An aspect of ageing that raised an eyebrow

TALK about youth being wasted on the young. It seems ridiculous at this remove in time, of course, but I remember being distinctly downcast at the prospect of turning 25.

I should point out that I had absolutely nothing to complain about in the greater scheme of things. As well as being surrounded by great family and friends, I was even beginning to make some modest progress on the work front.

But I suppose in retrospect that I was just frustrated and impatient at how slow things seemed to be moving. After all, I had fully expected by my mid-twenties to have at least appeared on Top Of The Pops or made a gracious acceptance speech on Oscars night as I collected the award for Best Original Screenplay.

Almost a quarter of a century on, some things remain the same. You may have noticed that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences still hasn’t honoured my contribution to the film industry (although, to be fair to them, I never did get around to starting that screenplay).

And given that Top of the Pops was taken off the air in 2006, I’m not going to be appearing on that either.

Other things have changed, though. What troubles me nowadays is how quickly everything is moving. If 50 isn’t quite looming large on the horizon yet, I can certainly get a good view of it on a clear day.

From what I have seen so far, the ageing process doesn’t seem to have much to recommend it. You know the way they say you’re getting old when the policemen start looking younger? Well, I’m now at the stage where some Garda recruits appear so youthful that I’ve nearly been tempted to inquire whether their mothers know that they are out on their own. It can only be a matter of time before I start ringing social services to try having them taken into care.

Nor does it stop there. Take eyesight, for example. If it is possible to have better than 20/20 vision then I had it up until relatively recently. Not only could I make out the number on the front of a bus at 100 paces, I could practically navigate my way in pitch darkness.

But the reading glasses I wasn’t entirely sure I needed a couple of years ago have now become an absolutely vital accessory. Put it this way, a state of domestic emergency is declared every time I manage to lose them down the side of the couch.

Meanwhile, there is the not-inconsequential matter of stairs. Given that it is quite some time since I was in peak condition on the fitness front, I am well used to being slightly out of breath after ascending a couple of flights at brisk pace. But my creaking joints mean I now have to make the downward journey in the manner of someone actually attempting to walk on eggshells.

Still, given that a full three decades have passed since I last had to show ID to a barman, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at any of this. Even if I am old, overweight and decrepit, there is some solace to be taken in still having all my own hair. Be grateful for small mercies and all of that.

Speaking of which, I went for a haircut the other day and made my usual jokey request for all the grey bits to be snipped off. Only at the very end did the girl lean forward and discreetly ask whether I’d like my eyebrows trimmed as well.

It is difficult to describe the tone of voice she said this in, but try to imagine someone gently informing their boss that he was suffering from chronic halitosis. Credit where it is due, she was dead right.

True to form, my middle-aged brows have started growing at an exponential rate. Even more disturbing is the way they are sprouting in all directions and the hair seems to be getting coarser. Believe me, I’m at risk of verging into Groucho Marx territory here.

Still, at least I can take some consolation from the fact that I don’t have tufts emerging out of my ears just yet. That’ll be next week, probably.