Suddenly, the wolves are encircling my cosy little encampment once again.
This is because another big birthday has arrived and a number of agencies want a piece of the action. First out of the blocks was the heart specialist, who sent me a friendly reminder that it would be prudent to check the ticker again, even though he's found nothing significant to complain about over the years.
This involves being wired-up and trotting on a treadmill, which I suppose is like listening to a vintage car's motor running to determine if the carburettor needs a bit of tuning. I'm grateful to have been spared major surgery on this useful organ after a fellow media mate recently told me he'd just spent $70,000 getting his pump retuned.
A second reminder came from my eye specialist, who notes that at my age it's time to re-check what's going on at the back of my eyeballs.
I'm very fond of my eye specialist, a charming young lady who last year restored my sight to something approaching that of a 16-year old, by removing cataracts and honing-up my tired old lenses. I'm happy for this particular surgeon to stick her knife and fork into my eyeballs any old time, because in her spare time she plays a violin in a string quartet and therefore has hands I completely trust.