Actually there are some things about getting older I quite like.
It’s probably part of Mother Nature’s masterplan – sort of compensation for the slight astonishment every time I see myself in the mirror. You’d think that eventually you’d get used to the fact that the person peering back seems to be slightly over-weight and a bit middle-aged, wouldn’t you?
The most recent compensation came in the form of the realisation that I don’t have to do flatpack furniture any more.
Not that I have anything against Ikea, their furniture might be named after porn stars, but it is quite nice and doesn’t cost very much.
I just don’t want to have to build it. When I was little I don’t remember ever sighing wistfully and dreaming of the day I could get my hands on power tools and own one of those belt things you put your screwdrivers into.
In the same way that being perfectly capable of mixing fully-functioning gin-based cocktails doesn’t stop me wanting someone else to do it for me… even if it comes with a price tag.
I don’t want to build any more furniture – I don’t like it. It makes me hot and sweary and gives me little sore blisters on my hands.
And I can’t do it as well as someone who builds furniture every single day and gets paid for it.
So that’s it, no more Scandinavian MDF and allen keys with cruel sharp ends for me.
Oh and the other thing that has happened as I’ve got older is that I’ve lost the urge to steal the diddy bottles of stuff from hotel bathrooms.
I’m waiting to work out if that’s good or bad.