Forget all about HRT and Botox injections . . . there is nothing quite like a ride in an open-top sports car, especially a red one, to make a middle-aged woman feel 25 again.

"I've got a surprise for you," said a friend (middle-aged, of course) who was picking me up for lunch.

And what a surprise it was - a sleek, red, open-top, two-seater sports car parked outside my house.

"I'm looking after this for my landlady while she is on holiday," said my friend. "She said to use it 'whenever' so that's what I do. I use it whenever the mood takes me."

"Oh!" said The Mother excitedly. "I've always wanted to have a ride in one of those."

"Sorry, it's only a two-seater," I said, nudging my friend through the front door before she could invite The Mother to squeeze in and join us.

Then Vrooom! Vrooom! and we were off. So, too, was my hairstyle and what felt like the top layer of skin on my face.

"I'm glad I don't wear a wig," I shouted to my friend who had disappeared behind a pair of wrap-around sunglasses.

"What?" she shouted.

"I said I'm glad . . .oh, never mind," I replied. "Just keep your eyes on the road."

"What?"

We hit the Brighton bypass like a cork flying out of a bottle. Vrooom! Vrooom!

"Are you nervous?" my friend shouted.

"What?"

"I said are you nervous? You're gripping your seatbelt and your knuckles have gone white."

So they had but what was she doing looking at my knuckles? Hadn't she more important things to keep an eye on, like the heavy lorries thundering along in the rear?

"These little cars certainly move," I shouted as we bounced along. "We must be doing over 80mph."

My friend laughed. "Don't be daft, we're nowhere near," she shouted. "The seats are so low slung in this car that it feels like we're going faster that we really are."

"How far from the ground are we?" I asked.

"Oh, about six inches," she said.

Suddenly I noticed there was another sleek, red, open-top, two-seater sports car just in front.

"C'mon, we'll show 'em!" my friend shouted and put her foot down.

Vrooom! Vrooom!

"Tsk, just look at that," said my friend, glancing sideways as we overtook the other sports car.

A fat, bald, middle-aged man was hunched behind the wheel. At least he won't have trouble with his hairstyle, I thought.

"Isn't that just our luck," said my friend. "You expect a car like that to be driven by some young, handsome hunk and what do you get?"

"I expect he's thinking the same," I said.

The words: "What do you mean?" hit me side on.

"Well," I said, "he probably thinks cars like this should be driven by young, blonde . . ."

"Bimbos!" said my friend. "Ha!" and she put her foot down again.

Vrooom! Vrooom!

"What make of car was it?" asked a male friend a couple of days later.

"Make?" I said. "I don't know what make it was. It was a red, open-top, two-seater sports car and it went Vrooom! Vrooom!"