Generations come, and generations go. I am now in the last generation – my family’s last, anyway. It is a strange feeling, looking down.

I emerged into this state a couple of weeks ago, when my last aunt died at the age of 95. If my calculations are correct, I have had 12 aunts, though not all at once. My mother had four sisters, and my father had two sisters and five brothers. All the brothers married at least once, and all but one had children. 

The aunt who has recently died is Thelma, my mother’s youngest sister. I can’t say I knew her well, though she never lived far away from me (except when I lived in London). She was not a great one for socialising, especially after her husband – to my eyes, a bit of a ringer for Robert Mitchum – died. For many years I doorstepped her at Christmas, and more recently still have been visiting her at a care home.

She was looked after pre-care home by a neighbour, and then by the neighbour’s daughter, to whom I’m extremely grateful. We will be two of probably fewer than half a dozen at her cremation this week. 

So who am I left with in my own generation? I’m pretty sure that this varied collection of aunts and uncles produced 14 cousins for me, and I had two younger brothers. Of that 16, I believe nine survive. The next generation is thinning already. 

It is at this point that I lose track. Although I have tried my hand at a digging up the family tree, I have trouble with the offspring of two uncles, one of whom lived most of his life and died in Africa, while the other moved to the south coast of England, where his children multiplied. In each case I know one cousin. Oddly the African-born one now lives in Liverpool. 

It is said that everyone now alive in England is descended from Charlemagne. You can see how that could happen. My wife has just discovered – quite accidentally – a branch of her own tree that runs to many pages in the North Walsham area of Norfolk. Her parents are Norfolk born and bred, but she was born in Glasgow. Someone, somewhere, will be trying to work that out one day. If you do work it out, please let me know – but you’ll have to make it soon. If you’re too late, tell my son. He lives in Canada. 

You may have missed the Olympics. If so, you must have been out of the country, or denied access to any kind of media. If so, I should explain that it is a recurring worldwide event that focuses on athletics and swimming but includes ever more bizarre activities that attract the description “sports”.

I wasn’t thinking of taekwondo in particular, but I would like to exclude sports where the observer can’t see what the participant is trying to achieve, or where you can’t see whether they succeeded or not.

Mr Grumpy – that’s me. To be honest, I watched a lot of sports, many of them several times, thanks to the BBC’s bizarre scheduling. But despite the brilliant achievement of Keely Hodgkinson in the 800m, I found myself more often than not rather irritated – and not just because the USA won so many medals because it has such a huge population. I think the states should take part individually, but I can see how this view may not be shared by many people. 

I also think it’s time we abolished all sports where medals depend on the opinion of judges, like boxing, diving or anything with artistic impression. Judges are too easily open to bias and straightforward error. I want to see someone clearly win or clearly lose. Of course trap shooting, where the judges don’t seem to be able to see whether a moving target is hit or not, might also have to be excluded. 

How about those sports where foul play is indistinguishable from good play, like basketball and hockey? The rules are so nitpicking that I am constantly amazed at how calmly the players react to ridiculous decisions. Or maybe it’s not the decisions that are ridiculous, but the rules? Someone should sort that out. 

Weren’t the opposing and closing ceremonies wonderful? Not so much. I missed the opening one, but I read that it was capable of unpleasant religious interpretations. In fact the whole ceremony thing is open to the criticism that it is a glorification of mankind, when we have a lot to be modest about. I guess it is part of the plan to exclude God from everything, or maybe I’m misinterpreting it? It was refreshing to see some athletes (particularly Americans, come to think of it) thanking God for their success. 

I did see the closing ceremony, which had some good points – although it achieved the near-impossible feat of making the French National Anthem sound boring. I do have to admit that the whole thing was very clever, in a way that reminded me of prog-rock: tremendously skilful but in the end not very interesting. Tom Cruise was quite interesting, though. 

One final thought about the commentary. Is it just me that likes to see unexpected winners? To listen to the commentators on the BBC, you would think that people winning again and again was what all the spectators wanted. Adulation of the top stars often just took over, especially if they were friends of the commentators. And I have to say I felt extremely sorry for those unfortunates who had to interview the athletes after their events. How did that feel? What were your thoughts? Are you pleased to have won? Sorry to have lost? Tell us that again, but in a different way… Don’t hit me.

What we really want is someone British taking a medal in a totally unexpected fashion and then seeing it again, with comments. Possibly a third time. What we don’t want is a favourite just going out there and doing what they were expected to do. Except Keely. Keely is wonderful. We love Keely. 

One of the greatest regrets of my life concerns my graduation from Birkbeck College, London University, back in 1969.

The surprising news that I had achieved an Upper Second BA Honours in German arrived with my birthday cards, which I was reading as I lay in bed with my wife. It was a Saturday. Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Upper Second, Happy Birthday.

It was a great feeling – a wonderful birthday present – because it exceeded my expectations. So what’s to regret? Well, being a shy and retiring type at the time, I wasn’t really interested in dressing up, speeches and people applauding. So I didn’t bother with the ceremony. After all, I had the paperwork.

What I didn’t realise until some time later was that my mother, a hard-working widow, would have loved to travel to the capital to see her eldest son formally awarded his degree. It meant nothing much to me, but it meant a lot to her. I wasn’t a great son.

This all came back to me last week, when my grandson received his degree (BSc, first class, in computer science) from Warwick University.

As you may know, Warwick University is in Coventry. Why wouldn’t it be? And as it happens, between the ages of 6 and 11 we lived in Coventry, just three or four miles down the road from the university which, being 20 years younger than me, wasn’t there at the time.

The campus at Warwick is pretty impressive, and the arts centre, where the degree ceremony was held, is a lovely building. I now live close to the University of East Anglia, which also has a memorable campus, but I have to say that Warwick, two years younger, probably has the edge.

The ceremony was scheduled for 11am; so we travelled down (or up, or across) the previous day, staying at my favourite Coventry hotel, The Old Mill at Baginton. With us we had our only son, father of the graduate, who now lives in Canada. So quite a trip for him.

Also present were the sister and mother of the graduate, and the grandparents – all four of whom felt we had done pretty well to have survived long enough to attend, and one of whom discharged herself from hospital in order to be there. It was a sunny day to remember. It included a tour of the campus and a meal in the Dirty Duck. Oh, and pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

I suppose one reason I showed so little interest in my own graduation was that I had not gone direct from school to university, as is the norm. I had moved to London on my own to work, and then attended evening classes four evenings a week for two years at Birkbeck, followed by a full-time year to complete the course.

It was a normal internal degree, but it didn’t have the normal interaction and camaraderie that you get from campus life and joining in a variety of clubs and activities. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t drawn into the final ceremony. Who knows? It was a long time ago. Sorry, Mum. You would have liked it.

I should perhaps mention that in the middle of my degree course I got married. There was a wedding. My mother came to that. I think she enjoyed it. So did I.

I fell over yesterday. It was nothing. I’ve done it before, but I have to admit to a strong feeling of concern as my forehead hit the pavement rather hard, and blood started flowing. When I say flowing, I mean oozing.

I had been trying to avoid a young woman (not something I do often) and at the same time skip round a heavy road works item that had strayed on to the pavement. I know road works are designed mainly to obstruct cars, but clearly they’re expanding their repertoire. 

I was a bit stunned and lay there for a moment. Don’t let anyone tell you that people in distress are ignored: as I got to my feet I was quickly joined by several young women and a roadworks contractor, all of whom were extremely solicitous. One woman, who worked in the hospital, wondered if she should call an ambulance. I said no. I don’t like to cause trouble, especially for me. I’ve been to A&E before. 

My wife was if anything more stunned than I was, because of course she didn’t know what I had managed to achieve in the way of injuries and broken limbs. Happily my guardian angel had been alert; so I hadn’t broken anything. Nothing visible, anyway. I did have a bit of a headache, and one of my fingers was an interesting shade of black. 

My spontaneous care group decided against the ambulance in the end, and one of them located a nearby chemist on her phone. She thought I could get help there. I thanked them all profusely, and people began drifting away. 

So my wife and I strolled up to the chemist. I’m not sure if “strolled” is the right word, but it was fairly slow. Unhappily the pharmacist was on a lunch break, and no-one else could help in a practical way. One of them thought it might be illegal. However, they did sell us some wipes and some plaster and some painkillers. Oh, and some bottled water. They weren’t allowed to give me a glass of water, because, well, I’m not sure. But they clearly couldn’t. Possibly because it was a branch of a nationally known chemist, and… well, I’m not sure. Again. 

I don’t blame them. I expect they had rules. But their response contrasted sharply with those who had rushed to help me in the street. 

I was not feeling too bad by now. My wife was also starting to recover. So we wandered down the lane to have tea (or was it coffee?) with a friend, who had been waiting patiently and had kept us a seat.

I had a reasonable sleep, and today I don’t feel too bad, though I have to admit to feeling a bit dizzy when I tried to undo the trapdoor to the loft. My wife insisted on going up there instead of me. So that was all good. I do feel a bit tired, though. Back to normal, in fact.

Failing to tune into the dire warnings broadcast after a night of rain  – I had after all been asleep – we ventured out on to the roads of North-East Norfolk, and found water everywhere.

It was a Sunday. I discovered later that major roads in different parts of Norfolk were thigh-deep in water, and some had been closed. Merrily, we headed for the Broads. Of course. Why wouldn’t we? 

We noticed quickly that the fields were very wet, but until we turned off the main road at Stalham, it didn’t make much impression. Damp is normal in this part of the world.

There was not much traffic about, but oddly as we turned off the main road we found ourselves behind three other vehicles – two cars and a van carrying scaffolding equipment. That’s OK, we thought. We’re heading across country. They’ll be going somewhere else.

Amazingly all three of them turned left and immediately right, on to a narrow country road. Our bad luck, we thought. That was our route. It turned out to be good luck.

Only a few yards on to the country road there was a significant covering of water. Our first instinct was to ask ourselves how deep it was, and whether we could get through it. There had been several scary stories recently about cars trapped in water which hadn’t looked that deep.

At least, that would have been our first instinct, but ahead of us were those three vehicles – instant measuring devices. All of them ploughed on, quite hesitantly but persistently, and we simply followed, round corners and through junctions, because if they could get through, so could we. And there was always the scaffolding…

The water had poured off the fields and overflowed out of neighbouring ditches. There was almost as much water as road. But it was only a few miles, and we followed, and followed… until we reached our destination: the small village of Lessingham (good name), where there was an exhibition in the village hall, focusing on the neighbouring village of Happisburgh and its battle against the encroaching North Sea. 

As it happened, my mother-in-law had been born just down the road. I mentioned it to the woman serving tea and cakes, but it was too long ago. We decided not to go and look at the house, because it might have been very wet, and it was only a mile or so from Eccles, which had finished disappearing  under the sea well over 100 years ago. Who knew how soon we would hit the ocean? The water seemed to be winning everywhere. 

As we were in the area we drove up to Happisburgh through more standing water on the coast road and found the disappearing car park, put in place only ten or 12 years ago and now about to be abandoned as the cliff edge makes its unexpectedly swift way inland, eating houses as it goes.

I got out of the car to have a look, and fell over a random fence into the cliff top mud. I won’t be able to do that much longer. 

The media sensation that has become known as the Post Office Scandal has appalled many people. The realisation that an apparently untouchable elite group has been able to sacrifice innocent people in order to facilitate their own privileged existence has quite naturally aroused deep emotions in many – not just those who suffered and are still suffering.

This one will run and run – quite rightly, because the selfishness, ruthlessness and callousness of the “top” people involved, and their reluctance to compensate victims, is so marked. And we are angry because we know it could have been us who were falsely accused, charged, imprisoned…

But in our modern society a somewhat similar scenario plays out in many different areas. The common factor is our increasing helplessness in the face of complex organisations.

At the lowest level, if you are “caught” by a speed camera and are convinced that it is faulty, what can you do? If you take it to court, magistrates will accept what the camera says, and the only way you can challenge it is by spending money on having the camera tested. Even then, how do you know you will get an accurate result?

Councils everywhere spend money on “improvements” whose main outcome is to close or obstruct roads for months. If they have so much roads cash to spare, they could of course fix the thousands of potholes that are a real hazard to all road users – especially cyclists and emergency vehicles. But this seems too small a problem for them to bother with. Tell me about it. Better still, don’t.

What about banks? We have seen recently that if a bank does not like your political views, it may try to block your account. How do you contest that? 

And universities? if you apply for a top job in academia, or even a simple place on a top college course, you may find yourself rejected, not because you are not good enough, but because you are insufficiently diverse. Too white, too male… And of course, you can’t say so.

More serious, perhaps, is what happens in the sacred worlds of science and medicine. 

We are inundated with one-sided views on climate change. We may not agree with the so-called experts, but there is nothing we can do about it. UK net zero is a ridiculous idea which will likely make us poorer and weaker, and even if we accept the dubious mechanism suggested, it won’t have any measurable effect. 

But how do we combat it? A consensus  of scientists gets together and says that no other view is possible, and to make sure this appears true, they block scientists with other views from senior posts, and even from peer review publishing. They also infiltrate and bully compliant news organisations like the BBC so that no dissenting view is reported. 

Bad enough, but what is happening in medicine may be even worse. Senior, experienced doctors have their careers blocked because they question the efficacy and safety of Covid  jabs, or suggest other treatments. How long will it be before those jabs become compulsory for everyone – at least if you want to travel? Good news for drug companies, of course. 

What if you, as a private citizen with a functioning brain, notice that those who have all the recommended jabs still get Covid – and that illnesses generally are more frequent than they used to be? You may therefore be convinced (rightly or wrongly) that those particular jabs are not conducive to your wellbeing. There is plenty of evidence in that area. Have you seen it? Or have you been told that it is the work of conspiracy theorists? 

I can see how someone might have said that to those sub-postmasters. Dodgy computer programming, you say? What is this, some kind of conspiracy theory? We don’t have to listen to that. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. GIve us all your money. Die, if you like.

I am reaching the age – or perhaps I’m past it –  where you start looking back and working out what you’ve achieved in life. Early on I was aiming to be a novelist, but it was easier not to be. I was never very career-orientated, maybe because I didn’t have a father to give me a push (he died when I was ten). I guess I never really knew what was going on, as my friends will no doubt confirm.

However, I was fortunate to marry a lovely girl who became a lovely woman – and still is. Between us, we produced a son of whom we are immensely proud for many reasons, and he – with a bit of help – came up with two exceptional grandchildren. Let me get back to the lovely woman, though. 

Despite giving some wrong answers in the 11-plus, she was head girl of her secondary school and, with the right encouragement at the right time, took a large number of O-levels (GCSEs). Eleven, I think it was. Best in her year at Norwich City College, she progressed to teacher training college, where she excelled at history and even more at teaching. She was a natural.

Like me, however, she did not push herself forward, and although she was a gifted deputy head fairly early on, it was some time before she became a head teacher. When she did, however, it became rapidly clear that she was brilliant at it. Her 19-pupil village school quickly grew to 80, and required building expansion. She adopted a pioneering method called Philosophy for Children which opened the door for less academic children while also encouraging the others. 

When she retired she turned this into a partnership with another teacher, and the two of them travelled across the country, introducing P4C, as it was called, to many other schools. 

Later she was recruited by the Norwich Diocesan Board of Education to act as a mentor to head teachers in church schools across Norfolk – or a Diocesan Schools Support Officer, to give her her proper title – and she proved a natural at this too. They loved her. I could understand that. I love her too. 

Earlier this month, having been one of the first DSSOs, she retired (again) after 15 years as the oldest. She received a lovely send-off, including large bouquet and Christmas meal at the Marlingford Bell, plus gift voucher and eulogy.

Now I have her to myself. Or I would do if she wasn’t so full of energy and keen to be involved in family, church, orchestra and community (as long as it’s not early in the morning).

Needless to say, while struggling to keep up, I am hugely proud of her. I hope that doesn’t sound patronising. I am honoured to be her partner. What did I achieve in life? I am married to Dot. Any questions?

When I was working as a junior clerk at the City Hall in the mid-1960s, paying council bills by using a room-sized prehistoric computer, I used to walk home, mostly. One day I was not feeling so well; so I called in at my doctor’s surgery on the way. He diagnosed an upper respiratory tract infection – and gave me something for it. 

Obviously I could not do anything like that now. For one thing, computers are much smaller, and anyway I can pay bills using my iPhone.

And I couldn’t call in to see my doctor, because the NHS has advanced so much that discussing something with a doctor is laughably old-hat. Or just impossible.

Over the past couple of months I have developed an illness which resulted in my going to A&E, staying in hospital a couple of nights, having a catheter fitted and after I went home, receiving appointments on different days in different parts of the hospital, which I dutifully attended.

Because of the catheter  – and the delay – i got two infections and had to take two courses of antibiotics. I am now taking five pills a day, at least three of which I suspect are unnecessary. But I can’t call in and talk to a doctor about it. I am scheduled for an operation: I know what it’s for, but I still don’t know why.

At least I found a nurse who would take my catheter out. That’s the thing about the NHS. Individuals are often very nice, but it’s all too specialised. It’s a jigsaw that nobody puts together, and so am I.

A lot of other things have gone downhill too. A large number of the streets round here have been closed to traffic; others have had speed bumps installed, which is idiotic on every level.

Back in the 1960s, when I wasn’t walking, I often rode a bike. If I rode it on the path I could expect a passing policeman to feel my collar and get me fined. Scooters were for children, and the bikes did not go very fast because they had three gears at the most and were heavy. No cycle helmets; no Lycra. There were no cycle paths – or as a friend of mine puts it, we always had cycle paths. We called them roads.

Was everything much slower then? I don’t think so. You could get quick answers to questions by something called a telephone, many of which were available in red boxes on most streets. There were much fewer regulations generally, which helped. If something went wrong, someone came and fixed it. Road works were completed at lightning speed. People worked in offices, and you could find them there. They generally responded to you quickly, because that was their job, and they took pride in it.

So what happened to progress? Shouldn’t things get better? Depends what you mean by progress, I suppose. I think we should have a few years – or decades – without it and see what happens. As Ogden Nash put it, progress might have been all right once, but it has gone on far too long.

When I visited Israel at the beginning of 2020, everything seemed fairly peaceful, although there was a rumour going round that a nasty new virus was becoming a threat. At the airport they asked us if we had been to China. We hadn’t.

We stayed in Tiberias, on the Sea of Galilee, from where we visited Caesarea Philippi. It was the furthest north we went, and according to the Bible, the furthest north Jesus took his disciples. From there we could see into Syria and Lebanon, and we were told that the area was closely monitored because of the latent threat from across the borders. 

Later we sailed on the Sea of Galilee. It was a moment of memorable calm and beauty. 

Eventually we travelled further south and stayed in Bethlehem, where we met – unsurprisingly – many Palestinians. If we had stayed in Bethlehem another couple of days, we would not have been able to leave easily, because it was locked down. Covid had arrived.

From then on we had our own problems, but the problem within Israel/Palestine was ongoing. And it will remain ongoing because men of violence want it to be. The history of the land is complicated, and no-one is completely innocent. It is undeniable that many Jews and Arabs would happily live side by side – and have done so over the years. Many would be happy with a two-state solution, but this is rejected by Arab leaders even though the projected Palestinian portion of the country has always been much larger. 

In the end this is a typical case of wanting it all, and in order to get it all, generating hate and violence, not caring whether your own people suffer in the process. Few people are happy with the current relationship between Israelis and Palestinians, but the military readiness and restrictions have been forced on the Israelis because they have been repeatedly under attack. Undoubtedly some Israelis have taken advantage of this, but most just want to live in peace. 

And how do you live in peace with someone who hates you? The obvious way is by showing strength in defence. Watch the usual spaces. 

But I suppose that as a Christian my answer – much, much easier said than done – is to show them love. Of course we know what happens then. Jesus was a Jew, after all. He was also a Palestinian. Someone could get crucified. The question is, do we believe in resurrection? 

I have short fingers, which is bad for a number of reasons. If you’ve met me, you may not have noticed, and so I’m taking a risk in pointing it out, because longer fingers are quite attractive, and I don’t want to put you off.

The real problem with short fingers – apart from the aesthetic element – is that you can’t reach as much as people with longer fingers. The same goes for arms, but that’s another issue. I’ve noticed that weather presenters quite often have long fingers, possibly so that they can reach more parts of the country, although that doesn’t seem to improve the weather. Still, you can’t have everything.

My particular problem with having shorter fingers (or should I say length-challenged fingers?) is that it’s more difficult to play the guitar. I was always sort of aware of this, because the guitarists I admired (like Albert Lee) have noticeably long fingers.

So I struggle with bar chords. It’s not the only thing I struggle with, but it does make a big difference. Which is why, a few years ago, when the question arose of making a little music together during a historical project, a friend of mine asked me the astute question: “Can you play bar chords?”

Reader, I couldn’t. So the idea of my playing guitar with her was abandoned. This doesn’t mean I can’t play the guitar – indeed I do, regularly. But not in a professional sort of way. Obviously.

The astute friend in question was none other than prize-winning poet and singer Caroline Gilfillan, who I have collaborated with on a number of poetic, largely guitarless projects, and all that stuff about fingers is really an excuse to mention her here, because she died recently of cancer.

She wrote beautiful poetry and had the knack of winning prizes in many competitions, not because she had long fingers but because her use of words was magical. She was amazingly creative – splitting her time most recently between Norfolk and the Lake District, though she was born in Sussex and sang in women’s bands in London. She also wrote detective fiction.

Others who know her better will be able to say more, but it was a pleasure to be her friend for a while and to enjoy her company. These words she wrote in one of her poems fit her quite well, and they are words that I love and often repeat; so I am going to leave you with them, with love:

Under her cloak of skin she, too, pulses like intercepted light.
She too is rock and rolling out of sight.