I nearly became a cellist but my teacher died, so I became a nylonist instead, or something like that

I announced it over dinner. I was 13 and had learnt all the words to Anarchy In The UK– which was not difficult as all I had to do was growl like I had Cornflakes stuck in my throat.

I had also carved an anarchy sign on my hand with my maths compass (which, admittedly, looked like a house) and stolen my brother’s satchel, which came ready-drawn with pictures of skeletons and Bauhaus lyrics. It was time to own what I was.

“I’m becoming a nylonist,” I said, shovelling a forkful of mash into my mouth.

“Oh, darling!” my mother cried, her eyes welling. “I always knew you’d realise the violin is far more satisfying than the Jewish harp. A violinist! In our family! Just wait till I tell Hilary Bridges!”

My father looked at me bemused. “A nylonist, eh? Like one of them Indian children who make parachute tracksuits in them rat-filled factories?”(Okay, he didn’t have a Cockney accent, but it sounds better.) He laid down his knife and winked at me. “Nice.”

Later I asked my brother to write it down for me.

Nihilist: Someone who rejects all theories of morality or religious belief. An advocate of anarchism.

Okay, so I had got the word wrong, but I did everything else right.

I shaved my head (my mother cried), I refused to go to church (my mother cried again), I wore only workman’s overalls (my mother cried some more) and took a dead snake to school.

On the surface, I was an excellent nihilist. At that age, it was easy to hate everything.

Over the years, I became many other “ists”: pantheist (I had a crush on a hippie called Buzzard); artist (my Fine Art degree lasted two days); feminist (I could continue wearing my overalls); geologist (for three days, between artist and sociologist); Black Labelist (most afternoons); fascist (it sounded edgy) and hairstylist (to make my mother cry).

I nearly became a cellist, but my teacher died.

Because I’m now old, I recently took stock of my life. I did it during an ad break while watching What Not To Wear, so I didn’t have much time.

This is what I came up with:

Sadly, middle-aged nihilists inevitably become mildists. It happens when you get a job, a bond and a fruit bowl. When you’ve cut your hair into a bob and embrace the comfort of Crocs, the most anarchic thing you can do at work is play Angry Birds and use someone else’s mug.

The most punk you can be towards the bank is paying off your mortgage really quickly, and the most rebellious thing you can do to your neighbour is throw snails over the fence.

Former pantheists like to think they’re still in tune with nature, but because they have knee twinges and a post-work wine habit, they’re more likely to tune nature.

They’re more pantiest than pantheist.

During a hike, nature is lovely – for about 10 minutes. After that, it’s a slog. “God, will these steps never end?” middle-aged tree huggers pant. Occasionally, they’re forced to lie down in the bracken, panting like old Labradors. Sometimes they pant that they hate proteas.

I like to think I’m still a feminist – all that “legitimate rape” and “women should be mothers” stuff made me furious – but I often cry during What Not To Wear and occasionally assume a doctor will be a man. I also own a body shaper and I like it when men give me their seat on the train.

If Aromat is involved, then I might be a foodist, but not to the extent of other old people I know, who won’t touch a meal if it hasn’t been hand-hewn by organic Himalayan chefs who use only raw cacao and butter churned by Swiss ceramicists.

I’d like to be a eudaemonist, but I don’t know what it means.

But what I’m sure of is that when you’ve been all the “ists” in the book – barring proctologist, bassoonist and ichthyologist – you can never be a fascist.

At our advanced and generous age, people can do whatever they like – as long as we like whatever they do.