I keep having the same thought. It is: ‘there! That was the moment I became middle-aged!’ I had it when some hoodies in London threw a water-filled condom at my back. It felt like a cricket ball.
And I had it when a charity person in the precinct stopped me and, when I started talking, she said, ‘You sound just like my uncle Nigel.’
I said, ‘your uncle Nigel?’
She said, ‘He’s really nice.’
On Tuesday, I faced a choice. My back was stiff. My knee was dodgy. My shoulder gave me a twinge every time I reached around behind me. So I decided to do a yoga class. The class, taught by Sallie Sullivan in the church hall in Talbot Terrace, started at 8 in the evening.
The Chelsea-Barcelona match started at 7.45. I weighed up the two things. One: stretching in a church hall. Two: drinking beer in the Elephant and Castle with a bunch of guys. I wavered. In a straight fight, who would win - beer or yoga?
I dressed for yoga - tracksuit and trainers. I looked in the mirror. I looked even more like a lager lout. On the way to yoga, I passed the pub. Barcelona 1, Chelsea 0 after three minutes. The very recipe for a cracking match - lots of yelling, fouls, dives, beers downed in a frenzy of bitterness and excitement.
I walked on, into the biting wind, towards the church hall. I thought: ‘there! That was the moment I became middle-aged!’
The yoga, by the way, was superb.
I’ll tell you about it next week.


An age-old dilemma for a middle-aged man: yoga or footie?