“And the weeks fly by and the years roll on.”
I was listening to Brandon Flowers’ The Clock Was Tickin’ on my day off this week. It struck a chord.
The first sign of just how many complete trips around the sun I’ve made came at my daughter’s recent sports day.
She looked in desperate need of cheekpieces when a staying-on sixth in the running race but moved significantly faster when the PE teacher picked up a megaphone to implore the kids to grab their parents for the hitherto unannounced adults' race.
She flew over to me and while trying to catch her breath roared: "I really, really DON’T want you to do this dad. Promise me you WON’T. Please."
And I didn’t. But as I saw men 20 years my junior channel their inner Dayjur across the undulations of the Hanging Heaton cricket field I couldn't help sagely nodding to myself when the winner, a ringer who was an uncle of a kid in year six, had to be escorted to a car for a lift home after tweaking a hamstring in the closing stages.
Always warm-up, lads. You don’t get to my age without having learned that.
