We appear to have a ghost in the house. I only catch sight of it for brief occasions, and always in mirrors. It is a rather frightful apparition, especially early in the morning.

It has grey hair and deep, sunken eyes like wee-holes in the snow. Its skin is grey and saggy and it often has the beginnings of a scratchy salt-and-pepper beard that makes it look even more ancient and horrifying.

I mean, it must be a ghost, mustn’t it? It couldn’t possibly be my own reflection. But yes, yes it could.

Whoever said life begins at 40 was absolutely bang on, I consider as I stare down the dreadful phantom that glares malevolently back at me from the shaving mirror.

Not in the way that you get a new lease of life and suddenly become carefree and joyful – that might have been the case a couple of generations ago when people married younger and had children at an earlier age, so that when they reached 40 the kids might well have been ready to fly the nest, opening up new vistas for the parents.

No, turning 40 is more like the life that begins when you reach puberty. You start to find hair appearing in odd places, strange things happen to your skin and your voice breaks – not as a signal that the onset of maturity is underway, but more in a strangled, pitiful shriek at how you’ve started to look.

Not that I’ve ever been, you know, what anyone might call a hunk or a looker. I’ve never exactly been Jude Law (if you want to protest at that and tell me otherwise, you’ll find my e-mail address somewhere in this newspaper).

But as I try to avoid the dread-filled eyes of the glowering creature in the early morning mirror, I slowly realise that my internal image of what I look like is actually based on a photo of me taken sometime in the mid-1990s.

If I suck my cheeks in and squint, I am starting to look very much like my dad. I even find myself adopting some of his less attractive traits.

I sigh loudly at nothing in particular; when faced with a monumental task such as fitting a child’s bike in the boot of a car I immediately think it’s never going to work; and sometimes the room goes quiet and I realise that the only sound that can be heard is the deafening chomping of food, coming from my mouth. Oh, and I’ve also started doing this weird sharp-intake-of-breath thing when a burp threatens. Apparently, so I’m told, this is intensely annoying.

Something must be done. I must regain my mojo. Nobody wants to live with a grey ghost that flits from mirror to mirror, sucking in its breath as though it’s stealing the life, bit by tiny bit, from everyone around it.

I will begin on a programme of self-improvement for mind, body and soul. Just as soon as I’ve dealt with this Rapunzel-like hair that appears to have sprouted from my left nostril.