Being closer to the finish line than the start, I’m regularly pricked and poked, and not in a good way – blood tests for diabetes and high cholesterol, liver and kidney function, and checks on my far-from-showroom-new prostate. And let’s not go there about stabbing a turd for bowel cancer, a procedure that leaves no one’s dignity intact.

And I’ve now reached a new milestone. I’ve just turned 65. So, it’s official. I’m an old fart who’s ‘past it’ but can’t remember what it was. In years gone by, this would have meant that I’d get my state pension, but no more. I’ve got another 18 months to wait for that pauper’s ransom.

On the plus side, some youngsters now call me ‘sir’ and I get to sit in the special seats on public transport. Whoopy do. My delight knows no bounds.

And I get an extra layer of healthcare aimed at the grey herd – jabs for flu, shingles and pneumococcal (whatever that is) and screening for abdominal aortic aneurysm (any idea? Me neither).

These checks, supplemented by a daily diet of pills and potions, are meant to keep me alive and kicking beyond my biblical three score years and ten. No wonder us old bones are a drain. It wouldn’t surprise me if those same youngsters who offer me a seat on the bus would rather throw me under it.

But despite the aches and the pains, the turkey neck, the well-ploughed wrinkles, the expanding bald patch and waistline, the greying short and curlies, the slowly fading faculties, the struggle to tie a shoe lace and the all-too-tedious 4am sleepy stagger to the loo, I’m embracing my dribbling years. Because living here and now, I know how lucky I am.