There are some key advantages to being five.
The obvious ones include spending the vast majority of your life on school holidays and never having to worry about how much you drink because you are too young to drive and you always have a taxi driver on hand. Being able to run everywhere without getting out of breath must have its perks and I imagine being able to swing on monkey bars without having to endure hours at a military fitness camp must feel rather marvellous.
Then there are the less obvious thrills of being five; spotting the sea on a cold blustery day and within seconds stripping down to your smalls and launching into the waves with complete abandonment.
Then running circuits in the sand when the realisation of having no towels to dry oneself on hits home.
Then curling up in front of a Chiminera and roasting marshmallows with your Godfather. A treat I can confirm is not restricted to the age of five.
Being five, from what I can see it pretty fabulous, perhaps only topped by being one as that involves being carried most places and being cuddled excessively by those whose love knows no bounds.
Cuddles are still good at five, but sometimes mums sloppy kisses get wiped away with a mucky paw in the playground in front of year fives; when a mothers love is embarrassing rather than endearing.
But why, when as a growed up I can see being five is flipping fandabbydozzy, do my pair simply dream of the success of being six?