I do not really feel outdated, says FERN BRITTON, however the considered beginning a brand new relationship in my 60s is terrifying… and displaying my wrinkles and wobbly backside and thighs

In yesterday’s Mail, TV’s Fern Britton revealed the toll that divorce, grief and Strictly took on her. Today, in the final part of our serialisation of her frank memoir, she tells of learning the truth about her absent father, coping with working mother’s guilt, and the joys – and challenges – of being single in her 60s… 

It’s daunting at any stage of life to get naked with someone new. These days my body looks as if it could do with a good iron or perhaps even better a steam press.

So, as I contemplate seeking a new relationship in my 60s, that’s a whole added layer of pressure. I have wrinkles, wobbly thighs and bosoms that I roll up like a Swiss roll to tuck them in my bra. Could I display all this to a new partner? I genuinely don’t know.

Although I see it as an important part of my repowering, I find the prospect of a new relationship terrifying as well as tempting. I imagine what it would be like to have someone to talk to and walk with. Someone with whom to share hobbies, hold hands and maybe… gulp… get intimate.

Getting older, let’s face it, is not for the faint-hearted. Reaching 30 or 40, or even 50, is a breeze compared to facing 60. The reality of the problem is that, yes, my knees hurt and I forget everybody’s name, but apart from that, I DON’T FEEL OLD.

When, aged 44, I had my daughter Winnie, I thought to myself that when she’s 20 I’ll be over the hill, past it, in my dotage. Then I got to my 60s and – guess what? – the sky didn’t fall in. Life was just the same as it had been the day before. That was a big realisation for me.

From then on, I felt a strong desire to enjoy my life and to show my younger friends that it’s OK to be 60. ‘Look! I haven’t changed, not overnight!’ I had to admit there were cons as well as pros. The main con being I now have a superb moustache and beard – and a big pro being the hair on my underarms and legs has stopped growing. But it’s not just my body I’m worried about sharing with someone new; mostly it’s my personal space.

What I would really like is a semi-detached relationship. One where we live in our own houses and not in each other’s pockets. It would be lovely to ring this mystery man up and say, ‘Would you like to come over for lunch?’ or ‘Have you got the name of a good plumber?’

I was married all the way through my 30s, 40s, 50s and early 60s, so I had 30 years of being a wife to two husbands.

You’d think it would have been tricky to slip back into single life after such a long time, but I have found it liberating.

I have friends. I have a social life. I can spend a lot of time in my pyjamas. I love being my own person. Being able to choose what I want for supper, whether I go to bed at six o’clock in the evening or two o’clock the next morning.

If it’s sunny and I’ve done enough work, I’ll get in the car and drive to the beach. The other night, I went down there and took a bottle of zero-alcohol beer to drink sitting in the dunes, people-watching.

There were families and young couples and handsome lifeguards running up and down the shoreline. My life, my choice.

When I was little, a big secret was kept from me. My childhood was loving, but no one told me why my father, the actor Tony Britton, wasn’t part of it. Growing up in the Fifties and Sixties, it was rare for parents not to be together. I didn’t know anyone else who didn’t have a dad at home.

To me as a child he was a glamorous figure. He visited maybe twice a year, pulling up in a swish car loaded with presents. Before he arrived, the atmosphere would be trembling with something I didn’t understand. Thinking back now, it was high emotion. And on his departure a sense of loss. Disappointment. As a child, I had no idea where he lived.

By the time I was nine, my stepfather had arrived and I was unhappy. I became desperate to contact my father, to ask him to come home, but who could I approach to find out his address? In the meantime, my father was building a terrific career.

As a young child watching him on television, I would wave at him, knowing that he wasn’t able to wave back because, although he could see me, he was busy working. We didn’t see each other often, but he would write letters. I’ve still got three or four he sent. Even though he didn’t know much about me or what my life was like, they were always affectionate and witty.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid-50s that I finally found out why I have no memory of him living with my mum, my sister and me. He sat me down and started the conversation by saying, ‘Darling, I’ve got to tell you something …’ I braced myself. Here was the truth. 

My handsome father could never resist women – and women found him equally irresistible, so there were lots of shenanigans even when he was with my mother. In fact, before I was conceived, he had already left my mum and my sister for the woman who became his second wife.

It transpired that during one visit of just a few hours, he and my mum had temporarily rekindled their feelings and I was conceived.

Did he go back to his new partner with a – possibly – guilty spring in his step? How did he manage to explain my eventual appearance to his future wife?

I have no idea, but at least I now had the truth, although I was left with a strong feeling of ‘why did nobody say?’ Everyone knew. My uncle, aunt, sister. Only I was kept in the dark. As a result, I hate it when someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on. These days, I yearn for the truth, even the worst kind of truth, as long as it is the truth.

One of the most important things I’ve learnt to accept is that we all make mistakes. A life without mess would not be worth living. The messy stuff in our lives challenges and teaches us. Failure is just a rehearsal for success.

As a broadcaster with two small children, some days were worse than others. Here is one example of being a working mum with an eye off the ball.

It started when I came home from a long day on ITV’s This Morning, carrying my new baby daughter Winnie, who I was breastfeeding so she came to work with me. I fed the children, bathed them, read stories and put them to bed. Phew, now it was my time to relax. But a little while later, when I expected them to be sound asleep, the twin boys – who were about nine at the time – appeared downstairs.

One said: ‘By the way, Mum, it’s Evacuee Day at school tomorrow.’ Then the other one chipped in: ‘Yeah, we have to go dressed as Second World War evacuees.’

By this point it was heading towards 9.30pm and I had to be up at 4.45am. And now I had to throw together two 1940s outfits and era-appropriate lunch-boxes. Fortunately, we had lots of jumpers knitted by the boys’ grandmother, which were perfect. I found some grey shorts that just about worked. 

The next morning, Super Sue, our nanny, came in at 6am. As we passed the baton, I told her smugly: ‘It’s Evacuee Day at school today so I’ve set out their clothes. Their lunches are in the fridge, wrapped in greaseproof paper.’

I arrived at the studio and learned we were doing an item on vibrators, except we weren’t allowed to say ‘vibrators’ or ‘dildos’ under any circumstances. We were permitted to say only ‘sex toys’.

Yet the expert I was interviewing kept saying the ‘d’-word and I had to repeatedly say, ‘So, sorry, can we call them ‘sex toys’?’ To which she would reply, ‘Yes, yes, of course – so this dildo is…’

Next up was an interview with a beautiful model-turned-actress who was on tour with The Vagina Monologues. We were chatting away, when she said of her role: ‘I have my own monologue… It’s called ‘Reclaiming C***’.’

I can still feel the flush of panic and the urge to laugh rise through me as the words left her mouth.

At the end of the programme, I suddenly remembered I had to present a prize to the Nurse of the Year at the Daily Mail NHS Heroes awards ceremony. So, I scooped up Winifred, jumped into the car and my driver Tony managed to get us to the venue in Kensington only 20 minutes late.

I leapt out clutching Winnie, ran all the way to the room where the ceremony was being held, and flung open the double doors to hear my name being announced.

Lynn Faulds Wood, the consumer journalist who was another guest at the event, said, ‘Give me the baby!’ I threw Winnie at her and ran up to the stage in a flurry of extravagant apologies.

And my mind went blank. I shuffled across the stage to the compere. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, ‘but I can’t remember what the prize is and who it’s going to.’

He handed me a piece of paper with the details on it – and it was at that moment I realised I hadn’t got my reading glasses. I shuffled back across the stage for a second time and asked the man to read it aloud to me. By the time the winning nurse came onto the stage, I was ludicrously over-compensating, telling her she was the most perfect person I had ever met.

In the car on the way home, I had a blissful few moments congratulating myself on getting away with it all. Then my maternal instincts kicked in and I called Super Sue to make sure everything was OK. ‘Oh, hi Fern,’ she said. ‘You do know it wasn’t Evacuee Day today, don’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘It’s tomorrow. I felt such a fool taking them to school dressed like that when everyone else was in uniform.’

Every working mother in the world has had a day like this.

It’s comforting to realise that making mistakes is an intrinsic part of being human. Some are tiny, some huge. Some of them funny, some of them mortifying. We do it from the moment we start to walk and talk.

But whatever they are and however old we are when we make them, they are learning opportunities. It’s our failures as much as our successes that shape our identities and make us who we are. They also help us to become more resilient and teach us how to succeed. Believe me, I question almost everything I have ever done.

Have I been a good enough mum? Is the new book going to sell, or will someone find out I actually can’t write? Am I really good enough to take my place in the room? (If you find yourself asking this last question, there is only one answer: of course you are, you absolute twit!)

Before all the hurdles life has thrown at me, I was carefree and unburdened – a different person. And that’s one of the reasons I’m so committed to repowering now. I know she’s still in me. She can still make me laugh. But the me I am now has decades of experience and, using that precious, hard-won knowledge, I’m happy to say I can perhaps guide her a little better.

©Fern Britton, 2024 Adapted from The Older I Get… by Fern Britton (Ebury Spotlight, £22), published on November 7. To order a copy for £19.80 (offer valid to 09/11/24; UK p&p free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.

How to be happy in bed – never fake an orgasm. Even if you’ve been pretending for years, stop now. You don’t need to be harsh. You can say: ‘That’s great, but could you also try this?’ Sex is only good if you both get something out of it.

No, I’m not losing my sanity, I’m on the telly!

I’m not psychotic – but I do work in television. When I had my daughter Grace, things weren’t great at home with my first husband, who had to cope with me being unhappy in a way he couldn’t possibly understand. He thought it was postnatal depression but I knew I was sad because our relationship was failing.

My lovely GP made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist, who asked all the usual questions about my childhood right up to the present day.

Finally, she sat back and said: ‘When you’re watching television, do you think they’re speaking to you?’ Er, no. ‘Do you hear voices?’ No. ‘And when you’re out and about, do you think people are staring at you and saying your name?’ This was at a time when I was presenting Ready Steady Cook, a show that was very popular so I was recognised everywhere I went. I said, ‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’ I saw something click in her eyes. Instantly, I realised my mistake and said: ‘No, because they do. I work in television!’ Her response was meant kindly enough: ‘You are psychotic. You need to be in hospital and on strong medication.’

The next day, the psychiatric department of our local hospital rang me to make an appointment for my admission.

I said: ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine.’ She insisted: ‘No, you’re going to have to come in.’

I said: ‘No, I’m not,’ and put the phone down. I rang my GP, who sighed deeply when I told him the story and told me he’d sort it.

I never heard from the hospital again. And no, I did not have psychosis.