I’m 36. I’m ok with that. Age is just a number really. You’re as old as you feel and all that.

I spent most of my late teens and early twenties either drunk or with a hangover, so I’ve generally felt healthier since I arrived in my late twenties. I’m not exactly a changed man; I still drink, and I’m mildly bleary-eyed as I write this, following a few post-work beers with my colleagues, but I don’t quite hit the excesses of my youth anymore.

I’ve also been in a relationship with my other half for nine years and even though we probably argue several times a day, we make each other happy. Well, she makes me happy anyway.

Anyway, the point is that in most respects life is better now than it was when I was younger. And I think that 36 is still relatively young in the context of your whole life.

But it’s not so young that there aren’t now a few dreams I’m probably going to have to give up.

• I think I probably now have to accept that I’m never going to play any sport at a high enough level to represent my country. Even if it’s a sport my country is particularly bad at—and I’m Welsh, so there’s no shortage of those.
• I’m never going to be a rock star.
• I’m probably not going to win Wimbledon.
• I’m definitely not going to appear on any utterly pointless list of ‘young people’ who are changing the world entitled ’30 Under 30′.
• I don’t think I’m about to be head-hunted by MI6 or some other secret organisation, so I’m probably never going to be a spy.
• I don’t think I’m ever going to be a superhero for that matter.
• Too old I am, to a Jedi become.
• And unless the owls were on strike and my Hogwarts letter got lost in the post, it seems unlikely I’m going to be able to enter the wizarding profession.

It’s a shame I’ll now never get to do any of those things.

I genuinely believe that with a bit more hard work and dedication I could have achieved all of them.