It is an interesting fact that a baby born this week in Swindon is likely to live so long, he or she may even get to see the roadworks at the Moonrakers and White Hart completed.

What an amazing world we live in.

However, when I offered this thought to the Twittersphere, someone pointed out that it may indeed be true, but he doubted the theoretical baby would also get so old as to see Mead Way opened to traffic again.

People are apparently upset that work there wasn’t completed by the end of June, like one councillor promised, last autumn. But to be fair to her: she didn’t say which June.

Longevity and life expectancy is on my mind because before this week is over, I will be a sexogenarian.

This is nowhere near as saucy as it sounds, unfortunately, but turns out to be the word for somebody who has reached their sixties.

Not that I need a birthday to remind me that I am past my sell-by date.

Just writing this column does the trick.

That’s because, when I wrote the first one, way back in October 2004, the then-editor said: “I want you to write a weekly column about what life is like in your forties.”

Well, I did, for six years, and it even went by the name of Roaring Forties in those days.

Then came ten years of writing about life in my fifties.

And now this.

For months my wife has been asking me how I want to celebrate my birthday, and I told her that there is only one thing I want less than a party, and that is a surprise party.

There is always double the danger of this happening because I am a twin, and with twins you get two parties for the price of one.

Fortunately, my brother and I managed to have any party ideas downsized to an informal family gathering.

And one of the advantages of having your birthday in July is you can celebrate it in the garden if you like, which will be nice.

You can also spend some of the weekend - as I intend to - by going to a car boot sale.

And because it’s my birthday, I am allowed to buy any old rubbish without my wife offering her usual disheartening comments like: “What do you want that for?” or “Where are we going to put that?”

For months now she has been fretting about what to get me for my landmark birthday, and complaining that a 60-year-old man is impossible to buy for.

I solved her problem when I borrowed a friend’s reciprocating electric saw and announced that I needed one of my own.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll get you one for your birthday - so that’s that sorted.”

And that’s how old I am feeling: so old that somebody very close to me thinks that giftwrapping a saw is going to make my day.

And the worst thing about it is: she’s right.