OF all the jobs in the world, I had to walk into this one. And you know what, in the grand scheme of things, it ain’t bad.

But after 32 years, I can’t help feeling... dispirited.

Which is why for much of last week I couldn’t stop wondering if maybe I hadn’t let life pass me by. So what do I think I should have become at this critical stage of my life?

Well just someone who ‘rocks’, I think. You know, someone heroic, someone admired, someone old enough to know better. Or just simply the following: An astronaut – can you honestly think of anything else that would make grown men wait in line, just to shake your hand. Imagine how your wife/girlfriend would feel, knowing that each night you’d be coming home from your capsule in Cape Canaveral, dressed in your sexy blue overalls that just crow understated hero.

My God, it would be sex every night before dinner... and deservedly so.

Heck, you wouldn’t even have to spend a great deal on foreign holidays to impress the neighbours; you’d simply have to grin while washing your car on a Sunday, let something slip about ‘depressurisation’ and do a modest ‘it-was-touch-and-go-but-here-I-am-all-the-same’ thumbs up, and you’d never have any problems with boundary disputes Airline Pilot – all of the above, plus the uniform and the stewardess, especially those from the Scandinavian airlines who all seem to wear elbow-length white gloves.

You only fly for about seven hours a week, get to stay in swanky hotels and look cool in front of school parties.

Junior doctor – be careful, you don’t want to be an ordinary GP, they all seem to have beards, wear horrible glasses and bobbly pullovers and be constantly suffering from depression.

No, I’d want to be a junior doctor of the kind you see in ER – you know, those green in-theatre smocks, stethoscopes hung coolly around their necks, clipboards in their hands.

And just imagine meeting your girlfriend’s parents for the first time: “Yes I’m currently an intern at the JR, but I hope to specialise soon in cardiology and move to Boston...’ Her father would swing his arm around my shoulder, while her mother would giggle all girlie-like and pretend to be coy.

Professional rugby player – aaaaaggggghhhhhh! Oh to have been born with the kind of genes that meant I only had to look at a steak to be boasting an instant six-pack.

This is the kind of job that just screams sex appeal, and all you have to do is turn up every Saturday in a pair of shorts and a torn rugby top to earn four years’ average salary a week.

And while I’m none of the above, I still think I have every reason to be thankful – after all, I could have ended up in a carpet warehouse.