Iceberg in my sea of dreams

LIKE a slap in the face with a wet cod, it struck me last week that I’m too old to train as an astronaut.

Not that I have any burning desire, not since Valentina Tereskova made it as the first woman in space some time before my 10th birthday, anyway.

Prior to that, I was quite keen.

In fact, the only routes open to me now I’ve reached my 56th year appear to be changing jobs to become a politician, a high court judge or a bathroom salesman in B&Q.

Actually, thinking about it, two of those are out: the high court judge because I’m now too old to start training as a lawyer, and a bathroom salesman in B&Q because I know less than nothing about plugholes apart from the fact that they’re always blocked with hair.

So politician it is. Move over Mr Brown, I have a yen for No 10.

Journalism was always meant to be a stop-gap profession — somewhere between being the worst cashier NatWest has ever had (honestly, I believe “doing a Geraldine” is a euphemism for giving away hard cash in some branches) and becoming a best-selling author of the Agatha Christie ilk.

Or maybe a teacher (for the holidays only, trust me). Perhaps a shepherd (minus the sheep) or a missionary (minus the religion).

An explorer; a social worker; a Crufts-winning dog breeder (chihuahuas); a sweet shop proprietor (obviously) . . .

All these things I once — before last week — believed I still had time to become.

And do you know what it was that made me face my own limitations? Not another grey hair (I resolutely dye them), nor a twinge of arthritis in my hip (although it was that bad I had to limp for sympathy and Him Indoors didn’t even notice) and not even failing to understand the instructions on the SatNav, again, and ending up in Skegness instead of Salford.

No, it was seeing Jane Torvill in “Dancing on Ice”.

They were my heroes, Torvill and Dean.

For many, many years I have a harboured a desire to perform the Bolero with Christopher Dean to gasps of admiration from the massed crowds.

I just KNOW I’d have a natural talent on the ice, if only it were unlocked.

When I get five minutes, I’ll take that first lesson.

But then I saw Jane. Doesn’t she look old? Wrinkles and a turkey neck. And she’s younger than me!

Ah well, it’ll have to be a politician then. On the grey vote I think.