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I hope you’re enjoying this brief blast of sun because after Tuesday the days get shorter.

Much like when time creeps up on you just as things are starting to get fun, and before you know it you’re on the ­slippery slope to the winter of your life.

I don’t mention this to depress you. Far from it. As I head towards being officially categorised as a pensioner I don’t feel anything like one.

I take tablets for the odd issue and have too many daytime kips but I feel closer to being measured up for my school uniform than my coffin.

When I was a kid the over-60s seemed like ancient relics, aged before their time by wars, depressions, and outside loos. Many who are in their 60s today look like people back then who were in their 40s.

Take Jean Alexander, who was 38 when she joined Coronation Street in 1964 as gossiping old biddy Hilda Ogden; and Sally Dynevor who these days plays “yummy mummy” Sally Metcalfe and is 60 on her next birthday.

Rolling Stones on tour ( Liverpool FC via Getty Images)

I’ve long believed my generation of baby-boomers are the jammiest. We never fought the wars our parents fought or have to face the kind of debt our ­children will.

We were the first ­generation to be sexually liberated, enjoy regular foreign travel, free higher education and cheap ­mortgages.

And I’m starting to think that the majority of over-60s who aren’t reliant on a state pension just to live are having the best old age ever.

I was given a rollicking from someone who works in health for highlighting in last week’s column German research which showed the over-60s who drink at least four days a week were fitter and happier than teetotallers.

According to the health bod I was wrong to urge oldies to take that as permission to hit the booze most nights because it would lead some to an early grave. I disagreed. Then asked, “well what if it does”? Is it best to sit around morosely waiting to kick the bucket or to get your kicks for as long as your body allows?

Last week I saw the Rolling Stones, starring a 78-year-old Mick Jagger legging around the stage like Usain Bolt (even if he did have a kids’ leather coat on that looked like it had been robbed from a market stall). Supporting them were Echo & the Bunnymen, with 63-year-old Ian McCulloch’s vocals sounding as cool as ever.

The following night I saw 67-year-old Elvis Costello, and on Monday I’m watching The Eagles, ­starring two 74-year-old legends Don Henley and Joe Walsh. Next week an 80-year-old Paul McCartney headlines Glastonbury.

All those concerts are sell-outs, with thousands of my fellow sexagenarians bopping the night away like teenagers. At The Killers concert in Manchester this week, 67-year-old Doug James tried crowd-surfing for the first time, ­stopping the gig when he fell and cut his head.

When singer Brandon Flowers asked Doug what he was doing he replied: “I’m enjoying myself.” Good man.

A psychology expert is advocating that everyone having end-of-life ­treatment should be given magic mushrooms to ease their depression. Which is a fabulous idea.

Not acting your age before literally taking a trip towards the grave is surely the best way to live out your final years.

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