I'm four days short of completing my 28th journey around the sun, and to commemorate this inauspicious occasion, a great part of this weekend will be spent in a drunken stupor.
It seems curious that, as I've progressed in age and in weight, my capacity to handle alcohol has dimished almost in direct proportion.
As 17-year-olds, my friends and I would think nothing of drinking a half bottle of vodka each BEFORE going out to the pubs. And then feeling full, fit and mad for it again on Sunday morning, right and ready enough to tackle a game of football.
But, as a 28-year-old weighing two stone more than I did at my fighting weight, it takes substantially less alcohol to send me on the slippery slope to drunkenness and hangover hell.
I'm at a loss as to the reasons for this. I can't now imagine starting a night out with a couple of beers, finishing the best part of a half bottle of vodka and then spending four hours in the pub drinking more vodka. But surely, as I age, my body should be more tolerant of the punishment I inflict upon it?
Anyway, the amount of drink I can handle is beside the point. This weekend, a sociable meal at Roo's Leap in Montrose will be followed by several hours of carnage in Montrose's pubs, with several members of the party new to the excitement of drinking in the town of Gable Enders.
I may report back. If I'm able to write and able to remember what happened.