Hearing myself on video is akin to an auditory out of body experience. The tone sounds familiar but the language used is that of my father, causing consternation to reign.

I have never subscribed to the ‘you’re turning into your dad’ narrative. But I find myself making comments that, as I play back the day’s events in my head, render the conclusion that it is not only a likelihood, but a cast iron certainty.

When trousers become less Levi and more chest high, when prices are described as ‘reasonable’ and when each time you self-hoist up from the inert position you wail in faux pain. Recently when one of my bairns stated "it’s not fair", I retorted "it’s not raining!" It was at that precise moment that I knew I had passed the halfway point and had succumbed to Dadism.

New music is a minefield and listening to XFM has turned from a pleasure into a chore. Bad manners genuinely grate and I get a thrill firing complaints emails to St Albans District Council for yet another ‘initiative’ that will prove to be unworkable, impractical and costly. Add to that, I have no idea who Stormzy is.

I have some distance to tread until I fully morph into Father. Thankfully I don’t enjoy Mrs Brown’s Boys. I also have not yet acquired the driving gloves or wooden beaded seat covers that soothe and relax sore muscles after a monumental one-mile round trip to Morrisons for a pint of milk as he doesn’t "trust" the local BP bovine by-product.

Despite being a comfortably off baby boomer, the frugality of his generation is a mantra worn as a badge of honour. As post war children, rations and sharing one tin bath a week were the order of the day, and receiving an apple for Christmas was recompense. Despite this they "thought themselves lucky".

Far from mocking this upbringing, it was undoubtedly character forming and gives credence to their justified bemoaning of modern day waste. A few years ago, I mistakenly believed my Father had bought a new pair of shoes. This was a monumental event after 20 years wearing the same old tattered pair of black loafers. Peculiarly he plumped for the same style, in white. Upon further investigation, he admitted he had some leftover paint and decided to give the originals a makeover. He still wears his emulsions now and is proud at having never gotten a second coat.

Trust is an issue. After being scammed by a salesperson who ended up taking control of his PC, he now rarely trots into the technological field. He carries cash after claiming his cash card got skimmed and the easiest way to wind him up is to rearrange his carefully departmentalised larder.

As years progress, I carry more daddage. Long-winded stories with no purpose, laughing at my own jokes and not giving a damn what people think are all subsidiary behaviours that become more prevalent with age. The 10 o’clock news become a must watch and not a stumble upon, the National Trust is strangely alluring and ownership of a pair of slippers is top of the Christmas wish list.

Next up is ensuring I have a ‘Jimmy’ and checking the window locks 25 times before venturing outside, not committing to anything as that’s the ‘washing/shopping/Doctor’s appointment day and bidding goodnight by announcing I am climbing ‘the wooden ladder’.

I have even formed my own one man chapter of the Neighbourhood Watch as I monitor the road's car parking situation. I enjoy erecting shelving: I possess a filing cabinet and a gardening jumper: I know the best services on the M25, M4 and M5 and I collect soap bars from hotels ‘just in case’.

Despite all that, it is manageable for now and with Father's Day approaching in June it’s worth remembering that, for all their foibles and annoyances, coupled with protestations that you will not become them, they are singular and unique, and once they have gone you will wish you’d embraced the quirkiness. Like it or not, they are the mirror to your future you. That said, I’ve got some shoes with ‘some life in them yet’…now where did I put my Hush Puppies and half pot of Wickes emulsion?