You know you’re getting old when people starting telling you you’re “not that old.”

With extra emphasis on the “that,” which is the verbal equivalent of it being underlined, in bold italics, font-size falling off the page.

A few days ago I was in the playground at the primary school where I work when a boy shrieked with horror. A scream so chilling he could quite realistically have spied the ghost of Jimmy Savile lingering outside the Year 1 toilets. Compelled to ask what troubled him, the response was terribly disconcerting on my part.

“Your elbows! They’re so wrinkly and they have baggy lumps,” he squawked.

It’s official.

I have old elbows.

Guessing my age, most children in the school go for early 20’s, and children are born with an inbuilt incapacity to be in any way economical with the truth with regards to the personal appearance of their elders.

In short they don’t lie.

A misspent youth indulging in life’s elixirs, namely alcohol of all forms, cut-price mouthwash and methylated spirits included and a penchant for socially chugging on Marlboro Lights, has blessed me with a dewy(ish) complexion. 

My gradually graying roots are easy to disguise and, eternally damned with the body of a 14 year old boy, it would defy the laws of science for my non-existent breasts to sag.

I would never have predicted the first give-away sign of my demise into the world of bed-baths and zimmer-frames would be my elbows. Elbows which reveal a truth so horrific they can cause a young boy to howl.

Having no desire to demand people guess my years to satiate an ageing ego, I find it odd that many total strangers will pose this question as an ice-breaker.

During an interview earlier this month, a member of the competition asked “how old do you think I am?”

When someone invites me to play age-roulette I immediately assume they aim to shock, that they will be older than me and looking for consolation that they don’t look a day over 25.

Upping the stakes I offered “33?”

“I’m 25,” she replied, which was awkward.

Hindsight tells me I should probably have dropped the “I’m not very good with ages” line and refused to answer. In fact no, if you don’t want to be offended then don’t fucking ask.

Granted in 10 years’ time I’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about. Forty-two, undoubtedly still single, the first batch of stray cats running riot over my urine infused bedsit, I’ll scream from the rafters to all 30-somethings “enjoy it while it lasts!”

So I’m taking heed of the wise words of my futuristic self. Contrary to popular belief among the 18-25 bracket, 32 isn’t THAT old and I’m having a fucking ball!