I am not sure when your dotage officially begins. I suppose it is a gradual decline. You start finding telltale signs around the house.
Your confused, well-fed cat, suffering from a mild case of hypothermia after having been shut in the fridge. Or when you start leaving the keys to your worldly goods in the car door when you go shopping.
Fortunately for me, on both occasions, I was shopping at Waitrose, the bastion of groceries for the middle classes, according to Michael McIntyre. So both my car and my keys were there when I got back.
There is nothing good about getting older. Memory loss, for example. I knew all the answers to the Times 2 crossword this morning, but I just couldn’t remember them.
And there’s the weight gain. I used to have a waist and, from what I can remember, it was somewhere below my ribcage. I blame the steroids myself.
I hate looking in the mirror these days. New manifestations appear on a daily basis. Crevices, baggy skin, withering lips. Blemishes, Marmite-coloured manifestations that come in various shapes and sizes. Blots on what used to be the landscape of your youth.
I have no control over these things, they just happen, but on the bright side, I am still in control of my bladder, except when I laugh.