I always maintain I’m not a nostalgic person. I don’t get glassy-eyed at the thought of my hands still being small enough to make a Mars bar look gargantuan, lament the days when a Freddo was 10p, or wish Martine McCutcheon was still in EastEnders. But I do think about the past quite often now. That’s the problem with ageing: there is so much of the past accruing behind you – casting a shadow like an out-of-control leylandii – that you can’t help but think about it. So many things...