Something uncharacteristically introspective today. No cats. No stoned hummingbirds. No aliens or pirates or mad people throwing groundhogs around. No breathalysing raccoons. Just some musings.

It’s unlikely any of you remember my post on April 4th, 2013, since at that point in my blogging career, it was strictly true that nobody was reading me, well, hardly anybody. In the post I was waxing lyrical about how much it sucked becoming 60, for that was the date that momentous occasion occurred.

Here I am four years later. My birthday was, unsurprisingly, yesterday and now I’m 64. I’m a bit more physically infirm than I was when I hit the big six oh, but other than that things are all right. I still have what I laughingly refer to as my marbles, so that’s OK.

What’s not OK is that I’m now the same age as my mum was when she died. She was born in 1922, and died in 1987 a few months before she reached her 65th birthday. It’s not really very old, is it, 64?

Hence I got a bit  gloomy yesterday. Not much I can do, since you can’t halt the march of time. The one consolation is that we all get older at the same rate. I just started off a bit earlier than some people.

The BBC ran a series of short interviews on Tuesday morning, vox pops. The reason was the 50th anniversary of Sergeant Pepper (that made me feel my age a bit too, since I can still remember the first time I heard it), and they were talking to people about the song When I’m Sixty Four. Yeah, thanks for that guys. Rub it in why don’t you?

The only redeeming feature is that I’m not losing my hair.