NATURALLY, I was as delighted as anyone else when Britain won the race to stage the 2012 Olympics. What an honour to host the world's greatest event. Fantastic. Triumphant. Inspirational.

But then Jack, 11, hit me with a comment as painful as a well-aimed javelin: "Hey, Dad, you'll be 50 when the Olympics come to London."

He was right. Fifty. Unbelievable. Depressing. Terrifying.

My oldest child will be 22, quite possibly a father himself, and I could well be a grandad. London's triumph had suddenly served as a warning of how quickly time is flying. And it was swiftly followed by another timely reminder last week when Jack left primary school for the final time. He'll be following his brother and sister to big school in September, leaving only the little 'un behind. Three down, one to go.

On their second from last day, Jack's classmates performed a leaving play based on a school reunion in the year 2025. They had to imagine what they might be doing 20 years from now, write a script and perform it in front of parents and teachers...

"Hi Jack, what ya been up to?" asked Joshua as the play opened.

"Just won Wimbledon for the second time," replied Jack, wearing his tennis gear and a fake Rolex.

"Oh, I've been working in a fish and chip shop," said Joshua.

"Well, I've just been named Footballer of the Year for the third time," Jacob chipped in.

And so the reunion went on: Danny was an archaeologist; Nathan a policeman; Beth an Olympic runner; Rebecca a famous gymnast; Ben had won the French Open; and Liam lived in a nine-bedroom castle bought with the proceeds of his glittering football career.

The teachers had done remarkably well for themselves too: headteacher Mr Allison, who fancies himself as a bit of a golfer, had won the Masters; Sunderland fan Mr Graham had become manager of his beloved Black Cats; Mrs Barnes had won Pop Idol with her own version of Is This The Way To Amarillo?; dog-lover Mrs Haines had got a plum job walking the Queen's corgis; Mrs Sellars, described as a good listener, had become an agony aunt on The Northern Echo; Miss Frost seemed particularly excited that she'd ended up marrying rugby pin-up Jonny Wilkinson; and Mrs Petch was doing something with donkeys which I didn't quite understand.

"Right, good to see you all again - I'm off speed-dating," announced Jack as he left the stage. (I discovered later that he was going to say that he was off to marry pop star Rachel Stevens but he thought that might sound a bit far-fetched.)

The children followed up their play with a joyful chorus of When I'm 64 which features the sobering line "You'll be older too".

As they sang their little hearts out, I reflected on the fact that I'll be on the verge of my 64th birthday in the year 2025 and began to imagine what I might be doing: my wife had left me for a younger man with considerably more hair; I'd just been dropped from the carpet bowls team for not being athletic enough; and all 26 grandchildren - most of them the result of Jack's speed-dating adventures - had come round for tea in my tiny bedsit which was all I could afford after selling the house to help the kids onto the property ladder.

Best not to think too hard about the future, eh?

www.thisisthenortheast.co.uk /dadatlarge/