First thing in a morning my eyesight is not at its best and I don’t wear my glasses to shave around my beard.

When I’m dressed I take a quick check in the mirror at the end of the corridor and at that distance I past muster, as most of us do.

Which is probably why there are so many fashion disasters walking the streets: we see what we want to see, not what is really there.

The overweight young lady may have bought the same dress that was modelled by Kate Moss but never in a month of Sundays is it going too look the same draped over 18 stone of quivering femininity.

And there I was, thinking I still cut an elegantly suave dash with my snake hips and mane of hair. The snake hips are long gone and while the hair is still long, as a chap I hadn’t seen for a couple of years pointed out the other day: "Ooh, hasn’t it gone grey?"

Has it? I hadn’t noticed. In fact, I still thought that young women were returning my occasional glances of interest.

Instead, they were probably thinking, pool old soul, does his carer know he’s out?

Which is why the other morning I took a good look at myself in the full length mirror after falling out of bed as naked as nature intended. It was true. No longer did I look like rock star Ricky Nelson. Now I was more like Ricky Tomlinson from The Royle Family.

To be honest, I think I’m too old for diets and exercises of a strenuous nature. So instead of attempting drastic action to regain my lost youth, I shall resort to what every other chap does: tighten my belt a notch, wear a baggy shirt and hold in my tummy in company.