I no longer believe that ageing is a gradual process. It's a nasty little surprise that jumps out and slaps you around the face one morning just when you're not expecting it.

In the grand scheme of things I'm not really that old, having been around for roughly three decades, but I am beginning to feel older, thanks, or no thanks, to a series of those slapping-around-the-face days.

It's nothing to do with wrinkles or grey hairs. I've had the latter for about a third of my life, although I must admit that until my first grey hair appeared I naively assumed that, like ageing, going grey was a gradual process that slowly came through from the roots.

No, my reason for feeling old is a series of nights out, or to be more precise, the mornings after them.

Night number one was spent dancing the night away at a club. The first 'I feel old shock' came when I realised the giant dancing next to me was the younger of two brothers I used to babysit for.

But worse was to come. The next morning I discovered muscles at the front of my legs that I never realised I had before. Sadly, I only found them as they were refusing to work and I spent the entire day, and much of the next, walking around like a Trumpton character.

There was a time when I would have been able to repeat that big night out the very next day. That made me feel old.

Then there's the hangovers, or 'feeling delicate' days as I prefer to call them. It used to be my proud boast that I could drink anyone under the table without suffering anything the next day, apart from embarrassing stories.

But two of the last three days have been 'delicate' ones and I'm sure my behaviour can't have been wild enough to justify the harsh consequences I've had to suffer.

Working on my one-day-that-makes-you-feel-older theory I guess I've added, or taken away, depending whether you work on the pot half full or pot half empty way of thinking, ten years to my body.

Maybe a few quiet nights in are called for.

I tried to pop into town quickly on Saturday - some hope.

I usually walk or catch the bus when I'm going from home but, as I was at work, had to take the car.

You would think a journey from Hollingbury to central Brighton would take about ten minutes. But no, mine took an hour, much of which was spent queuing, like every other driver in town on Saturday, to get into a car park.

So when I drove out of the car park near the Prince Regent and saw a line of cars still clogging up North Road waiting to get in I helpfully pointed out to the attendant that there were loads of empty spaces.

It turns out that the council end of the car park, opened at weekends to cope with demand, is still mainly for council staff and spaces have to be kept in case they need them. I wonder how many work at the weekend and, more to the point, how many actually need them.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.