It happens to us all.

I'm gettting old.

Yes I am.

No, seriously I am. I thank you in advance for all the protestations that will undoubtedly overwhelm the comments box but it is to no avail. My mind is made.

For all those young 'uns wondering which age it is that birthdays stop being all about receiving then I can now disclose the secret that all us old 'uns know.

For all those wanting to keep it a surprise; 'please look away now' - in true Saturday night, pre-Match of the Day news style.

"Good heavens. Is that a microwave in the wall
behind me? My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Last month was my 32nd birthday. I know this because the strapline at the top of this page says I'm that old. So I must be. It's the only way I have of remembering it. It wouldn't be up there if I could remember it any other way. But sadder still was the fact that my birthday seems to have passed all my family and friends by. The birthday cards and presents stack, that has been so full of delights in previous years - maybe because I'm such a lovable, likeable fellow - was barren. Almost empty.

Maybe this was because I was away on holiday at the time. I'm unsure. I may accept this as a reason.

Even my present from CJ was a scuba driving trip for her, that I paid for on my credit card.

Oh I'm so old.

And just to rub salt in the wounds three Polish nurses have rented the house next door to CJ. The care home down the road is taking advantage of the recently expanded EU labour market mixed with the girl's desire to live in England, by paying them a pittance for the priviledge.

Years ago I would have tried to take advantage of them too.

Now I just tell them to turn their music down.

I want to be left alone for a while.