IT seems a bit odd that just having outlawed discrimination on the grounds of age, everyone's suddenly going ga-ga over grey hair and distinctly restless about wrinkles.

Poor old (ouch! sorry!) Ming Campbell is licking his wounds, convinced that instead of being perceived as one of our wise elder statesmen he was about to be ousted simply for being an old man.

Ming is only 66, around the same age as Neil Diamond and Bob Dylan. In his sprinting days he was described as the fastest man on the planet, perfect for a Lib Dem, I'd have thought, given their penchant for fast men.

But something let him down. You don't exactly have to be a rock star to be a successful political leader - but it probably helps to be a bit more Old Man River than Old Man Steptoe.

Ming, if he's right that his age went against him, has probably been a casualty of our obsession with looks.

There's no denying that, for good or ill, he looked like a kindly grandad who might be about to slip you a couple of Werther's Originals.

The sad fact may be that with touch of Grecian 2000 and a couple of tubes of Boots's famous miracle youth serum, he could still be there today, boldly leading the Libs into more Boys' Own adventures featuring Westminster male escorts, Cheeky girls and the odd bit of extra-marital politics.

The Duchess of Cornwall, on the other hand, has bitten the blonde hair bullet and gone white overnight.

It's rumoured that her mother-in-law feels dyed hair is a bit common - that is, okay for commoners and Sir Paul McCartney, but not for the likes of them. Camilla, has caved in rather than risk a family row.

The rest of us also pretend we don't mind getting on, as we send our partners out for our age defying moisturisers and pound the pavements at night disguised with woolly hats and dark glasses to keep our muscles toned and our hearts sound.

And we look at the fresh bright faces of young adults who are just discovering sex and love and money and take them at, well, face value.

It's easy to forget that we were once like that, and they are as oblivious of their beauty and vitality and as bemused about how the big wide world works as we were at that age.

There are advantages to being the other side of 50, though. Suddenly, retirement is a distinct possibility. As the months and years unfold, you have a brand new topic of conversation with friends.

Say goodbye to moaning about the cost of school uniforms or comparing hot flushes. This is the age of public health. As your knees begin to creak, your shoulders ache, you can't go through the night without getting up for a pee and suddenly you can't manage a four-course meal anymore.

As a new age oldie you're perfectly entitled to make your health problems public.

No twentysomething would believe it, but now you find the intricate details of a friend's hip-replacement operation as gripping as you once found her stories of a secret fling with her husband's best mate.

And this time there's no problem if you accidentally let the knowledge slip to her better half after a couple of glasses of mulled wine.

Backtracking convincingly with half an orange and a couple of cloves in your mouth is notoriously tricky, after all.

But perhaps the best bit of getting on is losing your drive.

I don't just mean that you start drifting over to the middle of the road, though of course you do, but you no longer feel you have to be the boss, the leader.

No, take it from me, Ming, in a few days' time you'll feel this is the best move you could have made.

Now instead of being inspirational all the time you can sit down and admit it.

You're getting on, just like the rest of us. Have a good moan.

It's not a bad old life, after all.