Sometime between the age of 39 and 42 the fine lines around my eyes morphed into crevices like the ones in dry mud. I’d like to attribute them to a life richly lived, but they’re more plausibly remnants of smoking, sun and stress. Does anyone remember that late 90s Baz Luhrmann song featuring a graduation-style speech over an uplifting backing track? “Wear sunscreen,” crooned the man in the voice-over. Well, I didn’t listen. Instead, I lathered myself in olive oil and fried on the decks of kaiki boats like a sardine on a blazing hot pan. I had a good time though, as I did smoking skinny Vogues in the back alleys of South Kensington. Genes play a huge part, too and deep set eyes run in my family. C’est la vie. I haven’t smoked in years, and these days, I wear sunscreen 365 days of the year. I can’t cut out stress, but I don’t know that a life can be richly lived without it. Same applies for mistakes. Regret, too. I hate the lines around my eyes, and while I haven’t ruled out Botox and fillers, for now, I’m working on acceptance. I’m told it has lasting effects.