Middle-aged miracles

OK, listen up younglings, the batteries on this thing won't last forever, and this feeling of mortality is enveloping me more as time passes. I'm forty-nine years old, and this is concept is important as things start falling off and you realise you are no longer bulletproof: At my age there are things that happen to you that are so unlikely that they should be accorded miracle status.

First amongst these is the one than anybody over the age of forty understands, unless you're some kind of godamned Superman:

Getting out of bed without something hurting: Any given morning, something aches. It could be on the inside, the result of that single jalapeno you accidentally scoffed over dinner three days ago, or that old war wound you picked up in Waitrose. When you're about to turn fifty, even farting can be dangerous - the resulting muscle strain could have you walking with a limp for weeks. When you get out of bed pain-free, celebrate that rarest of days. Just don't celebrate too hard.

Clothes shopping: This week, a miracle occurred. I went clothes shopping in Marks and Spencer (SHUT UP) and found no less than three pairs of trousers that fit me first time. At my age/size/shape (old/short/round). This, to me, was equal to the stunt that Jesus pulled off when faced with five thousand empty mouths.

It's a feeling that the Archbishop of Twitter, the Reverend Richard Coles (aged 50-something) knows only too well.

A miracle, indeed, with room around the groin area to spare to enable me to lunge like a man half my age, were it ever neccesary for me to lunge. The ability to lunge in a pair of new trousers is very important in our household.

Despite being 52-years-old, Spider-Man is renowned for his lunging abilities

People saying 'You're NEVER that old' when they learn you are born in the 1960s: Just leaving that one here, because I'm a smug bastard.

As a matter of fact, I went to a physiotherapy session on my foot last week, and the lady (dressed in the physio's uniform of polo shirt and utility trousers with many, many pockets) made me run up and down steps, hop around in circles and jump over things despite the fact that I am old and have a beard with grey bits in it. I'm still not certain if this cavorting was absolutely clinically necessary, or just because she was older than me and gets her petty revenge on life and the inevitability of dancing with the Grim Reaper by making middle-aged blokes run around and jump over things. To be perfectly honest, she seemed to enjoy it rather more than possible for somebody with qualifications in beating people up, and I'm thinking of changing physios as a result. Then I went outside and was sick inna hedge.

The next day was not a Getting Out Of Bed Without Something Hurting miracle day.