Life isn't what it used to be. Of late, I've had strange yearnings to become a commuter, to have a routine, even to join a gym and get fit “before it's too late”.

You see, dear reader, I've become a 43-year-old man stuck in the body of a 23 year old.

I am Kevin Spacey's character in American Beauty, but in reverse. I have perverse aspirations to be middle-aged, to stay in with a good book, a roaring fire and maybe a small glass of sherry.

Whereas once I enjoyed getting pissed out of my mind on a daily basis, now it takes me two days to recover from a heavy drinking session. I'm no longer cut out for living the high life.

I find myself grumbling and cursing under my breath whenever I see another bunch of students out on the lash. As groups of them trail around the streets of Leeds looking for their new student piles, I resent their hedonistic lifestyle lived at Mummy and Daddy's expense.

Every spare moment of my day has become caught up in thoughts of personal finances: how much will I earn this month; will I be able to pay my credit card bill / rent / mobile phone bill?; am I making best use of my ISA?; do I really need this month's issue of fucking Sky magazine? (Why do I aspire to this youth-oriented fashion fascism?)

Instead of exchanging lewd banter with my mates, I daydream of being married with kids, weighing up whether two kids is two too many.

More tell-tale signs of premature aging:

The cardigan I used to wear in my youth as some sort of “indie” statement has made a reappearance in my wardrobe, because “it keeps me warm”.

Musically, I've always lived in 1987, but now I'm looking to expand my Wedding Present record collection to rival my already copious Smiths back catalogue.

Am I really going bald?

Why do I always feel tired?

Is She Really Going Out With Him?

Should I have a pension scheme by now?

My parents have probably only got another couple of decades left in them.

Should I still be renting? I've heard it's sensible to invest in property.

Lots of my mates have developed unhealthy obsessions with Van Morrison / Neil Young / Nick Drake and think that Gomez are the future of music (“Of course, I KNOW Ian. A girl from my course has a cousin whose friend's sister once stood next to him at an Alaaanis gig. He's such a GREAT guy, really chilled, you know?”).

And why do today's youth insist on listening to such shite? I've never liked “dance” music, never popped a pill and HATE Puff Daddy. Is that a girl or a boy? You can't tell these days.

The charts simply aren't what they used to be; all these boy bands and manufactured groups. My music has been marginalised. I'm forced to go to Eighties nights if I want to be a purist, if I want to dance to classic tunes by the likes of Wham! and Rick Astley.

Sporty Spice's tattoos really set a bad example to young kids, don't they? She'll regret having them done when she's older!

And I worry about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life, whilst simultaneously fearing that I've left it all too late anyway.

Inevitably, it would seem, one becomes the thing one has always detested: THE ESTABLISHMENT.

A need for security, for belonging, for identity, engenders the inescapable transformation of every human being into their parents.

In reality, it's all about making babies. A series of chemical reactions are triggered in the brain at a certain age to bring about an increased urge to procreate and so prolong the human race. And, if you're going to have kids, you have to be “safe” and “boring”.

Like your mum and dad.

Looks like there's no way back.

Hmm, maybe someone should tell my girlfriend about all this before it's too late for her too...

by Dan Pullinger.