I LOOK in the mirror: who’s that old gentleman staring back, his eyes a bit watery, his hair as white as a snowman’s?

Who is that pensioner with bags under his eyes the size of carry-on luggage? Who is that elderly chap with fuzz sprouting from his ears?

Why, It’s young Ian McMillan, of course. It’s Ian McMillan who thought he was a young man, or at least a middle-aged man but then suddenly, as the calendar turns and the days in the diary get filled up and the clock ticks loudly, realises that (and there’s no good way to say this) he’s old.

I was 70 last week and my grandkids gave me a badge to prove it, and I’ve now had my biblically allotted ‘three score years and ten’ and I’ve reached the age when you don’t fall down or tummle ovver, you have a fall.

The age where you find yourself wondering where you’ve put your glasses and you’ve got them on.

The age where you think that things were five years ago and they turn out to be 20 years ago, the age where young ‘uns of 50 offer you a seat on the bus and you accept it.

Yep; I’m old.

Age is just a number, of course, and you’re as old as you feel and I have to say that I don’t feel 70. I feel, maybe, 68.

I still do loads of early strolls and I try to eat healthily (Kit-Kats are part of your five a day, aren’t they?) but still you can’t stop time from rushing faster than the X19 when the driver gets his foot down.

Surely, it was only earlier today that I was 60, and it was only last week that I was 40?

Surely I can’t, I really can’t, be 70, can I? Well, the bloke staring back at me from the mirror, squinting his eyes, is saying that I can be.

Okay, I’m 70. I’ll have to admit it. I’ll have to live with it, and I’ll have to set myself a few rules to live by to help me negotiate my way through the foothills of old age.

I decided a while ago, in a moment of espresso-induced bravado, that I was going to live to the age of 120 so really I’m just a little way past middle age.

Anyway, let’s sort out a few rules for the 70-year-old to adopt.

Rule 1: Never look back whilst wearing rose-coloured glasses.

Of course you can acknowledge that there were great things about the past but a lot of things weren’t as good in the past as they are now. When I was a kid we didn’t have central heating. We didn’t have a phone.

People smoked in the cinema and they didn’t wear seat belts in the car. They frequently drove home from the pub having had a few pints. That wasn’t good.

So if you ever catch me saying ‘It was a lot better in the old days’ you have my permission to poke me with a stick, because it wasn’t.

And the old days have gone, anyway, and the new days haven’t arrived yet. All we have is this day. If I look backwards all the time I won’t be able to see where I’m going and I might bang my head.

Rule 2: Keep trying to appreciate the new. In other words, I vow that I won’t dismiss new music and new art and new writing and new places and new foods because I prefer the old stuff.

There’s so many new things to do and see and while I’ve got the strength I’ll keep trying to experience them.

Rule 3: This rule is related to Rule 2. Never try and pretend that you’re younger than you are. I’m not 50. I’m not 40. I’m not even 65. I’m 70, with all the years of experience that that implies.

So when I appreciate all the new things I’m talking about, I’m appreciating them with lots of years under my belt. I’m here and now in the here and now.

Rule 4: Mix with folks older than you and mix with folks younger than you. I like being with my kids and grandkids and I like talking to folks who are older than me who I meet on the bus. And keep talking. Keep talking.

Rule 5: Never wear a string vest. In my opinion (and I could be wrong) that shows you’ve given up.