Opinion: Television presenter Helen McDermott has a guilty secret... she’s getting older

The word “pensioner” is one of those useful bits of reporting shorthand that you see every day. For years it’s painted a picture for me of some frail, vulnerable old biddy knocked over by a bus; or it’s a sturdy veteran who in spite of the advancing years has done something amazing for charity, like jumping from an aeroplane or climbing Ben Nevis.

I never thought that one day it might apply to me. If I were to be caught up in some newsworthy event it wouldn’t surprise me to see myself labelled as a pensioner. Except that I’m not one, even though I’m old enough to be one, or I would be if the goalposts hadn’t been shifted. Thanks to changes in the pension rules I’m one of several thousand women, born in the Fifties, who won’t get our state pensions until much later than planned. I’m 63 now, and I’ve got to wait another three years before I can legitimately be called a pensioner.

What I am in the meantime is part of a group called WASPI, Women Against State Pension Inequality, set up to challenge the unfairness of those changes to pension entitlement. Of course, we understand perfectly that there had to be some alterations to the rules in order to fund an ageing population, but we could do with a bit of help to offset the loss of a pension for many more years than we expected. We women all anticipated getting the state pension at the age of 60; now we’ve got to make it to 66, and we have to keep up the contributions. But the fact is that many companies don’t want older women on the payroll, overlooking the fact that older people can bring experience and loyalty to the party.

As a freelance, when Anglia TV ditched me after 27 years I had no company pension to walk away with. But I’m one of the lucky WASPIs. I’m able to carry on working, happy to do so. Among other things I’ve been running my own theatre company, and doing a spot of writing. Mustard TV saw some value in the old bird and generously took me on.

Sadly, that generosity isn’t echoed in certain elements of the audience. Lately a nasty little letter turned up, anonymously written of course, complaining about pretty well everyone on screen. I got the most stick. If this courageous critic had complained about my performance and delivery it would have been unpleasant enough, even though it might have been objective. But his beef was about my age and my appearance. His wife, a doctor no less, agreed with him. “Why,” they wondered, “did Mustard have an old woman presenting who was not blessed in the looks department when there are lovely young weather girls who should be given the job?” There was more, but you get the gist.

Of course, it’s entirely my fault, growing older. If he cares to creep out from behind his cloak of anonymity we might have a chat about it. He could bring the doctor wife too. I could wear a bag over my head, and so can they.