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It was bound to happen one day.

As much as I’d hoped the moment would never come, it did on St Patrick’s Day just gone – a day on which, like my birthday, I always feel quite special because I claim distant Irish heritage and, to be honest, it is a good opportunity to catch up with others of similarly distant Gaelic lineage, talk nonsense, listen to dreary dirges about the old country and drink foaming dark stuff.

I got on the bus late that afternoon to head to one of several (faux) Irish pubs a few stops from home. The bus was quite crowded with schoolkids and people of all ages coming home from work.

The only available seat was one put aside for people with mobility issues – seats the able-bodied (like me) and young are expected to vacate when immobile, elderly and infirm people and parents with prams board. The vacant seat was next to a grey-haired man in a green shirt, who said something like: “Sit here next to me and rest your bones, old fella.”

I winced slightly. Then I realised it was one of the blokes (a mate I’ve known for decades who also claims distant Irish heritage) I was due to meet at the pub.

“Very funny,” I said, sitting.

At the next stop a young woman with a pram boarded. We immediately stood and folded up our seats so that she and her baby could fit. We had two stops to go, so moved towards the back of the bus.

A man occupying two seats immediately stood. “Here gents, please sit down,” he said.

This was an act of kindness and civility. But all I heard was “gents”, which was maybe something I heard my dad and his friends called at the cricket 40 years ago when, yes, Dad was probably about the age I am now. The other thing that struck me was that the man who offered his seat was decidedly middle-aged and, to be perfectly (if subjectively and a little judgmentally) honest, not in nearly as good shape as either of us.

Now here is the thing about ageing gracefully or otherwise: there is no more apt metaphor than the boiling frog. You’re in it, you can’t escape it – but you don’t always notice it.

I’m not going to give away my exact age here (let’s just say I was born some time between 1963 and 1968). But in my head and in the mirror (which I avoid but sometimes catch a glimpse of myself in) I am kind of 40ish, which is younger than that bloke who stood up to give us gents his seat. A while ago when I was at a play I caught a glimpse of an older grey-haired man on the other side of the theatre foyer. He was wearing a jacket I liked the look of.

It slowly dawned that it was me reflected in the mirror, wearing the jacket I’d not long ago presented myself with for a significant birthday.

One of my much older mates, who is as fit as a flea, nimble and acute of mind, has a saying as he ages. “Don’t let the old man in,” he says.

It’s good advice. My door is slammed shut to the old man. Keeping it firmly closed involves everything from physical and mental maintenance to the retention of open-minded attitudes on popular culture, social mores, evolution – and fashion. By fashion I mean not being judgmental of its trends as displayed by others; I am decidedly, consistently, unfashionable, having maintained my standard Melbourne circa-1984 “look” of double-(blue/black) denim, boots and woolly (if now very grey and thinning) hair.

I don’t feel old, senior or in need of a bus seat, although the man who offered his clearly thought I – or we – did. Maybe it was the bloke I was with, who is six years older. I hope. And that’s what I told him: “He was doing that for you – not me.”

Having refused his offer we moved further down the bus. And there another man who looked to be about my age (or at least the age I imagine myself to be) stood and offered us his seat too.

I might walk next time. Walking – something else that helps keep the old man out.

• Paul Daley is a Guardian Australia columnist