Wooden you know it, I’m 828 years old you know. And I’m still living in Chepstow.

Imagine if you were to suddenly discover that you were older than you actually are. Not by a few years, but tens of years.

There you’d be at a grand old age of 20, busying yourself with posting every facet of your life on SnapGramTwitFace five hundred times a day, taking inspiration from scarecrows by wearing jeans with multiple holes ripped in them, and eating so many takeaways that Greece would feel compelled to open an embassy in your arteries.

But then one day you learn that you’re actually 75, and immediately take a keen interest in corduroy, driving slowly and getting in everyone’s way in supermarkets and garden centres at the weekend when you could easily have visited midweek instead.

Ageing that quickly would be a little disconcerting to say the least, but it couldn’t possibly happen. Unless you’re a wooden door of course. In which case, it’s perfectly possible to have your age debated on a fairly regular basis, because nobody really knows for sure when you were made.