We are where my mother lives before driving back to York for Christmas.

Dashing out on a mission I pass one of the neighbours. We’ve spoken before but she’s forgotten that. ‘Are you a new resident?’ she asks.

A while later I go to put a bag of rubbish down a chute and meet a dog called George. Pets aren’t allowed here and George’s owner asks if I am all right with dogs. ‘So-so,’ I say.

‘I can see that,’ he says.

George runs up to me regardless, trailing his lead, then does a friendly circuit around my legs His owner calls him back and explains that the flat used to belong to his father.

Then he asks: ‘Are you a new resident?’

‘No,’ I say, trying not to sound mildly cross.

Twice within the space of an hour. I must look older than I thought. All that exercise and latent vanity and people still think I might live in a retirement home. This is both mildly annoying and yet unsurprising. I’ve just checked and the age limit is 60 and I am more than nine years past that.

So I could be in one of those apartments off the long corridor where often no one stirs, apart from a visiting dog called George.

But still, it’s a bit much. I will never live in one of those places until, well, age and fate suggest otherwise.

Mum is nearly 94, wobbly after a bad fall in the summer, and she still feels put out about living somewhere like that.

Now we are home in York, sitting on the sofa. I am typing this and mum is asking if I know where her phone is. I often ask myself the same about my own phone.

‘Are you sitting on it?’ I say. That turns out to be the solution.

Anyway, this is a diversion around the rocks of age rather than the usual Trump-bashing, Farage-despairing to be found around here. Such topics will almost certainly still be there in the new year. But for now I am parking the opinions for Christmas with all the usual familial suspects, aged three to 93.

The youngest member was asked at nursery what she was looking forward to at Christmas. ‘Meeting all my family,’ she said.

Have a happy Christmas, whatever your age, whether you are looking after or being looked after. Or just hoping to slope off to a party soon (guilty on that score) and later to visit the shed where a mini-cask of beer sits cooling.