The seven ages of women: Time of their lives (part 2)

Last week, we asked our male writers to say which stage of life they felt was the most rewarding. Today, seven women take up the challenge

Teens: Shazia Mizra

It's best to be alive as a teenager. It's the only time depression is cool and fashionable. Being 17 with acne, greasy hair, and slashing your wrists to Morrissey was the most excitement I could have had. It was the only time I thought I knew it all, and was good at knowing it all. I never had any self doubt.

My greatest concern was wondering whether I was ever going to have big breasts, or any breasts at all. I used to wonder around just staring at the breasts of other women and sometimes men, wondering if mine were ever going to sprout, and what on earth I would do with them if that happened, and what if one was bigger than the other? This was my greatest problem.

Every day in a teenage year was eventful. It started with reading my favourite book Adrian Mole then putting on my Doc Martin boots, spandex leggings, and a Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirt. I'd have a mood swing at lunch time, and stalk a sexy boy from a neighbouring school at 3.30pm. Upon arriving home I would have an argument with my parents about why they wouldn't allow me to get my own flat at 14, and act mystified as to why my moustache removal cream wasn't working. Of course my parents were wrong about everything, and I was right.

Now, my life is not that eventful at all - and I've still got a moustache. The most excitement I get is buying flesh-coloured underwear from Primark, and shoplifting M&S men's underwear for cheap thrills.

As a teenager you have hopes and dreams, and you write these in your diary along with your sexual thoughts and cut out pictures of George and Mildred. There are things to look forward to, there is innocence and naivety. Then, one day, you grow up.

And the worst age...

Is 99. You are just waiting for a card from the Queen to say well done you've lived 100 years- now die you're a drain on the NHS. At 99 you can't party, can't have sex, and your choice of men is limited to Kirk Douglas and Dale Winton.

Twenties: Lucy Caldwell

I got the phone call asking me to write this sitting in the sun on a little railway platform in rural Germany. My best friend and I had decided, on the spur of the moment, to see the contemporary art fairs held in Kassel and Munster. And that's exactly why your mid-20s are the best age to be. You're old enough to be independent but young enough not to have dependents; old enough to be free, but young enough for that freedom to be a blessing, not a loneliness. We'd lain at the bottom of a Bruce Nauman sculpture called Depression, squinting up into a blue, blue sky and laughing at how happy we were. It was a sudden, unexpected happiness: the realisation that life was, on balance, pretty good. For the first time after tortured, self-obsessive teenage years, then angst-ridden early 20s when we were supposed to be grown-ups but felt more like little girls in our mummy's lipstick, these days we know - and, more incredibly, like - who we are. Some friends swear that 30 or 40 is wonderful, but I wouldn't wish away a moment of 26 and its new-found wonder.

And the worst age...

The lows of my 20s have more than matched the highs: the hardest age being 21. Out of university and into the big bad world, without a clue what to do, excruciatingly aware that you're meant to be having the time of your life and racked with guilt that you're not, all the while doubting that anyone else could possibly be as lost and miserable as you pretend not to be. 21 is only 5 years, but feels a lifetime ago, and I couldn't be gladder to be further from it.

Thirties: Catherine Townsend

Drunk in a bar on my 26th birthday, when someone told me that I was now officially on "the slippery slope to 30", I turned green and threw up. I blamed the vodka shots but my nausea was really down to fear of ageing.

But I'm now a few weeks from hitting the big 3-0, and I can't wait. I loved my twenties, but they were definitely full of dramatic highs and soul-crushing lows. On the one hand, I could juggle several lovers at one time with no thought of commitment, drink straight tequila at 2 am, and get up at 6am for a run with no hangover. But I was also broke, and riddled with anxiety about my career path.

As the PA to one of the Manhattan's most notorious PRs, I toiled in a sweaty, windowless room for very low pay. Every time I got something wrong, my boss would scream at me in French and throw boxes of staples at my head.

Fast forward nine years and I've realised that life doesn't have to be a race. I've published my first book, Sleeping Around, and am on the road to financial security. I love my job, and sex is better than ever.

Even with a few worry lines, I'm literally more comfortable in my own skin.

I used to subconsciously worry about whether men would still want me once I hit 30 and probably put up with a lot of crap as a result.

At 23, I thought the crazy but talented musician who stole my credit card was "eccentric" but these days I wouldn't be calling him back, I'd be calling the police.

I've now realised that the thirty-something men who dated me when I was 19 weren't with me because they saw me as mature, but because they just couldn't handle women their own age. Looking back on those times, I wouldn't date any of them now. I definitely need a man, not a boy.

And the worst age...

Being 13 sucks. It's not cool to be willowy and tall at 13, instead my classmates nicknamed me Alien Girl because of my wide-set eyes, my breasts were at least a year away and the first boy I ever kissed looked at me in the romantic afterglow and said, "Wow, you've never done this before have you?" Utterly, utterly horrific.

Forties: Julia Stuart

There is something utterly motivating about hitting 40. It follows the uniquely depressing realisation, on your birthday, that you probably have more years behind you than you do ahead. It is therefore the perfect decade to do a hand-brake turn and head off in a more tantalising direction. You spend your twenties and thirties building up a career and finally both your feet are comfortably on the property ladder. Having sailed your ship safely along coastal waters it is now time to head out for the open seas, for never has the saying "life is a great adventure or nothing at all" seemed more true.

Today is my last at The Independent after eight years. I am getting married, marking the end of my hunt for Mr Splendid, which dragged on through my twenties and early thirties. We are then decamping for a new life in Bahrain, where my fiancé (who is eight years younger than me, I might add) has a new job. I could have vetoed relocating to the Gulf, but such was my thrill at the idea of doing something new I agreed. The enormous change is admittedly slightly terrifying, but fear isn't a good enough reason not to go. I shall continue to work - I'm old enough to know that one's job can offer some of life's most rewarding experiences. And I want them more now than ever.

Since hitting 40 in May, I have come to realise that age brings with it the courage to tell people to "bugger off" when needed. And as for the early signs of ageing, I no longer mind spotting the odd grey hair, a sight that horrified me in my thirties. Not only does it now seem perfectly natural at my age, but my years have taught me it doesn't matter.

And the worst age...

While being in my eighties doesn't worry me (I'm looking forward to sporting a wide-brimmed gardening hat), the thought of reaching my nineties and being at the mercy of care assistants after having gone cuckoo makes me shudder. Nor can I bear the idea of my husband-to-be seeing me in such a state. I just hope he'll see the funny side.

Fifties: Tracey Emin

My best decade, undoubtedly, is going to be between the age of 50 and 60. People who don't know me will say: "God you only look about 42, I had no idea you were 57!" And people behind my back will say: "Do you think she's had any work done?" Meanwhile I would have adopted my third child, been on my second PhD, learnt how to ride proficiently, opened my second restaurant, had the whole library system for children in Uganda up and running, been getting up at 7am and going to bed at 2am and seriously considering my pilot's licence.

In my dreams I would love all of those things. I always want to project myself into the future and be in a better place than I am now, which is very greedy of me because here and now is much more wonderful than my past. I've probably just had one of the best years of my life, but unfortunately part of my personality, a little like Lord Byron's, is standing on the edge of a precipice enjoying the wonderful view.

If I'm really, really honest, not to quote too many fops and dandies right here and right now, but if I knew then what I know now ... youth is wasted on the young. I wish I had the internal body of a 34 year old - not mine, because when I was 34 I was completely fucked - but at the moment I don't care how I look, I don't care anything about that, I just wish I was 34 and not 44. But every day I thank God I'm not 24.

And the worst age...

The twenties are undoubtedly the worst years of almost anybody's life. They never see it at the time, but when they look back, it's staringly obvious. You don't know anything but you're old enough to be supposed to. You have too much responsibility without enough experience. My twenties made me want to puke into hell.

Sixties: Janet Street-Porter

I seem to have stopped emotionally developing somewhere between 14 and 16, and so that has happily meant that I live completely in the present. I haven't had pets or children, and so I can concentrate on what I like doing, and sod the rest of you. I don't think of myself as a particular age either - if you met me and didn't know that, you'd probably find it quite hard to guess. And, as I talk a lot, the flabby bits on the face aren't in repose for very long.

I can't stand the current obsession with youth. Instead of droning on about how we "value" the young, it might be better to start valuing intelligence, creativity, and chutzpah. As far as I'm concerned I might have the best sex of my life next week, and I certainly plan to work as hard as I like for as long as I like. Lack of curiosity is what ages people, the acceptance of routine.

As a teenager I had horrible hair, big teeth, thick glasses, and legs like sticks. I felt repulsive, but looking back at pictures, I can see that I must have been a bit of a sex bomb! Luckily I didn't realise it. I've gone for monogamy, changing men and houses when I got bored. And my career has never really faltered, although I've been sacked and fallen out with people. I wake up and tell myself I'm great - what's wrong in that?

And the worst age...

Living at home from 11 to 18... when my parents used to say: "You're not going out looking like that!" I used to ignore them for weeks on end, convinced they'd picked up the wrong baby in the maternity ward.

Seventies: Fay Weldon

I like my seventies - not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. A woman in her seventies has had time to get used to not being whistled at in the street: she can admire beautiful young women without pangs of envy. The outside world seems less personal, so more fun. She feels more mind than body, more brain than bosom. She has stopped regretting her youth. She no longer thinks "if only", just marvels at what is. Knowing she has to choose between her face and her figure, she abandons diets and butters the toast.

The natural world is full of beauty: she becomes more aware of it, and of herself as part of the seasons. She has been there, done that, seen it all before: she knows what is going to happen next, is seldom taken by surprise. She is less solipsistic than she was. She is asked for advice and the advice is taken. Occasionally.

Me, I've just got a proper job after four decades of self-employment; I have a monthly academic's salary and my own line-manager. The seventies are just fine. That said, little things niggle - when I described myself to someone as a little old lady worrying about her pension, she believed me.

And the worst age...

Probably 55 to 60. It's all upheaval. When sheer boredom drives women to divorce. When, the children have grown up and gone, but the anxiety stays. Then you settle into it and it's okay again.

"The Spa Decameron" by Fay Weldon (£14.99) is published by Quercus on 3 September. To order a copy for the special price of £13.50 call Independent Books Direct on 08700 798 897, or visit www.independent books direct.co.uk