As I get older, I’m more and more reliant on my diary to let me know what day it is.
Getting old - or older - is cruel, isn’t it?
I not only have to look into the mirror to see this, but also because my memory seems to be getting worse with each passing week - or day, even.
Earlier this month I bumped into an old work acquaintance who I haven’t seen for six or seven years.
I spoke with him for a good few minutes, asked how he was doing, what he did for a living now and how his family was.
We exchanged pleasantries and then went our separate ways.
Now, three weeks later I’m still scratching my head wondering what the hell his name is.
Why is this?
I’m hoping it’s nothing more sinister than the ageing process, but boy it’s frustrating the hell out of me that I can’t remember his name.
I’ve never really worried about getting old before - until recently, that is.
Earlier this year I arrived at an educational establishment to help train the next generation of journalists - I know, you couldn’t make it up.
I arrived nice and early to prep myself for the day ahead before someone asked me why I was there. An unusual question I thought, especially as I’m a regular there and they know who I am.
It transpired I’d turned up 72 hours early!
How it had happened I don’t know, but what it told me is that the time has finally arrived where I can no longer rely on my memory to guide me through life.
Those who know me are aware that my memory is - or was - pretty good.
I could recall football matches from the 80s as though they took place yesterday. But on Saturday, as I watched the FA Cup final, I slumped in the armchair struggling to remember who played in the semi-finals and had to Google who battled it out in last year’s showpiece game at Wembley.
Sadly, I now need third-party help (like Google) to get me by and, quite frankly, it seriously scares me.
And as well as using my iPhone calendar more and more to remind me of appointments and commitments, my desk is now littered with yellow post it notes to to remember things.
The only problem with using post it notes is that I sometimes can’t read my own writing! Getting old also impacts me in other ways, be it fashion or music.
Long gone are the days when I know who is number one in the hit parade - although hearing some of the tripe the youth of today listens to, I’m not sure that is a bad thing. Of course, having Radio 2 and Absolute 80s as go-to stations in the car is yet another sign of old age creeping up on you.
And don’t get me started on fashion. I’m still hanging on in there by wearing skinny jeans and I’m massively into the latest must-have trainers, but bar that you won’t catch me wearing today’s ankle-showing trousers!
Perhaps it’s not a diary I need, but a doctor!