I don’t know about this getting old thing. If I were a tractor, by way of comparison, I’d be an ageing Fendt with around 8,800 hours, that should be good – if it’s minded – for a hassle-free 11,000 hours. After that you’re into injury time and it could break your heart.

The bodywork looks good enough, though you’d be amazed at what a good wash and polish might do. The cylinder head is fine, but watch the temperature. If it gets too hot it’ll blow, so take it handy and it’ll be grand. But the tyres are bald and the exhaust gas can be obnoxious in a confined area.

It’s hard to start, but once it’s up and running it’ll pull like a train and without any AdBlue.

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Be warned however, the hydraulic pressure is not brilliant and prone to leaks, which could embarrass you with a puddle on a clean workshop floor in the like of Bruno’s, where it wouldn’t go unnoticed. The lads would find it hilarious that Potterton’s leaking.

And the all-important front PTO and the linkage is a bit slow to lift, but it’ll work the finest if it gets a bit of a jizz up every so often.

Grease it and it won’t let you down. Power Beyond? Forget it, this is old-fashioned grunt with two spools and a joystick. What more do you want?

You get the picture and that’s where I am. But the problem of ageing is becoming a bit of an issue, and especially first thing in the morning.

Putting on my socks used to be something that I could do, without even thinking about it. Now it’s a big deal.

All of a sudden, I haven’t enough reach (possibly something to do with my big belly).

If I do get a sock started then I fall over like a roly-poly toy and I have to wake Mrs P to help me up. Instead, I reverse my arse up against the bed end to stop toppling over.

I’ve now come to the conclusion for this cold spell at least, it’s easier to keep the bloody socks on. This gives me an extra 10 minutes in bed. Yes, I know, I may get trench foot.

Probably related to all this, is my balance. I was a tight rope walker in my youth and now I can’t walk along the top of a 9inch wall. Ladders? Two rungs up and I get vertigo.

As a boarding schoolboy in Drogheda, it was a rite of passage to edge around the 12-inch stone parapet on the top of the pillars of Macneill’s great railway viaduct.

If you slipped or freaked out, it was a 90-foot drop into the Boyne. Obviously, I was able to do it as I’m still here. But if you were unlucky, the Belfast train might thunder overhead and frighten the sh*te out of you.

And now I can hardly wire a plug as my hand shakes too much. I don’t think it’s Parkinsons, as I’ve always had shaky hands, but now they vibrate like a concrete poker.

Memory? Yesterday’s a mystery and last week never happened. Now I only remember stupid stuff about my childhood and other useless information. If I don’t write it down, it’s forgotten.

But hey, as a fellow customer said to me last week in tractor parts supremo John Conaty’s: “When you can get up, dress and eat your breakfast all by yourself, it’s still a great day.”

By the way, Conaty is the man who has everything you need to smarten up and keep an ageing Fendt tractor running sweetly – or any other make.

Not sure that he could do much for me though.