Thank God it's Friday
Obviously, their deference is due to my old man's gravitas. They no longer ask whether I have a girlfriend or what music I like.
Tuesday I struggle to get into a pair of trousers I haven't worn since last year. It's probably because of my gluttonous summer holidays in Vancouver (dim sum, Dungeness crabs) and Lancashire (meat pies, sausages). But I can't help feeling it's middle-age spread. Over dinner, my partner tells me about her latest batch of students at the university. "They remind me of puppies," she says.
I'm in bed by 10pm. Increasingly, I find that I'm a morning person.
Wednesday We wave our celebratory cigars around the staffroom without lighting them in honour of Peter, a colleague, who has just had his first child. I met Peter when we were in our mid-twenties. His bleached hair and surfboard have made way for a tidy beard and a house in the 'burbs. He's excited about his son, but not too excited to join in a conversation about kitchen tiles. Taupe is best, apparently. I want to rebel and go clubbing.
But I wouldn't know any of the music.
Thursday I make a rare stop at the coffee machine (caffeine doesn't agree with me nowadays). I'm running late but stop when I hear a supply teacher holding forth on lawn care. I'm interested because I've recently acquired my first garden. I spend the evening aerating and watering while my partner bakes bread in the kitchen.
Friday A letter from my pension plan tells me when I can retire. The date, April 2030, is a shock. Somehow I could have sworn it would be sooner.
Still, I'll only be 55: very young indeed.
Nicholas Woolley teaches in Ontario, Canada. If you have a diary to share (no more than 450 words), write to TES Friday, Admiral House, 66-68 East Smithfield, London E1W 1BX or email firstname.lastname@example.org. We pay for every article we publish