so later, he is very kind and cheerily assures me that it “happens to lots of new drivers”. I feel 17. So, not very grown-up, then.

Buying a new boiler One minute, you’re young, fun and booking spontaneous city breaks to New York or Marrakech, the next you’re shouting “YOLO!” when the man from British Gas suggests replacing your ageing boiler and getting a new radiator in the kitchen.

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If the weekly screen time totals on my phone are anything to go by, I check the Hive app with the same avid dedication that I once devoted to my beloved Tamagotchi circa the late-1990s. Which perhaps doesn’t bode well for my heating bill when my interest wanes. Booking a rug cleaner Nope, that isn’t a euphemism. I feel I should clarify this point because when I told my husband I was making an appointment at the “rug spa” he sniggered with such outlandish vigour it was like watching the cartoon character Muttley morph into human form before my eyes.

Never mind that I was innocently talking about the hearth rug in the living room needing a pre-Christmas spruce up. I realise as I type this that it isn’t a very grown-up conversation at all.

Prioritising sleep As a middle-aged woman, sleep is a top tier aspiration. If you offered me a 15-course banquet of potatoes, a vat of prosecco or a nine-hour uninterrupted sleep, I would choose the latter.

There is a younger version of me, hammering her fists on the plexiglass that separates our respective life chapters, screaming at me to pick the potatoes and prosecco. But she is also the same fool who thought that 47 was a scary age, so what does she know?

Susan Swarbrick is a columnist and freelance writer who specialises in celebrity interviews, TV content and musings on popular culture. She also loves the outdoors and regularly covers sport. Follow her on X @SusanSwarbrick