In my early twenties, I looked like a Nazi athlete; the sort of elegant silver figurine you'd find draped around the dial of an Art Deco clock, or standing sentinel, kouroi-like, at the entrance of the most intriguing Worlds' Fair pavilion.
My profile would have made an excellent hood ornament for some sleek European sports car.
I could drink Bacchus under the table. I could lick a smorgasbord clean without ill effect. I could run a marathon then perform cartwheels all the way back to the beginning. Such, such were the joys of being me in my early twenties.
Thirty years later and any kind of over indulgence will floor me for a week.
Instead of standing sentinel, I now must lean against a pillar for support. The only car hood I'm likely to grace these days is the hood of the car that knocks me down because I'm too slow crossing the road.
Time's remorseless hammer and chisel have hacked proud Adonis into an unremarkable ectomorph barely held together by advances in medical science. Imagine a weary, etiolated Vitruvian man slouching inside a trapezoid.
And yet another new year approaches this coming weekend!
Once again I am dragged by what hair remains to me into an increasing less personally attractive future.
Not that I'm in any way vain, of course, but I do wish Time might throw me a bone this January 1st. Preferably a bone that won't need resetting or replacing by mid-July.