MY wife says I'm turning into my father.
We should be so lucky. After 40 years of marriage, she's seen and heard plenty of evidence, has M'Lady, to judge I'm a chip off the old block.
Like my dad, I'm now more into comfort than style, although I suspect that doesn't excuse me dressing like a hobo on my days off.
I'm spending less time combing my hair than I do pruning the undergrowth in my nose and ears. What could we catch that it needs inches long nasal hairs to deal with it?
Increasingly, I'm unable to rise from a kneeling position, or a telly sofa slump, without making involuntary noises.
This is not the same noise as when I'm scraping the last remnants from pots of yogurt and jam, but equally irritating to herself.
I'm a noisy big sod, actually. Nancy and Molly, our cat, disappear when I shout at the telly in disbelief that wee Gordon Strachan's Scotland players don't do what I tell them.
Not doing what the sat-nav tells me invariably sees my short cuts stalled in dead-end streets — provoking "what a plonker" looks from the passenger seat.
And I never throw anything away. Well, you never know when I may need those spare vacuum belts I put in the basement in 1992 (Nancy claims the vacuum itself died in 2003).
Mrs S isn't convinced it's merely coincidence her late father-in-law Jimmy did all of the above. I'm turning into his clone, it's true, but she is unimpressed that I refuse to copy his slippers — though sincerely grateful the toilet does not yet carry a health warning for an hour after I've been in.
Of course, saying I'm turning into my dad could be Nancy's way of telling me I'm finally growing up. Oh, she says that'll be the day.
It's claimed the average British male starts turning into his dad at 38. It's taken me a while, then.
A survey among 2000 adult partners for TV channel Gold listed the top 30 signposts, with the most common giveaways being falling asleep in your front room, spending more time in the shed, and public "dad dancing".
I'll plead guilty only to the first, and I don't recognise other so-called signs, such as having your personal telly chair (I sit where the cat lets me), not knowing the acts in the top 40 (call that music?), finding it funny to embarrass younger family members (they need no help from me), and having a man drawer to hoard assorted cables, old keys, and takeaway menus.
Not on the list, and surely more relevant, is being on nodding terms with the guys at the local tip and treating a visit to a Clyde Valley garden centre as a day out.
That last one equally applies to women, so are you ladies not turning into your mother?
That's Nancy's greatest fear. We loved Jeanie, but when she lived with us for her last few years she would walk round the house turning off the lights, or put on a cardy to save on heating. Nancy is a hot-house plant.
My mother-in-law would give her family her last penny but wouldn't spend anything on herself (if Nancy tried that, Frasers would go bust).
Then there's buying clothes and returning them, rather than trying them on in the shop; getting excited about saving supermarket coupons; and plumping up the sofa cushions before heading to the shops (well, the house has to be presentable to burglars).
It's hardly surprising we inherit some of our parents' traits, and don't tell me you've never repeated to your own kids things they said to you, such as — This will hurt me more than it hurts you; How do you know you don't like it if you haven't tried it?; Let mummy kiss it better; Why didn't you go before we got in the car?
And the Glasgow classic, Make sure you're wearing clean underwear in case you get knocked down.
In my dad's youth, going for a pee was known as "a whisper".
It's probably apocryphal, but he told of a babysitting uncle being pestered by a wee nephew, pleading: "I have to whisper, I have to whisper."
Uncle, not taking his eyes off the telly, replied: "Okay, wee man, whisper in my ear."
I miss my dad. It's comforting I'm increasingly seeing him in the mirror.
THE Office for National Statistics say 25 per cent of male Weegies born between 2010 and 2012 won't see 65, the UK's lowest life expectancy.
It's a shameful indictment of a Labour council that has failed this city for 60-odd years, but it's also true that no-one is forced to smoke, drink, do drugs and eat rubbish.