There are times in your life when you realise you’re no longer as young as you once were.
But recently, I’ve noticed them becoming an ever more frequent part of mine.
As if turning 30 wasn’t bad enough (thankfully it’s far enough in the past now to be almost completely forgotten), I’ve noticed recently my hairline has begun heading for the hills.
Of course, when The Munchkin asks, I tell her the bald patch which is gradually developing at the back of my head is just a natural parting in my hair but I’ll have to come clean soon. After all, there’s only so much I can disguise with a combination of intentional bed-head and a range of nifty hats.
Back in the past I made a pledge that when my hair started to go I’d put it out of it’s misery.
Now it’s really happening, I’m not so sure I’m ready for the Kojak look – besides it doesn’t really go with a beard.
Not that the facial hair is entirely safe – not, at least, since I noticed more than a few grey whiskers creeping in around my chin.
I’m not, like some of my friends, afraid of growing up.
I’ve long since waved goodbye to late nights down the pub and the last time I went to a nightclub the year probably began with a 1.
But, receding locks aside, the decision to buy a ‘proper’ family car has really upped the ‘proper adult’ ante.
In my 20s I always dreamed of having a decent pot of cash to invest in a new motor.
I was thinking about something smart and sporty, maybe a little retro and definitely more towards the two seat end of the market than the seven.
It doesn’t help that most of my peers, all yet to enter the world of parenthood, drive smart German models – the kind which make Jeremy Clarkson and his ilk begin to dribble.
Me, well, I’ve just had to invest in something a little less flash but a whole lot more practical – although I’ve made it clear to My Good Wife that although there are seven seats she is under no obligation to fill them.
Ownership of a child transport wagon, as opposed to a hairdresser sports coupe, had really brought home how life has changed.
Those Peter Pan years are well behind me but, you know, I don’t mind.
There are still plenty of little pleasures and when I do manage to sneak in a cheeky pint or two it’s even more of a pleasure.
I’ll happily take growing up – just so long as a can keep my hair for a little while more.