I used to chortle when I heard the Beatles musing about the years to come.
Namely, Paul McCartney chirpily declaring how things would likely be "when I'm 64".
We'd listen to such folly in our young years and essentially dismissed it as a novelty tune about something that kids really don't think about.
That something called aging.
There's another memorable line from a song which has stuck in my memory.
"But then the years go by..."
And yep, they certainly do, don't they Macca.
For Mr McCartney is now a healthy 77 years old.
He has stacked on a further 13 years from the day he finally caught up with the once frivolous lyrics of his song of 1967.
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But at least he's younger than his drum-mate Ringo...he's 79.
And dear old Mick Jagger is 76 and Elton John is 72 but hey, they seem to be doing all right.
All those four likely lads from the musically explosive 60s and 70s are all still taking the stage somewhere.
I saw Mick Jagger on telly the other night at some concert in the US and he was bouncing about like a chap half his age, showing no signs or effects of recent heart surgery.
If I attempted to try and emulate what he was doing the only reaction I would get would likely be from an audience of medics.
And I am just a young man.
For it was last year that I reached Macca's 64 and in recent days I hit the SuperGold mark.
I am looking at that number and I am bewildered and bemused.
For when Macca turned 64 I was but 51.
And when he turned 65 I was only 52.
So there I was, last week, opening a letter stamped New Zealand Government and was both confused and fearful of what it might contain.
What had I not paid, or what was I about to be asked to do?
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But no worries...it was the pretty slice of plastic with little gold flowers on it which Winston had attached to a piece of explanatory paper and shoved into an envelope.
Now, I have always been lukewarm about birthdays.
It has become an accepted part of my make-up, although I will submit to a couple of ales and will happily extinguish candles on a cake.
Although I was fearful on the evening the family got together to help me laugh at my reaching the "golden" year that there would be 65 candles on the lovely cake.
Having a few bronchial issues I figured I could deal with maybe 25 of them.
But no problems for there was just a nicely spaced ring of them, and little coloured candies the grand-daughters had made into the number 65.
I think there may have been 11 candles...and six plus five equals 11 which I suspect is also exactly half my IQ so it all fitted so well and it was a comfortably nice evening.
Now I am in my 66th year.
I'm catching up, Macca!
It's strange though because I still feel like I'm only 35.
Until I have to bend down to put the old socks on in a hurry or see my reflection in a shop window and get a startling jolt because I thought I'd just seen my late father.
While I'm still fit and reasonably strong (and can still lap Manfeild on a motorcycle in a respectably quick time) I suspect the advanced age, this dip into SuperGold land, has affected my head.
For a couple of days later I was chopping some firewood as the chills of late winter assaulted early spring, and started to feel sorry for the wood.
I had split and chopped and stacked it all away after one of our trees was felled last year and it had laid in the back shed through the warmth and peace of summer.
No, I was dragging it out and incinerating it.
I think too the tree was 65 years old.
"Sorry lads," I mumbled to myself as I fed the fire.
The following morning I watched as grey clouds ran swiftly across the skyscape from the southwest.
And one of those fast-moving clusters, for a brief moment, sort of looked like Winston...who is my new chum because he's sent me a discount card which hopefully includes bottle stores.
So now I'm just 35 years from getting a letter from whoever sits upon the English throne.
But hey, we could fly over and pick it up.
Do you get airfare discounts on SuperGold?
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.