On Wednesday, at precisely 11.14pm, I will turn 51. Considering the clocks went back on Saturday, could it any get more depressing? Yet oddly, I only seem to be getting happier.

It goes against the trend of course, but in my twenties I was a confused, inexperienced geek whose only shot at salvation seemed wildly unobtainable.

I wanted to work in newspapers but was at that time selling shoes (complete with four GCSEs).

So when I saw a job advertised for a writer on a major fashion magazine in London, I swore I’d do or die. And then, typically, forgot all about it until six weeks later when, attempting to shoehorn a women’s size 6 into a gnarled size 13, I remembered my vow.

Now, if you’ll bear with me... a detour.

The editors of Menswear had, in the meantime, received, read and interviewed the 200 or so applicants for the job and offered it to their No. 1 candidate who, God bless her, turned it down.

Undeterred, the editorial team then offered the job to their No.2 candidate who also refused their offer, leaving said magazine... well, ‘peeved’ would be the polite expression.

Thus, when a certain, wet-behind-the-ears sap rang them at 10.30am the following day and asked – in all innocence – if the job was still available, they laughed.

“We advertised it six weeks ago!” they replied incredulously.

“Phew,” I replied, “I thought perhaps I was too late...”

Stupidity comes in many guises, yet in that brief moment, I embodied the Olympian ideal.

Afterwards, they told me they were so astounded by my naivety, they actually agreed – out of morbid curiousity – to see me.

Since the job was for a fashion writer and I didn’t own a suit, let alone a tie, I brilliantly conspired to borrow one. My friend George, a bank clerk, had two, so that evening prior to my following day’s interview, I asked to borrow one.

“Sure,” he said. “Come round before you take the train.”

Which I did, all wide-eyed, breathless and bushy-tailed. But precisely because of this excitement, failed to notice that George is 12 inches shorter than me.

Indeed only later, visiting the washroom as the train pulled into Paddington did it occur that trouser legs should actually cover one’s ankles (and shins). But by then of course it was too late.

Walking shame-faced 30 minutes later into the magazine’s chic offices in Swiss Cottage, I informed reception I’d arrived. And what happened next I’ll never forget.

Shown into the editor’s swanky suite, he simply looked up, gagged, and without missing a beat said: “Bloody hell, if you’ve got the nerve to come in here dressed like bleedin’ Norman Wisdom, I’ll give you 30 days...”

In fact, I stayed four years. And every day since has been gravy. Nothing could entice me back to my twenties.

Being 50-plus is not ageing but liberating. And were it not for my reading glasses, I could almost convince myself I’m 49.