IN 50 days’ time I become “invisible”. That’s if you believe French novelist Yann Moix, who has caused something of a stooshie over his comments regarding women over the age of 50.

In an interview with Marie Claire magazine’s French edition, Moix, who is himself 50, said he was “incapable” of loving a woman aged over 50, adding: “Come on now, let’s not exaggerate! That’s not possible … too, too old.

“I prefer younger women’s bodies, that’s all. End of. The body of a 25-year-old woman is extraordinary. The body of a woman of 50 is not extraordinary at all,” he said, adding that women in their 50s were “invisible” to him.

Cue social media outrage … The journalist and writer Colombe Schneck, aged 52, published a photo of her bahookie on her Instagram account. “Voila, the buttocks of a woman aged 52 … what an imbecile you are, you don’t know what you’re missing, you and your tiny, paunchy brain.”

Laura Hulley, from the political section of the British Embassy in Paris, tweeted: “Happy new year, sexists everywhere!”

Another Twitter user asked: “Can women under 50 be invisible to you as well please?”

A cloak of invisibility to counter the dinosaur attitudes of the likes of Moix would indeed be a fine thing. No-one should be defined by how they look. There’s more to life and, although this might sound like just another cliché – to use a lovely French word – never is this more true than in the midst of such shallow values.

And, as this life hurtles on, so the inevitable milestones appear on the horizon. I spent my 30th birthday working a 14-hour Saturday shift for the newly launched Sunday Herald. My 40th started at 6.30am on the production desk of the Evening Times, and by 8pm that evening I was working for The Herald. On my 50th birthday I will spend the day at college teaching journalism students. Such is life’s rich adventure as the years roll by. Trying to defy the effects of age while reaping the rewards of life experience is not a battle worth the fight. There’s too much stuff that’s far more interesting to be getting on with.

Meanwhile, a newspaper columnist writing closer to home commented on Moix’s words of wisdom thus: “I may be wrong about this but I’d guess that Moix’s comment will bring tacit agreement from those who’ve emerged from long-term relationships, ended by ennui and a partner’s increasing laziness.”

Hello, but are relationships not a two-way arrangement?

Anyway, age is but a number. My other half is 12 years older than I am.

When we met, this raised a few cynical eyebrows. Not that we cared. It would never last, they said. That was more than 30 years ago. The sagging and wrinkling that has accompanied us on our journey in the intervening years has made no difference.

A favourite Burns poem is John Anderson, My Jo. Moix and his ilk should have a read, because when the brow is beld and the locks are like the snaw, what really matters is that you clamb the hill thegither.