There are a number of tell-tall signs that I’m getting older.
Firstly there’s the new arrival of at least a dozen silver flecks in my hair every morning.
It’s like they meet up every evening and discuss in what direction they are going to go forth and multiply overnight.
Then there’s the fact that when we treat ourselves to a chippy tea, we’ve gone from ordering ‘cod and chips twice’ to ordering ‘cod and chips once’, sharing it, and still having some left over.
Finally there’s my joints. Now I know I went and ran a marathon and all that jazz, so my knees are never going to be as regular as those of someone who hasn’t done anything quite as foolish, but the creaking I thought would hold off until my 50s seems to be stopping by once in a while to remind me that time is passing.
To add insult to injury, at a recent ‘beach rugby’ game at work I was put straight in the ‘experience’ side rather than the ‘youth’ one. It almost made me cry into my Horlicks.
Anyway, back to my knees.
I don’t know if I take on challenges because I like putting myself through pain and suffering, or whether I do it to prove that I can still hack the pace.
Not that I could hack the pace when I was younger, you understand. I couldn’t run to the end of the street.
Now I’ve agreed to do something called the Wolf Run. It involves climbing over natural obstacles, getting wet and muddy and generally finding myself in more discomfort that I ever thought possible.
Oh, and it’s in November.
After the marathon I said I wouldn’t agree to anything like this again, yet as soon as someone suggested it I leapt at the chance.
I say leapt. I was in a chair and just nodded graciously. Whether I’m still as composed at the end of the event remains to be seen…