I am not entirely sure when your dotage officially begins. I suppose it is a gradual process. You start finding tell-tail signs around the house. Opening your fridge door to 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, on both occasions, I was shopping at Waitrose, the bastion of groceries for the middle classes, according to Michael McIntyre, so they were there when I got back.
There is nothing good about getting older. Like memory loss. I know all the answers to the Times 2 crossword this morning, but I just can’t remember them.
Weight gain, I used to have a waist but it barely exists now and the wintry looking brittle strands of my hair that used to be blonde is the final insult.
Some mornings I look in the mirror and find another blemish has appeared on my face over night. Another age spot. These Marmite-coloured manifestations come in a various shapes and sizes.
I have also had a few eruptions of a crispy consistency on my face. I scratched the last one off. It hasn’t come back, yet. As a teenager I never suffered from blackheads or pus-filled pimples so I suppose I am paying the price now. Other mornings I wake up and my joints seem to be swathed in invisible straight jackets.
I have no control over thse things, they just happen, but at least I am still in control of my bladder, except when I laugh hysterically.