I haven’t had much in common with the world’s nun population, so far. But now I know how they must have felt in convents across the globe when they heard about the advent of oral contraception. Scientists have created a pill that will bring us nothing but trouble. And even though the rest of the world will embrace this innovation, I know I could never, ever, under any circumstances take it.

The pill that fills me with foreboding is a medicinal compound, developed using the soil of Easter Island, which promises to arrest the effects of growing old. As I read the reports last week that an anti-ageing tablet was now within our reach, I felt much as I imagine a trainee butler must have felt in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg in February 1917. I knew I’d probably find myself on the wrong side of history, but I didn’t imagine it would come quite so soon. With me never getting a chance to fulfil my lifetime’s dream.

Because all my life I’ve dreamt of being old. I’ve longed to age. I’ve pined for the long shadows cast by imminent decrepitude. And now scientists are going to rob me of the chance to be a senior citizen because they’ve found the elixir of eternal youth. And so I’ll have no excuse for descending into the distant, crotchety crustiness which I had hoped would become my destiny.

I have absolutely no interest in staying young, or even within hailing distance of youth. I am terrified by Twitter, fazed by Facebook, can’t keep up with Dizzee Rascal, let alone Tinchy Stryder, think the hottest trainers are what you find in Lambourn or Newmarket, speed garage is what the Kwik-Fit Fitters provide and can’t understand why Old Skool and Hed Kandi are written as they are when computers, whatever else they do, are meant to eliminate spelling errors.

I have no desire to wear three-quarter-length canvas trousers, sculpting mousse in my hair, Druidic tattoos on my biceps, let alone a hat like Pete Doherty’s, to demonstrate that I am on-trend and in fashion.

Instead, I wish to be able to wear cardigans without attracting unfavourable comment. I want to drink warm beer, slowly, with some nice crisps, sitting down in establishments where the music, if audible, is not pitched at the decibel level of a major armoured engagement on the Eastern front circa 1943. I would like to be able to read in the morning, sleep in the afternoon and grumble in the evening. I would like, one day, to be able to go on Swan Hellenic cruises, travel to Jersey for the golf, watch a first-class county match and chuckle knowingly at Terry Wogan’s jokes. In short, I want to be an Oldie.

And even if science means everyone else has stopped ageing, and youth is both everywhere and everlasting, I shall hold out. Even if I am the only pensioner in the village.

Situations vacant

Of course, one option open to me may be to apply to become the Witch of Wookey Hole. The people who run the tourist attraction are looking for a (suitably terrifying) applicant to provide a living folkloric touch for their West Country resort. They say they need someone “friendly, a little mischievous, with lots of character. A limited range of potions would be available”. I understand they hope to entertain an application from Amy Winehouse. But they may need more than just a limited range of potions . . .

I hope the trend spreads. We could have applicants for the vacant post of Loch Ness Monster. You need to be terrifying, green and prehistoric in your behaviour, if not actively from another planet — George Monbiot would be perfect. Or perhaps new applicants for the position of Robin of Sherwood. You need to be dedicated to taking money off the wealthy, at home surrounded by merry men, and look good in tights. Maybe Carla Bruni would fit the bill?

Eternally on message

This week millions of mobile telephone numbers go on some massive public directory that enables you to track people down in a second. And the prospect fills me with dread.

Not because people can now, more easily, track me down. I’ve long grown used to the fact that my mobile number is about as confidential as Jordan’s bra-size. No, the real horror is that I will have no excuse for getting out of the jobs I have left entirely to my wife.

Up until now I have avoided almost all sensitive domestic administration — arranging play dates, cancelling attendance at parties at the last minute due to work crises, organising school-run rotas, defusing neighbourly rows — because I don’t have anyone’s numbers in my own mobile. Sarah, by contrast, has a SIM card so efficiently organised, with every name and number correct and in the right order, that I can’t help wondering if she isn’t sponsored by Singapore Airlines.

Now I have no excuse for not being able to call Jake’s mum to ask if she’s got the batteries because Jake’s mum’s number is probably available through the directory. Fathers of the world, the days of hiding our laziness behind our incompetence are over. For Sad Dads everywhere, I’m afraid our number’s up . . .

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