The light was fading outside, and the man knew, within himself, that in all probability, the light would soon be fading within himself as well. Two hours earlier, he had taken a full dose of strychnine, as he had done many times before, to enable him to cope with his work – public work of national importance – but on this evening, he sensed that the incurable heart condition with which he had lived for the past three years was going to get the better of him.

It occurred to me as I filled in the form stating that I was indeed the driver of a car clocked doing 46 miles per hour in a 40 mile per hour zone, that as our newish century is entering its teens, an era of petty moralising seems to be hallmarking our society.

Through the well-lit, low windows, you can glimpse a glorious array of treasures, centuries old jewel-hued glass goblets, precious silver-ware , soft velvets and Edwardian tortoise-shell, all arranged with care and artistic flair into a cosily exotic yet quintessentially English tableau of tangible history.

Naturally averse to technical innovation on the lamentable grounds that it might involve learning how to use a different remote control, I had clung to the notion that it isn’t necessary to have 78 channels, and we’d only end up watching the Grandes Dames of 1, 2, 3 and 4 anyway (Five restricted to those with children under that age in the 5-7am time slot when the horror of being awake at such an hour renders one sympathetic to any station which causes said child to be undemanding).

For some, the lament is almost an anthem, for others, a genuine regret at opportunities left untaken. And there are those who see everything they do as a success – cocooning themselves in the glow of glory for which they feel they were destined, dismissing negative observations about themselves as the result of the fault of others.

With an accent as Yorkshire-flat as his hounds-tooth cap and an ego which, judging from his most recent interviews, has swollen to a point that a health warning should be issued – except that that would be nannying interference – David Hockney has ‘blasted’ Britain for imposing the smoking ban in public places.

How many Graces, Joys and Chastitys have turned out graceless, joyless, or seductively slutty?

It was sandwiched between a triangular plastic Gregg’s sandwich box and an empty cigarette box, the campaign words ‘smoking kills’ on the latter smeared with a dribble of mayonnaise from the former. A twenty pound note.

The last days of a derelict hospital before demolition, or the last bookshop in the final days of a closing down sale. It is the sense that once gone, things will never be quite the same again, and capturing the soon to disappear is one of the most exciting aspects for me of picture taking.

Manchester may have seen phenomenal growth during the years of its regeneration kick-started by the bomb of ‘96 – huge activity which has seen the city’s face change dramatically – in architectural and aesthetic terms offering a mixed bag of sensational, sympathetic, functional, mediocre and deplorable.

And so, what with it being yet another half term holiday, I did.

How irritating to hear all the leaders of the political parties repeating this word this week, devaluing its effect with over-use, abusing its meaning with false frowns of sincerity and diminishing its potency with an agenda so transparent you could walk into it and bang your head.

The ministerial expenses debacle has really irked me.

As Parliamentary Secretary for the Board of Education, The Duchess was attending the opening of Levenshulme High School for Girls, and the bronze plaque bearing her name which she unveiled that day remains in the school’s gorgeously art deco entrance hall to this day.