YOU know you’re getting Old (capital “O”, thanks) when you sprain your neck doing... well, nothing much at all.

Nine days ago, I rolled out of bed as usual and discovered that I had a crick in my neck. However, within hours, that stiffness had developed into a full-on, debilitating pain.

For an entire weekend, I alternately curled up in bed and paced the house, while someone stabbed the left side of my head and neck.

Things came to a head (pun fully intended) when my husband tried to help me out of bed in the morning and I screamed with pain – then sobbed.

I consulted an orthopaedic surgeon, who prescribed muscle relaxants and physiotherapy.

As I, Mrs Anti-Exercise- And-Out-Shape, was pushed in a wheelchair into the sportsmedicine department of a hospital, the irony was not lost on me: For the longest time, I’d thought that only hardcore marathon runners and fitness fanatics would need treatment for such spasms and sprains in the prime of their lives.

I felt betrayed by my own body. Suddenly, it became very clear to me that I was as vulnerable as a dandelion.

Some time ago, a newspaper here ran reports about how childbirth allegedly makes a woman age by 10 years.

Going by that theory, after having given birth twice, I would have the body of a 52-year-old woman.

Today, I am convinced that there is some truth in that finding.

Before the caesarean births of my two sons – aged four years and six months, respectively – I looked like a teenager next to the Supportive Spouse, who is five years older than I am.

But with each pregnancy, I have developed more health problems (gallstones, gestational diabetes, a curved spine, and so on).

Meanwhile, the SS, infuriatingly, has settled very nicely into his late 30s, with no ill effects except for some padding that has made him sexier in my eyes.

The signs of premature ageing are suddenly upon me. Of late, I have to slap on at least concealer before leaving the house to avoid being mistaken for the living dead.

The nubile young mothers at my son’s pre-school stand around together, tossing their hair and flaunting slender legs in micro-shorts, while I hang out with the waiting grandmothers, discussing our various ailments and aches.

Still, if offered the chance to miraculously turn back the clock to a more supple, childless time, I’d readily decline.

In fact, if I had to give up another 20 years of my life for my children, I’d do so without hesitation.

Especially when Julian, the elder one, has developed a charming habit of stroking my hair while saying: “Does your neck still hurt? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

One recent afternoon, I was taking a drug-hazed nap. In my medicated sleep, I dreamt that there were three wind chimes sounding melodically outside my bedroom window.

A big one, made of bamboo, made a “clong, clong” sound. A medium one, of a pink aluminium, went “ting, ting, ting”.

And the last, a tiny delicate thing, provided a high-pitched tinkling. In the distance, storm clouds loomed. The excited chiming became urgent.

When I woke up, it was raining outside. The wind chimes, I decided, were symbolic of the husband and our two boys, each of them clamouring for my attention in different ways.

The storm clouds were age and deafness creeping up on me. I interpreted the dream as a reminder to never stop listening out for and appreciating the music my family makes.

So here it is, my age-worn truth: I’d stick my neck out for them. Rain, pain, or shine.

For more my paper stories click here.