Forsaking crisps for a month hardly constitutes a sacrifice of biblical proportions. It does, however, mark a significant autobiographical departure, insofar as it’s the first time I’ve ever had the inclination to give up anything. To my mind, this is a sign I’m entering a phase in life traditionally associated with slippers, Countdown and sciatica.
Reassuringly, I’m not the only member of my peer-group whose priorities are shifting. Today, for example, I call a female friend with a view to arranging a good old-fashioned knees-up. She tells me we can’t meet until late April – because she’s either busy, or she’s ovulating.