I am 45 this week. I know that's not considered middle-aged any more, but doing stand-up comedy and writing is a ridiculous occupation for a woman that old. I'm supposed to be learning how to bake and work out a strategy for managing my forthcoming menopause. I imagined by now I'd be wrinkly and wearing brightly appliqued jumpers with busy butterflies and shiny sequins.

My mother died at 47and, to me, she
was an ancient, grey-haired, toothless
woman with more wrinkles than a crackled crisp packet. Her generation never knew anyone who had plastic surgery, unless it was some poor woman whose husband had tried to burn her in a fire and had had a new pinkie grafled on, but her face lefl like a melted carpet.

My mother resembled something Tim Burton created from his bad dreams. Yet she was a vital part of my life and sexualIy active, albeit with a crazy, violent man who liked to kill swans and then finally murdered her in 1982.

At least she never got on stage and told stories about her bizarre life, like I do. I've been doing stand-up for nearly ten years. Being a woman in comedy was an easy step after managing a rough East End Glasgow, dealing with loud men and sectarianism and trying to stop people dressed as cowboys fighting the karaoke man for control of the mike during an afternoon bingo session just before Rangers played Celtic up the road.

I ran that pub for 15 years with my husband Sean. He's now retired and finds himself in strange hotels, unpacking a case for me and trying to make tea with a miniature kettle, fusty teabags and that evil pretend-milk in thimble-like tubs. I'm sure he wonders what happened to the cheeky barmaid he married - when she turned into this woman who talks through a microphone about child abuse and punching nuns, talking animals and the best way to remove explosives hidden in a wall cavity.

But he's very supportive of my career choice. I don't know many Glasgow men who'd enjoy their wife writing her autobiography, exposing their difficult marriage and his family's gangster connections, and even go as far as helping her choose the photo for the book jacket.

Everywhere I look, the comics are all young and fresh. Their skin still fits them. Unlike me, where bits I never knew existed on my weary flank are getting as baggy as an old, burst bagpipe. But I don't want to be like Madonna. I can't be doing with three hours of exercise a day. I don't care if my stomach isn't as flat as it used to be. Trust me, you don't need to be wrinkle-free to let a 20-year-old fuck you. You just have to be clever enough to forget it afterwards - or so I'm told. My husband's eyesight is bad. To him, I'm still the cute one from the Nolan Sisters.

At the start of a new year, l always look back instead of forward. I do have some regrets. I wish I had learned to shut up and listen more. I regret talking over people. I regret undermining other people's emotions. Above all, I regret the red dress, fox-fur wrap and pillbox hat I wore at a wedding in 1989 And I regret to this day my daughter watching her father and me being taken away by the police after they found guns and ammunition in the house where we lived. Her wee, sad face will haunt me forever.

When I get my hands on that microphone, it's the only time I f eel at home. I love being in front of an audience. I'm an attention seeking old woman. My style of comedy is improvisational chatter. I liken myself to an over-friendly cleaner. I get on stage and just have a big gab with the people there. I don't think of myself as a woman comic. I'm someone who can't bake, can't dance like Madonna, and can't bend my legs as far as some men , think I can. But I can hide guns, dispose of explosives and talk for Scotland. I'd win a gold if they included chatting as an Olympic sport.