Thoughts and prayers, please, for those of us born in 1974, as the global news event that is Kate Moss turning 50 continues. Given the blanket coverage, I probably don’t need to tell you much about it, but just in case you’re a high court judge, here are the bullet-point basics. Moss went to a “spiritual retreat” on Mustique, then private-jetted to Paris for a party at which she wore an incredible vintage sheer lace dress. Guests included Venus Williams and Stella McCartney, but the lack of gawping paparazzi pics suggests it was mainly her friends in attendance; the whole thing seemed high on glamour and low on scandal, as befits a 50-year-old style icon with absolutely nothing left to prove.
It’s not my turn for months yet, but it’s pretty clear that my 50th will be less catsuit, more crying into my crisps. It could be a tricky year, self-esteem-wise, as my peers – Leonardo DiCaprio, Victoria Beckham, Robbie Williams, Penélope Cruz, Chloë Sevigny – hit their half-century. Do you remember how at the start of secondary school, kids in your class looked wildly different ages, anything from eight to 28, depending on genetics and gender? Well, 50 seems to be the same: some of us (me) look as if they’ve been excavated from a Valley of the Kings antechamber after multiple graverobbings; Moss, despite the decades of cigs and partying, looks better than ever.
