Thank goodness for small favours. For instance, this week Dad forgot who mum was.

Returning home from the hospital he’d asked: “Is she my wife?”

“Yes,” I said. “She’s your wife and my mum.”

“Oh, you know her too,” he said, sounding surprised. “And how long has she been my wife exactly?”

“Sixty-three years, Dad.”

“Really?” he asked, sounding indignant. “Because you’d never know it – she was very brusque with me today...”

And yes, that did make me smile. I believe that at that precise moment, he truly would have settled for this strange woman being his wife, as long as she showed a little more ‘appreciation’.

I won’t write about this issue again since so many of us now are attempting to come to terms with ageing parents, but I will recount this one other observation I found as reward for wading through this emotional tsunami.

Today, parents talk to their children about everything – from when they first had sex to the whole shebang of their emotional lives.

My parents’ generation on the other hand, save for a few exceptions, didn’t.

The most I knew about Mum and Dad’s private lives was, at most, that Dad met Mum at a dance in 1947, went to sea, wrote to her for two years, and then upon returning home, married her.

Simple, innocent and heartwarming.

But – and I’m grateful for this – their generation has also held back a lot too.

Consequently, it’s like opening a treasure chest of undiscovered wonders when they do start in their later years to talk openly.

Dad confided that after meeting her and establishing a relationship via letters they wrote daily to each other, Mum had written and broken off their acquaintance.

“Thing is son,” he said, “I’d been all round the Far East and bought her an item of clothing in every port I visited. When I got her letter, I was really upset, but thought I might as well give her the clothes when I returned since they wouldn’t fit anyone in my family.”

Which is just what he did one wet, cold Saturday afternoon in Plymouth, hours after pulling into shore.

“She was working in Boots on Royal Parade, if you remember,” he said, “so I went in, gave her the presents, all beautifully wrapped, and the first she opened during her tea break was a top I’d picked up in Shanghai.

“And she said it was so beautiful, she decided she wanted to see me again...”

Thanks Dad – worlds turn on such thoughts.