Recently, a kindly reader dropped the paper a line to complain that all I wrote about was my mid-life crisis.

I, of course, was offended because I don’t believe this kindly reader went far enough. In fact, I think he pussyfooted around.

If he had really had the guts to stand by his accusation, he’d have accused me of spending not only the last few years but my whole life wallowing in a self-inflicted paranoia. And if he had done that, I’d have tipped my hat to him.

You see, the great privilege of being able to write and see those words printed is that it is wonderfully and joyously cathartic, self-indulgent and unapologetically selfish.

I remember a previous editor of mine, Cliff Waller, once saying to me: “Don’t ever forget how arrogant it is to assume that anyone would ever want to read what you write.”

And he was then, is, and always will be right.

I got into journalism for three reasons: 1. I got sacked from every other job I had 2. I wanted to meet girls (and let somebody else pay) 3. I wanted to appear more important than any talent I did possess could ever equal.

And subsequently I’ve loved every second of it.

Like everyone in this business, I started out as a news reporter but within weeks was told I was too opinionated. Instead I found myself relegated – at least that’s what I thought at the time – to not writing about the news but rather commentating on it.

And certainly for the last 31 years, 11 months and two weeks, I have quite rightly considered myself the luckiest man alive.

But the kindly reader who complained was more right than he knew – writing opinion allows you to exorcise all manner of demons and I’m sure like every single human ever born, we have plenty of those to share around.

And since I have genuinely wallowed in pre-teen tantrums, teenage terrors, early twenties jitters, late twenties qualms, mid-thirties panick, pre-forties pessimism, middle forties delusion (I thought I was still in my 20s) and the big Five-Oh reality of 50 (actually, nowhere near as bad as you might imagine), then of course much of that will have slipped into my commentary.

Indeed, hand-on-heart, I think it would be a crying shame if aged 90 I still didn’t worry and hyperventilate.

Which brings me neatly to this week’s cold sweat shivers – the Oxford Literary Festival, starting this Saturday.

I love it.

Not so much because of the brilliance of its organisation or the absurd intelligence of its speakers but because I get to drink coffee out of fine china, lunch for free and every so often, steal myself a glass or two of prosecco. And because of these three immutables, I’m worried I’ll catch cold – or eat a dodgy curry – and thus be unable to attend.

Now I’ll admit that’s not a mid-life crisis but it sure as hell is reason to worry...

email: jsmith@oxfordmail.co.uk

t: @oxmailjsmith