It’s said that there are a number of mileposts you pass in your life which let you know you’re knocking on.

For example, when you’re young everyone identifies with the girl in The Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home”.  As you get older your empathy switches to her parents – “Daddy, our baby’s gone!”

I have also noticed that when an airline pilot steps out of his cabin he looks like he belongs on the grammar school bus.  Likewise, your GP no longer resembles Doctor Finlay but looks like she has come straight from an all-night disco.

And most recently it occurred to me that my fantasy affairs have shifted.  Whereas my uphill mutton once twitched over tall, long-legged blondes whose dad owned a pub, now I seem to prefer the dumpy lady who makes the scones at the local garden centre.

Will I one day upgrade this fantasy to the receptionist at the Co-op Funeral Parlour?