My husband and I fall back onto the bed hot and panting, sweat glistening our skin.

Oi!  Eyes up top. Get your mind out of the gutter, it was nothing like that. We’d just finished putting the duvet cover on.

This is what counts for excitement in middle aged life.

I feel I should point out that I’m a glamourous and sexy 53 (you should see me in my dog walking coat, bobble hat perched on my hat in a come-hither way, poo bags at the ready.)

My husband, at 74, is pretty much a dead man walking.

Edit* reading this hubby claims he is only 62 – we may be in more trouble than we think.

Lying in each other’s arms, trying to catch our breath, – again with the smut, – we’re still recovering from the duvet cover.

Where was I? Yes, lying in each other’s arms. Well actually me kinda jack-knifed in place, his arm under my hip until his back stops seizing.

So, lying in bed we compare ailments.

This has become a familiar routine, like reverse foreplay. He lists off his various aches and pains. I counter with mine, then we attempt to roll over and fall asleep.

There’s a similar pattern to our mornings.  Him bringing me coffee, which if I’m snoring he leaves at the door (I don’t know what he’s talking about – I reckon it’s the neighbours.)

If I’m awake, or he’s feeling sadistic he’ll come in all chatty and we will compete to see who had the worst nights sleep. Him getting up every twelve minutes to pee, standing there for a full hour just waiting.

While I attempt to top trump him with 3am insomnia and hearing his snoring from the other room.

This is our life.

At weekends, we have a leisurely lie in. Once the aches and pains have been fully discussed and we’ve decided what we want for tea, we lie together dozing, working out what to do with are day.

After a busy week, the weekend calls with exciting opportunities.

‘There’s a film at the cinema,’ he suggests.

‘Or there’s a new exhibition at the art gallery,’ I offer.

We both pause in the silence.

‘Or,’ he whispers in his filthiest voice, ‘we could just stay home and potter about?’

Oh, be still my beating heart.

A weekend of wearing comfy clothes, reading books, maybe a walk the dog.

‘You make the best sausage butty,’ I purr seductively. This is not a euphemism – he does make a really good sausage butty – even my veggie one, the sausages always a slight disappointment, are bought to life slathered in brown sauce.

We lie on the bed a bit longer. Lying here, just chatting, dozing then reminding the other one that we need a new mop.  These are the times when we feel ageless. This could be us at any point in the past nearly 30 years.

Until one of us moves.

Then it’s all groans and moans and that huffing sound when you try to get yourself upright. Never mind fumbling for glasses and eyedrops and the ‘better had’ wee before you can face the stairs.

Is this what we thought married life would be, back then when we were young and free?

Or when I was, at least.

He has always been an old man to me.