Come Lift Me Up Where I Belong

I can state categorically that I will never have a facelift. Lack of finance aside, I know that I will never want one, as I know I will never want to join the National Front or to buy a Rolls Royce. Tastes differ; what suits me will probably come across an an appalling lack of maintenance to others. I'm not about to sneer at women diligently saving up for their next bit of cosmetic surgery. I am somewhat worried, however, by the increasingly high standards of youthful appearance deemed desirable for women (and men, too, probably). How far am I prepared to go to preserve, or even 'improve' my ageing skin? Well, currently it's as far as a shelf in the nearest branch of John Lewis (middle-class vanity at work here) where I buy a mid-price pot of face cream that makes a relatively modest claim: it says it will 'replace lost moisture and help protect your skin'. I don't actually believe this cream does anything more radical than to ease that post-wash tight-as-a-drum feeling, but I'm fallible enough, and vain enough, to hedge my bets.