I've just had a full blown, head-in-the-hands, hide-under-the-duvet-and-cry sort of mid life crisis. It didn't last long, but while it did, I lost all sense of perspective and felt worse than I have in years.

As you can imagine, this is a deeply personal experience that I wouldn't even feel comfortable talking to my best friends about. So I thought it would make sense to share it with the entire online world. This piece had been deleted because I had an attack of the jitters after I posted it. Anyway, due to public demand it's all here now.

We are pleased to inform you that we can now return to your scheduled reading. Alterations have been made for your comfort and safety. The original article follows after the amended version, in italic font.

Communist infiltrators aside, it’s been an interesting weekend. I pondered for quite a while before I sat down to write the Crisis essay, reasoning that I wanted to do something with the Sunday Journal that was a bit different. Rather than telling people what to think (My usual tactic) or poking fun at the state of the world (Always a safe bet), I thought it might be a change to do something a bit more personal.

I was listening to the radio a couple of weeks ago, and the topic of discussion was Sunday Papers. These massive collections of supplements and magazines, full of anything BUT news, but in which the journalists have more time to consider and research what they are writing, and a medium which attracts a more interesting mix of contributors.

And I thought – Wow – wouldn’t it be great if we could do that in Arksanctum? The idea that every Sunday morning, you could fire up your computer and know that there was fifteen minutes worth of reading to do which would fulfill some sort of criteria. After a bit more think time, I decided that what ever was produced for this category would need to be personal, non political, honest, and thoughtful enough to challenge the reader in some way. Hopefully there would be enough humour in it to raise an eyebrow, if not a smile, and enough relevance to inspire people to join the debate in a meaningful way.

Now, as weeks go, last week really was a shitty one. But by the time I’d come to write about it I’d got my head well and truly back together and all was well with the world. But I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else at my time of life was standing on the precipice of their latter years with a terrifying sense of vertigo.

For some reason I’ve equated growing older with becoming less attractive, and the whole “getting old” thing is a concept I find difficult to see in a positive light. I sort of thought that maybe most people would have a view on this. Not least the way the media presents us with images of youth and beauty which must surely make us all feel inadequate at some point.

But I wasn’t comfortable with the article, because there were aspects in it which really didn’t reflect the way things are. Yes, I’d like to be swept of my feet by Jessica Rabbit. But if given the opportunity I’d most likely settle for domestic bliss. It’s doing a dis-service to my partner to suggest otherwise.

Perhaps that’s the problem. Growing older is probably about learning to distinguish between fantasy and reality, and accept that reality isn’t quite so bad as you first feared. In the same way that I’m happy to write for the half dozen Arksanctum readers, rather than the millions of adoring fans I hoped to gain with Marris and Wade, I’m happy to settle for a relatively happy family life rather than chase around after an Amazonian goddess with a diamante Tierra.

And that’s why I pulled the essay. It simply didn’t say what I wanted to say. I’m worried about growing old. I’m worried about losing my mind, and my credibility. The fear of becoming undesirable is part of that, but not the core of it.

So, come on guys. (and girls). This isn’t supposed to be about me. If you’ve got something to contribute, ditch the pseudonyms and tell us what you really think. I bet we can come up with some revealing and insightful dialogue if we gave it a go.

Getting older without the panic? Dicuss.

Oh, and just for the record, I might like the idea of partners being slightly older than myself, but Gerontophile? That’s not a healthy train of thought, Brian. I may have admitted that I’d rather have a forty year old than two twenty year olds, But I’d sure as hell rather have two forty year olds than one eighty-year old.

I think I'm known at work as a generally happy type of person. In fact, one or two people have actually commented that they find it annoying that I'm always “So bloody cheerful in the morning”. My usual answer to that is to explain that they don't pay me enough to be miserable. and leave it at that. But I mean it. I don't earn a fortune doing my job, and if it got me down that much I'd look for something else to do instead. As it is, I have a kind of balance. I don't get quite as much pay as I'd like, but I enjoy my job enough to make it worth the money.

And it started a downward spiral in my head. A worry loop which took in all manner of issues that don't normally matter a fig to me. I'm overweight. came first. Closely followed by I'm losing my hair, which was followed soon after with. God, I'm too old to date students any more.

Now, to appreciate why that last thought is so ridiculous, you need to put it into context. In my whole life, (assuming you don't count my time in school when I was below the age of consent anyway) I have never dated a student. Even when I was a teenager, I never hit the campuses. I've always been attracted to people older than myself, or at least roughly my own age. It's an old joke, but I've said many times that I'd rather have a forty year old than two twenty year-olds...

Okay, I admit that I've dated a few people who had been students in the past. But that's not the same thing, is it? However, this one ridiculous thought kept banging away inside my head like a woodpecker. The notion that I was now too old to have giggling stick insects with bare mid drifts falling at my feet was now such an important issue that I found it difficult to keep my head together.

“Think of Sean Connery.” the voice of optimism chirped up. Only to be drowned in a chorus of wailing voices telling me I had much more in common with Arthur Mullard.

All this is perhaps all the more bizarre when you consider that I'm already in a relationship. It's not as if I have to get out into the big wide world and hunt myself a mate to drag back to the cave. If you speak to my partner, she'll tell you without a moment's hesitation that she sold herself short when she let me move my stuff in, and that I should be grateful! So what was all this chin-on-the-floor lamentation of lost youth for? What was it really all about?

Related:

• Happy Planet

• BBC News - Britain's Happiness in Decline

• BBC - Strictly Come Dancing. Gethin and Camilla