Jugding by the comments that followed my birthday earlier this week, I’m really starting to get old.
There were a few jokey asides when I turned 30 and, of course, you’re always going to get some wisecracks when you reach the big 4-0.
But, after that passed, I thought I was safe for another decade - oh how I was mistaken.
For some reason unknown to me 44 (which I still class as my early 40s) has signalled an avalance of jokes.
My mum’s card set the tone by saying I should get the day off work by phoning in an saying I had an ‘old’, to which she added: ‘‘I couldn’t resist it - after all you’re 44 now!’’.
Then my father-in-law texted to say ‘Happy birthday - you’ll soon be drawing your pension!’’
(If only, the way things are going it will be at least another 25 years before I can officially retire.)
Thankfully, my presents didn’t reflect my advancing years - a new pair of Adidas Sambas should see me through another few seasons of five-a-sides while I’m reliably informed that my Fat Face jersey is a well-known brand favoured by the young and trendy as opposed to a comment on my personal appearance.