Nothing in life is certain but death, taxes and hangovers.

I realised something important this morning: I am old.  I may have just offended anyone over the age of 26 and while it’s true that I’m not exactly decrepit just yet, the point is, I feel old. For the first time in many moons, I went out on the town twice in two days. And boy I felt rough for it.

When I was 21, partying every weekend was pretty much a regular occurrence. It wasn’t only acceptable to tan a bottle of cheap Iceland vino on an empty stomach before heading to a bar to consume copious amounts of Cosmopolitans, it was practically encouraged. These days, after half a bottle of Prosecco (the fact that I drink Prosecco now as opposed to ‘Cheeky V’ surely in itself makes me old?) I’m ready for my bed. To be fair, I do have an extremely comfy bed and a couple of weeks ago, I even bought a mattress protector, providing bonus comfort for my ‘past one’s prime’ derriere, but that's besides the point.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed my foray into hard core drinking on Friday night. The mind was willing! I even initiated a trip to a dodgy pub for a spot of karaoke. And afterwards I indulged in normal post boozing behaviour (that being buying a takeaway and complaining that my fish tasted like chips, only discovering later that I had in fact eaten, just chips!) But the body, oh the body was weak.

I awoke at 8am on Saturday morning with a mouth as dry as an Arab’s sandal and a stomach as dodgy as a midnight walk through Govanhill. Hangovers like this (yes, it’s still here 36 hours later) just didn’t happen to me five years ago, which therefore leads me to the conclusion that I must be an old git.

On Saturday afternoon I met a group of friends for a boozy afternoon tea. Out of the seven of us, only two were wearing heels (and I think those two wished they weren’t after about 20 minutes.) Our poor neglected bunion infested feet can no longer cope with the pain of the beautiful high heeled shoe. Which saddens me (and probably my fiancé, who wonders why I still need to fill one of our wardrobes with thirty pairs of shoes I will likely never wear again) and surely proves that I am no longer a spring chicken.

As I trundle along towards the big 3 0, I wonder how the hell I’ll cope when I’m in my sixties. If I can’t be arsed making the effort to wear heels now, will I bother with my hair in thirty years’ time? Will I still read Cosmopolitan and worship Mulberry? I’m not sure about any of that. But I what I definitely am sure about, is that I’ll never ever, as long as live, go out on the piss two days in a row. Because I’m old now. And life’s too short for hangovers.