But the regret is still there, nagging away as I line my cake tins with a double layer of baking parchment. Middle-age might be desperate to claim me as one of its own, but I'm not ready to go without a tiny struggle. It's a quiet kind of mid-life crisis I suppose. I wish I could buy a Harley Davidson, or dye my hair an extraordinary shade, or start wearing inappropriate clothing and talking self-consciously about going to 'gigs', which at least would acknowledge the whole damn thing as a rite of passage. But I can't, and instead the whole thing becomes internalised as mild disappointment and missed opportunity.
Anyway, it's time to feed the cake its brandy. I might have a cheering tot myself whilst I'm at it.