Herb Alpert is a sure sign of middle age

IT suddenly struck me that I have passed serenely into middle age.

There were two big clues, really – I no longer know any of the music in the charts, which I could never have foreseen happening, and the other night I watched Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass in concert on TV from the 1960s and really enjoyed it.

In fact, it may be worse – I may have reached that point which comes to us all when we turn into our parents.

I remember a Herb Alpert LP playing around the house when I was a child. I loved Spanish Flea and Tijuana Taxi, though I am still convinced they are the same song, one played slightly faster than the other. Is Herb Albert jazz? I don’t like jazz, but he can’t half blow a good tune on his trumpet.

Recently I also had a hankering to hear Andy Williams. Another throwback to my childhood. He was one of my grandfather’s favourites. Thankfully I managed to resist.

Middle age seems to just sneak up on you.

One minute you are happily in your early 30s with toddlers round your feet and a hallway full of pushchairs, toys and tiny pairs of shoes, and the next you are in your 50th year with two adults bigger than yourself as your children.

The optician says “it’s your age” when you ask why you need glasses, my hair has gone from dark brown to a speckled grey, and I have learned to conserve my energy when playing sport – no more chasing up court to retrieve drop shots.

A few years back my grandmother said I might start to “fill out” like my father had done in his 40s. Another good reason for walking hundreds of miles every year.

What I am dreading next – when does middle age end and old age begin?

Answers on a postcard . . .