THERE are times when I feel like the invisible man. By nature, I’m an attention-seeker but I don’t get anywhere near enough attention for my liking.

I burst into rooms dramatically but no one looks up. I crack rather funny jokes, but members of my family just roll their eyes and say they’ve heard them several times before. I tell them interesting things about my day at work, but they just smile and carry on watching telly as if I’m not there.

I have just turned 53. Yes, that’s right – a half-a-century plus three. Very old, I know.

I accept that I am looking, and feeling, my age. The hair is grey and waving goodbye. The bags under my eyes are big enough to carry a week’s groceries. When I bend down, it takes me a whole day and a sophisticated pulley system to get back up.

And the years have clearly taken their toll... Unbeknown to me, my 22-year-old daughter, who lives in London, texted my wife a few days before my birthday with a pertinent question: “How old is Dad going to be?” My wife did a quick calculation and texted back: “He’s 18 months younger than me so he must be 43.”

My beloved daughter was apparently taken aback and replied: “Ooh, don’t tell him I said so but he looks a lot older than that!”

Both my wife and daughter really believed I was 43. How hard a paper round must I have had?

Of course, we shouldn’t overlook the fact that my wife is under the illusion that she’s also ten years younger than she really is. But our daughter wasn’t the slightest bit surprised by her Mum’s relative youth – just the fact that her Dad looks “a lot older”.

For the record, a great deal has happened in that forgotten decade.

I’ve worked my fingers to the bone to keep them all in the comfort to which they have become accustomed. Latest figures say the average cost of raising a child is £311 per month. Given that I’ve got four of the blighters, I reckon they’ve cost me somewhere close to £150,000 in that forgotten decade.

There has been a family holiday every year of that forgotten decade and, believe it or not, I was there – the tubby bloke directing games of “keepy uppy” in the pool.

I’ve attended countless school and college open nights, as well as university open days, during that “forgotten decade”.

And I could have driven around the world on all the petrol Dad’s Taxi has used during that forgotten decade. Yes that was me, the tired fella in the driving seat.

I could go on, but you get my drift.

The past ten years have meant something to me, but they have clearly passed my wife and daughter by. Well, I’m very sorry I don’t pass for a 43-year-old – but time waits for no man.

Anyway, I’m pleased to say there is a new woman in my life – my three-year-old niece Isabella, who lives in Los Angeles.

Her dad, my brother Paul, kindly sent a video via Facebook on my birthday. “Let’s wish Uncle Peter happy birthday,” says Paul, smiling enthusiastically.

“No, I want to play bubbles,” replies Isabella, who promptly switches off the camera.

Well, at least I think I’m important.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

JOE Westcott, 11, was born in Bermuda, but is English through and through and now lives in Middlesbrough. It was, therefore, a surprise when his dad asked which party he would vote for in the General Election if he were old enough and Joe replied: “The Welsh one.”

THANK you to Christine Hepworth, who passed on a declaration of intent from her grandson, Ben Stevens, aged seven, of Darlington: “I’m not going to get married,” said Ben, “because your wife makes you go shopping every night after work.” Wise words from someone so young.