I am not sure when your dotage officially begins. I suppose it is a gradual process. You start finding tell-tail signs around the house.
When you open your fridge door and find your confused but well-fed cat suffering from a mild case of hyperthermia or when you start leaving your bunch of keys in the car door when you go shopping.
Fortunately for me, on both occasions, I was shopping at Waitrose, the bastion of groceries for the middle classes, according to Michael McIntyre, so both my car and my keys were there when I got back.
There is nothing good about getting older. Like memory loss. I knew all the answers to the Times 2 crossword this morning, but I just couldn’t remember them.
And there’s the weight gain. I used to have a waist and from what I can remember, it was somewhere below my ribcage. I blame the steroids myself.
My sleek, honey blonde hair, that used to shine in the sunlight
has now taken on a wintery hue, it’s brittle strands often break off when I brush it.
I hate looking in the mirror these days, blemishes appear on my face overnight, Marmite-coloured manifestations that come in various shapes and sizes.
I have no control over these things, they just happen, but at least I am still in control of my bladder, except when I laugh.