Wasted on the young

I am speaking to one of my work "favourites". As I could be the parent of most of my work colleagues, I am delighted when they want to speak to me, when they want to include me in anything.
We are talking about the upcoming match between Tottenham and Leeds. I am telling him about a friend who is coming down on a stag night to see the game, and he is saying that he has tickets. There is general excitement and banter. We don't support the same team (he rips the shit out of me for my love of West Ham constantly); we don't have a lot in common (the fact I could be his mum negates this). We share a mutual love of football which makes us both extremely animated when we speak about it, and always detriorates into "West Ham would get a nose bleed if they made it to the top five." Which, in fairness, is a good point these days (though roll on the takeover where we will be resplendant in porn, swearing and footy thanks to Gold and Sullivan, though add in a co sponsorship by Cadburys and Adnams for Wiltshire Heaven).
We are talking about good places to go drinking after. The conversation progresses, and we are l speaking about nights out. I (loosely) reference my murky past, as I am fairly sure that he is convinced I was born old, as all of us are as teenagers, of those older yet no wiser than us. I casually ask him to guess how old I am.

He guesses almost exactly. Except he makes it one year older than I am, making me 36. I turn 36 in five months time exactly, and despite this, I am horrified.

He has over aged me (by all of five months). Worse, he has a look on his face that suggests he is underestimating what he believes to be my real age to please me. Which means that he thinks that I am substantially older than I actually am. And this despite my being inordinately immature at all times.

Time to cover the tits up methinks, and hand the Hooters crown over to another, perkier, contender. Sigh...