I was trying to carry my son’s big, heavy gaming chair out of his room, at the weekend, so I could give the carpet a good hoovering, when I caught my forearm on the strike plate on the door frame.

Ouch! It hurt.

There was blood.

A bit.

And I’ll probably have a scar, which is cool, as chicks dig scars… apparently.

And this reminds me of a few years ago at a works (pre-Covid) Christmas party, I was strutting my stuff on the dancefloor (encouraged by several pints of wife-beater), when I noticed a gaggle of girls from the planning department looking at me and laughing.

I sidled my way over to where they were sitting, to see what all the merriment was about.

They told me that they were building their perfect man, using bits from all the available men in the room and that I had made the shortlist.

Obviously, I was quite pleased to hear this, but was intrigued as to which of my many, many fantastic attributes had made the grade.

Was it my Travolta-like dancing skills, I wondered?

Or was it my strong, square jawline, reminiscent of a young Marlon Brando?

Perhaps it was my six-pack torso which, admitedly, can nowadays be better likened to a Watney’s Red Barrel.

No.

Apparently, it was my forearms. They really liked my forearms.

Now, it’s not the first time I have been complimented on these particular appendages. Some years ago, when I was so much younger and fitter, a fitness trainer at the gym remarked that I had forearms … “like Popeye”.

I think it was a compliment.

Anyway, the girls refused to tell me who else in the room was on the list, but you know what… forearms…?  Yeah, I’ll take that.