Dominic Utton may be old but he is still groovy

I’m going to a party this weekend. And another the weekend after. I went to a party last week, too. I know, right? It’s non-stop partying round my way.

Twenty-four hour party people! Apart from the fact that both the last party (for the General Election) and the one next weekend (for Eurovision) mostly centred on take-away curry and shouting at the TV.

To be fair, this weekend’s party is different.

I’m actually DJing. Which does sound more cutting-edge and rock ‘n’ roll… except it’s for a friend’s 40th and I’m under strict instructions not to play anything recorded after 1998. Which is fine, because my record collection limps to a halt around then anyway.

It’s all evidence of a new and interesting trend: namely, that I would appear to be growing old.

I’ve been putting up shelves in the kitchen. I made a wooden planter for the tomato seeds in the garden. Weekends will see me digging in the allotment, evenings find me on the sofa with a glass of Aldi red and a good book. I no longer understand reality TV and I don’t recognise most modern celebrities. I recently had a civilised discussion about the proposed changes to the copyright laws by the Green Party.

I’ve developed the knack of being able to fall fast asleep within minutes, regardless of location or time of day. Give me a seat and 300 seconds and a bit of peace and I’m out for the count.

Is this a special ability to be proud of? I suspect not. Not so much “Hawkeye” as “Shuteye”. If I was an X-Men character, they’d call me “Somnambulo”.

Even the things I do to attempt to preserve my youth, to kid myself I’ve still got it, have a whiff of middle-age melancholia about them.

For example, as well as the 40th birthday dad-dancing shenanigans, this weekend also sees the last match of the season for West Oxford Dads FC, the football team of quadragenarians and quinquagenarians we formed last autumn and that boasts a proud (and extraordinary) record of six wins out of our last eight matches.

The fixture had to be put back a week, owing to the sheer number of injuries we sustained in our last match.

It has since been decided that, at our age, playing any more than once a month is simply too great a strain on the joints. (Another reason for postponing was that one of our central defenders had to go to IKEA on matchday.) Am I disturbed by all this? Does my ageing worry me? Should I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled?

Perhaps the most disturbing thing of all is that I’m not worried at all, really.

Sure it would be nice to attempt a slide-tackle on the football pitch without a subsequent trip to A&E, and of course it would be lovely to be able to stay up past midnight without nodding off on the sofa, and okay, I do appreciate that there may have been the odd good song written since the turn of the millennium… but, really, other than that, growing old is not so bad.

At least I don’t have to wear skinny jeans. At least I don’t have to spend a fortune on haircuts (or hair products, come to that). At least I never need to be near George Street at kicking out time. At least I get to use words like “quinquagenarians”.

I see that they’re advertising for new members to join the bowls club outside West Oxford Community Centre. Let’s be honest: it’s only a matter of time.