ALAN MARRIOTT WRITES: As a boy, many moons ago, I used to get a lot of genial hair ruffling and “ah what a shame” comments about one sad fact — I was born on Christmas Day.

It was as if I had caught a disease and people sought reassurance that my kith and kin did not disadvantage me.

I was happy to reassure them my beloved parents used to spoil me rotten on Bonfire Night with a good old jelly and ice cream party in November.

These days, friends who have forgotten I am born on the big day, when reminded, still express sympathy and I usually end up promising to have a party in the summer (never happens).

I count myself a lucky man with three great kids and two lovely grandchildren so although I will not exactly be the centre of attention on the 25th, I will count my blessings and take the little pleasures as my big gifts.

One of these is to do the washing up after the blow-out festive lunch.

Easily pleased you may think, but an hour of solitude with my choice of music on and a glass of red to hand is a welcome interlude betweeen the bouts of madness Christmas Day always brings. And let’s face it, if you have heard me singalong to Springsteen or some punk classic, you want to be at least two rooms away.

This frivolity masks the fact I am celebrating my 57th anniversary on Tuesday, and laughter is the best medicine when contemplating the oncoming of my 60th year.

I still try to kid myself I am in my pomp, but braving Storm Deirdre on Saturday to play football against a bunch of teenagers, plus 20 and 30 somethings, I realised it can’t go on forever.

As I ran from one end of the pitch to the other and got screamed at to get up the pitch again by a teammate — me, a wing back? — I wondered how long can I go on with this delusion I am still able to keep on keeping on.

Three more matches beckon in the new year (and, no, it’s not walking football) and a friend has mentioned a cycle ride to Paris in the spring (can I be a MAMIL?) so I guess I will put the golf clubs and bowls in the back of the cupboard for now.

The point of this, I guess, is you are as young as you feel, and with the grim reaper hopefully some way down the track, you have to grasp the nettle and do it while you still can — however badly.

To quote a very apt cliche — you are a long time dead.

Happy Christmas to all readers and advertisers in the County Press.