You’re as old as you feel they say.
Well, that’ll make me generally 26-ish on a good day then – obviously 126 when I’ve had too many vinos and not enough sleep.
But in my head, I really am the same age as the Made in Chelsea cast.
I was always rather surprised my ‘teenage pregnancies’ didn’t cause more funny looks. I expected sheer astonishment when people saw me waddling around pregnant the first time round. I mean clearly, I was 16 at the time.
I still reckon I’m just a little bit older than our sixth form babysitters. Mr S.H.I.T. usually has to give me the funny stare when I start commenting on their millennial dress sense, ‘where’s your top from cause, it’s like, totally sick.’
But the reality is I can’t ride that wave of eternal youth anymore. Some things have started happening which have made me face the brutal truth.
I am middle aged.
The old blokes on telly are no longer the old blokes on telly
Jim Robinson is no longer that old bloke on Ramsay Street whose son we all fancied (obviously not Paul).
I mean Jimbo wouldn’t have got a look in 20 years ago. He was just that old dad bloke.
But when he pops up these days, being all powerful and commanding in big American TV shows such as The O.C. and Entourage, well…hello!
I’d have to draw the line at Lou Carpenter or Alf from Home and Away, however. But I’d probably say yes to a crystal tumbler of expensive brandy with silver fox Blake Carrington.
Or jump into the A team van with Hannibal, instead of Faceman.
Gardening is no longer boring
A few years ago, nothing would seem more tedious to me than the acts of tending to grass edges or pruning your roses. I used to wonder how on earth (scuse the pun) my parents could spend hours in their ‘gardening clothes’ on a Sunday afternoon, weeding and planting.
Surely the only thing to be doing at that time each week, when you were supposed to be revising, was watching Selina Scott on The Clothes Show?
But now, I find myself feeling muchos satisfaction when I spend the odd hour or two on my knees (unfortunately for Mr S I can assure you I’m talking about weeding and planting here).
That’s just noise
When forced to endure the repetition of Capital Radio, I actually have to stop myself saying those awful three words ‘that’s just noise’
It’s a hideous realisation that I am getting old. I remember listening to Radio 1 and my mum saying the same three dreaded words (to the likes of Rock Me Amadeus, she may have had a point, but not to my precious Stone Roses).
She could go on as much as she liked about The Beatles having real talent, but in my eyes, she just didn’t get it.
I’m fast becoming one of those old people who can’t even turn on the electric toothbrush.
When something catastrophically awful happens in my kids’ lives, such as not being able to get the PlayStation to work, I find myself looking blankly at the 25 different remote controls on the table and muttering, ‘your father will fix it.’
I then inevitably go off on one of my ‘when I was your age I used to be out all day on my bike’ rants.
Weird things happen. It’s now the BBC News over Hollyoaks, Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway with the little S.H.I.T.s over the boozer, and who knew a new household appliance could bring me such joy?
Do our tastes change completely or just become more attuned with what’s deemed age appropriate?
Do we actually find Gary Barlow more appealing now, or do we subconsciously know it would just be a bit wrong to be hanging out with The Biebs?
Whatever it is, I’m accepting my new middle aged tastes with grace and, to be honest, I’m OK with it.
Time to accept Philip Schofield is hot and get some proper gardening slacks.