There was a period when I wondered if I drank too much. I couldn’t ask the advice of my friends, because they all drank even more than me, nor could I have confidence in the opinion of medical experts, because most of my friends were doctors.

So instead I relied on Marcelle d’Argy Smith. The former editor of Cosmopolitan and I have never been close. Although I have always admired the way she helped so many women to achieve sexual fulfilment in dentists’ waiting rooms.

And indeed it was while in my own fang-farrier’s ante-chamber that I first came across Ms d’Argy Smith’s work. How I loved those Cosmopolitans. Interspersed between the guide to pelvic floor exercises, the interview with Baroness Greenfield where she explains why Marie Curie would also have worn Betty Jackson, and the features on which mascara to wear when trading derivatives, there was usually a quiz. Sometimes it was along the lines of, “Is he the One or a One-Night Wonder?” and the reader was invited to ascertain if the man in their life was worth hanging on to; “Does he constantly compare your kissing unfavourably to his ex-girlfriend’s and complain that you can’t cook like his mother while sniffing his pants to see which is the best bet for the day ahead? — If the answer is yes, then maybe you should think again . . . etc”.

But while I found those questionnaires illuminating, and helpful when framing my own underwear strategy, the quizzes I found most useful were those where you had to analyse your behaviour to identify just how serious your own particular problems were. Quizzes like “Do you think before you drink? Why is the only thing you’re hugging at the end of the night the toilet bowl?” helped me to understand the path I was on. The choices were simple. “Which describes your attitude to cocktails best: a) I never mix my drinks; b) they’re a nice way to celebrate a special occasion; or c) Don’t worry. I never liked tonic anyway — just carry on pouring . . .” You can guess which box I ticked.

But now that I am in my forties the magazine quiz I need is not one designed to alert me to whether I am consuming too many Cosmopolitans, but one that will let me know if I have become too much of an Oldie. I no longer worry if I’m in danger of becoming Jeffrey Bernard, instead I fear I may already be Terry Scott.

Just as the difference between the social drinker and the lush is whether you can stop after three, so the difference between someone maturing wisely and me is that I don’t just dip into Radio Two, I mainline Aled Jones and Elaine Paige, I don’t just have a cardigan, I have two, both with leather buttons, and while I am as keen as any French politician to repair to a quiet hotel room between five and seven, the reason I want to get between the sheets is so that I can indulge my ultimate wicked fantasy — and have a really nice nap.

But is there a final, unambiguous test that can confirm if I have passed into pipe-and-slipperdom? To let me know if I qualify as the sort of person who can be allowed, unaided, on to the Daily Telegraph letters page? I suspect there is. And I think I passed it with flying colours last Friday. Because that was when I found myself, spontaneously, unselfconsciously, without irony and, indeed, with unfeigned anticipation buying the new Susan Boyle album. Just so I could hear her version of Wild Horses time after time.

Now where was that advert for the trousers with the elasticated waist . . .

Crème de la crème

Given the class war is raging so fiercely, some combatants are trying to camouflage themselves, others are trying to avoid fire by wearing enemy uniforms. But there is one infallible giveaway I’ve observed. The über-posh never wear white shirts. Only cream. Can anyone tell me why this is so?

Puppy love

Apart from thinking Wild Horses wasn’t as good when the Stones did it, I suspect that the other unambiguous sign that one as surrendered irretrievably to the forces of middle-aged bourgeois conformity is the decision to get a pet dog.

I have always felt rather self-conscious when out walking our pet Jack Russell, Mars. Neither Keith Richards nor Che Guevara spent much time scooping up puppy poo, and I have a feeling it wasn’t much of an issue either for Byron or Wagner.

But I am not alone in having left Bohemia far behind only to find myself washed up on the Island of Sad Dad-dom. Because my louchest, liveliest, most compellingly libertarian friend, a man who combines the journalistic dash of Hunter S Thompson with the Peter Pan temperament of Nicky Haslam and the reckless moral courage in pursuit of the truth of Emile Zola, confessed to me last week that he had also lost his heart to a pet puppy.

It was like finding out that Jack Nicholson had taken up needlepoint.

And what made it at once more surprising, and lovable, was that my friend and colleague, whom I shall call Tommy B, because that’s his name, has acquired a labradoodle. I was moved beyond words.

It won’t be long before he’s quietly weeping with me to I Dreamed a Dream . . .

Michael Gove is MP for Surrey Heath