No-one of wants to grow old. But, unfortunately, it happens to us all.

Our bodies change and we suddenly find we are no longer capable of many of the things we enjoyed in the past.

There will be few among us who haven't mourned the passing of some pleasure or other. But what if we could rejuvenate our bodies to experience them once again?

That may seem preposterous, but look at recent advancements in science. Women who reach a ripe old age and suddenly feel they want a baby could soon - thanks to the freezing and grafting ovarian tissue - find that it's possible.

That's an issue with massive ethical implications - against which what I've got to say is trivial. But wouldn't it be great if we could freeze all our bits and pieces in their youthful state and stick them on again when we feel the old ones flagging? I know exactly what I'd have preserved:

Legs: I'd like the legs I had aged 18, when I was a county tennis player. They've never been long and slender, but back then they were a reasonable shape and very athletic. I'd like to be able to do cartwheels and leap over streams on country walks. I tried this recently on a ramble with my daughters to show them that there's more to overweight, frumpy old mummy than meets the eye. A simple jump - which would have been a doddle 20 years ago - and I'm still in pain a week after.

Stomach: I think 21 would be my choice, in the days when I was a regular at the gym and could wear a figure-hugging, size eight dress without a twinge of embarrassment. Nowadays, figure-throttling would be a more truthful representation (and that's in a size 14).

Eyes: Any age under 25. Throughout my teens and early twenties, my eyes used to positively sparkle as I got ready to go out. And, despite the regular ravages of alcohol, smoky pubs and late nights, they always looked fresh and alive the next day. Now I rarely go out, never get drunk, get lots of fresh air and go to bed early. Yet, most mornings, my eyes would not look out of place on the cover of a Stephen King novel.

Bottom: Definitely age 18 - when I could try on a pair of jeans in a shop and look over my shoulder into the mirror without screaming. In my late teens I'd be sufficiently proud of my figure to pull back the changing room curtains and stride around the shop floor in my new trousers.

Breasts: Anytime pre-childbirth. Now, there isn't a middle-aged mother alive who wouldn't want to wind the clock back for a bosom that wasn't so completely in-tune with the Earth's gravitational pull.

Feet: This may seem odd, but I'd like to have frozen my feet as a toddler. I often look at my 18-month-old daughter's soft, smooth, pins with their evenly-shaped little toes and wonder how something like that could ever turn into the gnarled, knobby old tree stump lookalikes on the end of my legs.

And, last but not least - at my husband's request - sex drive: now this really has been in cold storage for years, and unless Liam Neeson calls round, there's no hope of a thaw.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.