AT 58, Cilla Black is hitting the club scene. She is to embark on a career in dance music by releasing two records this summer to coincide with the night-clubbing scene in Ibiza.

"I'm at the stage of my life where I do things because they're fun," says Cilla. "And some younger people seem to think I'm hip. Well, my sons do."

Wish the same could be said about me. My young daughters think I'm anything but hip. Only last Saturday they were egging me on to buy four-inch heel patent-leather sandals in the window at Dolcis.

"Oh, mum, why don't you get those?" they squealed, giving me the usual 'you're so frumpy' look.

But does Cilla's future as an icon of the nightclub mean that the more mature woman will be able to venture into such a place and have as good a time as a 21-year-old?

I'm hoping so. Francesca Annis made it okay for younger blokes to go out with older women. Caroline Quentin made it okay for young men to have children with older women.

But clubbing - in my experience anyway - remains a young person's domain. With the possible exception of the local menopause support group, there is no place like a nightclub for making a woman over 35 feel old.

The doormen don't chat you up in the same way as they used to. "Whoarrr, hello gorgeous," becomes "Got here free on your bus pass have you?"

The bar staff look at you as if to say "Sorry we don't serve tea and scones."

And the punters treat you with a mixture of bemusement and amusement. In the Ladies (my advice - never go to the loo in a nightclub if you're over 40), young, attractive women with fabulous figures and skimpy outfits glance sideways as you face the mirror. It's not hard to detect pity as they watch your attempts to cover your less-than-flawless complexion with pan stick.

The men act like you're invisible. They never ask you to dance. Not, that is, until it's 2am, they've downed a few pints, and still haven't copped off. Then you become hugely desirable, in a revolting sort of way.

And it's odd, but as you grow older, disco dancing seems inappropriate. The movements you once thought hip seem awkward, silly even. I recently went to a tea dance as part of my job and felt entirely comfortable, which really is a frightening thought.

I haven't been to a nightclub for a couple of years, but the memory of my last visit - for a friend's 21st - still haunts me.

Maybe Cilla can change all this. Maybe next time I go, I'll be lusted after by the doormen, have drinks brought to my table, be asked for advice on make-up in the loo, and have a queue of blokes itching to get me on the dance floor (long before 2am).

Come on Cilla, work your mature-woman magic. Then, maybe, I will pop to Dolcis and buy those shoes with the four-inch heels.

Changing Rooms has started a new series. I think they should rename it Changing Channels. Because I nearly did, 100 times.

The only thing that kept me from pushing the button was my eagerness to witness the reaction of the two couples when confronted by the sheer hideousness of the rooms.

One woman hated red - so, of course, she got bright red.

The others stupidly mentioned they liked camping. So the designer created a camouflage affair complete with live wormery and army-issue blankets. It was one step up from Osama bin Laden's cave.

The bizarre thing was, both appeared to like their respective rooms.

Afterwards, the programme ran an appeal for participants. So if you hate your neighbours, seize your chance.

Updated: 10:49 Monday, March 04, 2002