THERE was never any likelihood of a blue plaque, but to see my grandparents’ home being torn down and the bedroom in which I first exercised my lungs, open to the elements, left me with a strange sense of bereavement. I know nothing is for ever, but even so.

Last weekend took me to a meeting in Yorkshire and the urge was compelling to check on the house whose backyard overlooked the golf course where this once five-year-old damaged a well-manicured green with my first two-wheeled cycle, and woodland to the side where earlier still I had sought fairies in bluebells – all less than half a mile from the centre of Huddersfield. I was only just in time.

The town centre is spreading its 21st century tentacles. Numbers 1 to 16 in that row of stout terrace houses had gone; number 17 – my first home – will have disappeared by the time you read this and the house next door, once a police station, whose female constables often gave me their sweet ration during the war years, will also be rubble. ‘Progress’ has done in weeks what Hitler’s bombers failed to do over five years.

Seeking consolation, I called on my favourite and more matter-of-fact cousin, who lives a few miles away. His opinion was that things could have been much worse: the golf course might so easily have been swallowed up by an industrial estate.

What else could you expect from someone who thinks God plays off a four handicap?

THE debate was in full swing when I walked in. Four men of mature years in serious brow-knitted discussion. There was no room for frivolity.

No. 1: “It’s a vast improvement on other models.”

No. 2: “The design is certainly different but I am not sure about its height from the floor. Some people will have to bend.”

No. 3: “There’s only one and it could lead to congestion near the door.”

No. 4: “Time will tell if it’s popular, but I think it’s a step forward and more hygienic.”

The conversation continued for several more minutes as they crowded around the object of their attention, precluding others from sharing their experience and consigning them – me included – to the older models.

What was it? A new waist-level hand dryer in the men’s lavatory in Banbury’s Castle Quay.

THE two couples were enjoying sunshine, coffee and a chat outside a Broad Street cafe. They were discussing a third couple, the husband of which had been told by a leading specialist that he had none of the catalogue of fatal illnesses he believed he had.

“He’ll be distraught to know he’s as fit as a butcher’s dog,” said one of the men, displaying more than a tinge of sarcasm. The wife of the other pair chimed in, causing all four to dissolve into laughter.

“She won’t be pleased either. She’s been looking forward to spending the insurance payout.”

With friends like these...