Add them together, and it’s seven. In binary, it rhymes quite nicely: double one, double one, zero one. And in Roman numerals, it looks quite regal. Imperial, almost. LXI, short for luxury, I say. So why, when it stares at me from the page, does it look so scary?

Happy 61st birthday. Come on, it’s only a number, but you try saying that when it shouts out from the ranks of kitschy cards. Not the two you got, thank God. Yours were tasteful. Well, as elegant as any card adorned with cuddly painted puffins or cute yawning Labradors ever could be.

At least they didn’t have a big fucking number on the front like the ones you saw in Sainsbury’s. Sixty fucking one. Covering it in glitter is no way to camouflage the facts. Printing the number bigger won’t make it any fucking smaller. I didn’t look at the messages inside. I didn’t need too. For all I know, they might well have said, “Well done, mate, you made it this far, but don’t worry, it’s all downhill from here.”

Thankfully, my cards just contained nice pleasant platitudes. Money would have been nice. I’m only joking. No, I am. Really. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed with gifts this year. Pants. Nice ones. Posh. And show me a man who doesn’t appreciate such a gift, and I’ll show you one who never had to scrabble around under the bed in the hope of finding a forgotten set of crisp clean shreddies. Or at the very least a cleanish day old pair. It’s the hope that kills.

A man, who after running out of time and fearing he would miss the bus, his cup of tea and his peanut butter puffs cereal has capitulated, accepted ignominious defeat, and, under the victor’s unconditional conditions, donned an emergency pair, and walked awkwardly to the office.

All men have emergency underpants, don’t they? Well I hope they do.

I do. In my case, they are well-seasoned and, indeed, far more ancient than any of my coworkers. It’s a not-very-funny joke I make when introduced to any youthful colleagues that I say I’ve got shoes older than them. It’s true, but again, I fear telling them the true nature of the gag lest I shock any Gen Z sensibilities.

Older than me, they are. Genuine 1950s British Army olive green Airtex shorts. I bought a job lot when I went off to Afghanistan to keep my equipment cool. These war veterans are now showing their age. As is the rest of my kit. Downgraded from operational status, on standby, they await emergency deployment.

Wait until you reach my age to truly appreciate the gift of posh underpants. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Smug is the man wearing birthday underpants. I was also given another gift I love. Booze. Lots of it. A nice bottle of single malt whisky, unexpected and truly appreciated. I had to hide my tears.

Next up was a decent bottle of Crémant, something that I adore and something that good old wine bullshitters like me can’t help but remind you of. A good, reasonably priced Crémant beats an expensive, poor Champagne every day. My mother-in-law gave me a nice red Côtes du Rhône, which I shall agonise over when to drink, just like the blisteringly expensive German white Leica gave me for Christmas.

I’m drinking as I type this. Nothing as sensational as any of that, but I do like Aldi’s tinned Mojito. I’d say it was the kind of thing Rupert Rigsby would have described as a cheeky little number, but as that would give away my age, perhaps not. However, as I’ve already let that cat out of the bag, who cares? I’m sixty one don’t you know. It’s only a fucking number.

I wish I could be so blasé about age and ageing. Perhaps I need another Mojito. Hang on while I pop to the fridge. Psst. Hiss. Fizz. That’s better. Where was I? Time for a Scotch? Yeah, go on then.

Ah, ageing. I don’t feel old. Well, that’s a bit of a lie, and something you won’t really understand until you reach your sixties. Christ, seeing it there in black and white makes me feel old. An old fart. But young at heart.

Not old like when I was young, old. Back then, when you were in your sixties, the overwhelming social pressures of the day and the stifling norms of the ’60s meant that even the young were expected to act their age. Well, not their age, but the one that their elders and “betters” imposed on them, ageing them before their time. The weight of conformity. Fuck that.

A world of darkened parlours, forbidden front rooms, forbidden fruits, paper doilies, gloomy Sundays, Sunday best, best bitter, respect for your elders, respect for authority, know your place. It would have killed me. I am and always will be a manchild. I have no respect for authority. And I accept that respect is earned. It is not a right, nor is it conferred by social norms, the church, accidents of birth or royal decree.

I’m old enough to know better and old enough to call that nonsense out for what it is. I hope I’ve earned enough respect by now to say so.

I feel old, yet I don’t feel old. I am old, and I want to get older. Yet I can’t kid myself over the sands of time. Whatever I may think, however hard I try, I can’t ignore the truth. There is much more sand at the bottom of the timer than at the top.

I don’t want to die. I’m terrified of death. I want to live. Age may have fringe benefits, such as a love of cheese, capers, anchovies and a decent bottle of plonk, but it also brings regrets.

I regret giving up so much of my time to my career. Look where that got me. I regret that alcoholism led to me pissing a fortune against the wall. I regret that I regret things. I’m too old and was too drunk to remember. I regret that I can’t even recall all I regret.

But I wouldn’t change a thing. Why would I? Why would I risk messing with fate? The good and the bad. The wins and losses in life’s lottery. Why would I risk missing out on my lucky numbers? The things I’ve seen and done. My amazing dogs and my more amazing partner. So I take it on the chin, take the wins, regret the losses and celebrate them all.

As they say, in every life, a little rain must fall. So let’s go dancing naked in the downpour. It’s my birthday, and I’ll cry if I want to. Bollocks to that. It’s my birthday, and I’ll cry out, shout, and scream. Just keep them coming.