I WAS thinking of that new Hollywood film called Benjamin Button.

Brad Pitt plays a chap who is born old and lives his life backwards, ending up as a baby. What a terrible premise.

Don’t get me wrong. There are times past I would love to revisit if I had a time machine. It would be wonderful to return to the Swinging 60s for a long weekend or recapture the magic of that family holiday in perpetual sunshine we spent at Abersoch in the 1980s.

Everybody can think of somewhere to visit in their past. But to be born old and live backwards? No thank you very much.

No one enjoys growing old but it is the best system we have and there are compensations. For instance, everyone pretends no one looks their age.

"You’re never! Well, you don’t look it."

Good grief, I know I do. Some mornings I have to shave with my eyes closed in case the stranger staring back scares me too much.

Then there are the chaps who proudly boast, "I’ll be 73 next" as if being 72 isn’t enough.

Failing eyesight is also part of the defence mechanism for denying the advancing years. If you don’t wear your glasses everybody you look at has that fuzzy Doris Day glow about them.

"By heck Bert, but you look just like Doris Day."

Which could be a bit off-putting down at the workingmen’s club.

The only time I was age obsessed was when I was a child and always wanted to be bigger and older. I became older but not much bigger. At 16 and 17 I was desperate to be 18 so I could legally go into pubs. Unfortunately, I still looked so young that on occasions it remained difficult to get served.

Then I fell into that middle-distance of life, where age is unimportant because it’s difficult to tell if someone if 30 or 40, or 40 or 50.

When my jawline began to lose its definition and my jowls developed a wobble I grew a beard and continued to look relatively young for my age. And it is all relative, after all.

But now the process has kicked in as if making up for lost time and I’m convinced someone has been messing with my portrait in the attic.

There are, sadly, no fringe benefits to getting older as far as I am concerned. I have never felt wise, for instance. Never felt able to stand at the end of the bar looking sagacious with a world weary expression and an eloquently raised eyebrow that says: Life? Been there, done that and now I’m bored.

Probably because I’m not world weary and am not bored. I still enjoy life and find it exciting and, given half the chance and a body transplant would still be as daft as a teenager.

As my long gone and sadly missed Auntie Doris told me as she approached 90, "Inside, you know, I’m still 18."

So am I. It’s just my body that is getting older, rather faster than I would like, although I shan’t be putting in a complaint to God or the town hall. We all knew the deal and I’m happy to continue to enjoy life to the full as long as I can.

And for those away-days in the past we all have our own personal time machines.

When I want to go back, I pick up a photograph album and wallow in the memories. It’s a lot better doing it that way, than being Benjamin Button.