TODAY I’ll be mainly sitting in a darkened room weeping nostalgically for the ‘good old days’.

It turns out that I am old - and not ‘cool old’ like Mick Jagger or George Clooney, but ‘bad old’, where I own Reeboks and get the names of pop bands wrong (One Dimension, anyone?)

What sparked this depressing epiphany was an inoccuous conversation in the office about music.

“1995 was a sad year, wasn’t it?” I remarked to a couple of my colleagues.
I got blank faces all round.

“It was when Robbie Williams left Take That!” I explained. “You must remember...?”

“Well actually, ” said one. “I don’t remember it.”

She paused.

“Because I was only three at the time.”

Oh dear God, I thought, she’s still at primary school and she’s conned the Gazette into giving her a job.

“Except,” said a loud voice in my head, “she’s not at primary school is she? She can legally drive, get married and drink!”

I tried to shush the Harsh Voice of Truth, but it continued without my permission.

“She was born in the nineties...and she can legally drink...IN AMERICA!”

It’s come as something of a shock that I’m no longer the ‘yoof’ I thought I was even though, now I think about, the signs were all there.

Exhibit A: my shoes, these days, are mainly comfy.

Exhibit B: I don’t like clubbing anymore. (And why did I ever enjoy being cooped up in a loud, hot room with hundreds of strangers?)

Exhibit C: my niece thinks I’m old - and has told me several times.

Exhibit D: I have a lot of grey hair and I talk like my grandma.

So I’m going to spend the rest of the day in a darkened room, holding a candlelit vigil for naturally brown hair, unwrinkled skin and the ability to wear stilettoes without getting blisters.

I may even put on a bit of Take That - although there’ll be none of that post-Robbie rubbish, obviously.