Peter Rhodes on a village fete, a doomed politician and a regrettable lack of Irish blood

I was immensely proud of Mrs Rhodes who, with a graceful, darts-throwing motion, knocked a coconut clean off the shy and claimed her prize, another coconut. The prize coconut was cracked but the stallholder swapped it jovially for another coconut which we hammered open at home and found to be full of stinking grey mould. By now in a coconutty-fixated frame of mind we bought a third one from the grocer's. It came with a label warning us not to drink the contents. I'm sure coconuts used to be more fun than this.

Behold, another little milestone on the road to age-related irritation . For the first time ever, I have had to use a pair of pliers to get the cap off a tiny plastic bottle of prescription eye drops. Teams of brilliant scientists invent clever medications to keep us going, only for the plastics industry to put the magical fluids in fiddly, infuriating containers with screw tops that can't be unscrewed by normal people. If a reasonably fit person like me is struggling, how many little old ladies simply give up in despair?

A reader, singing the praises of immigration on our society and sporting life, reminds readers of "a certain Peter Rhodes, who once told us one of his grandfathers came over from Ireland". Sir, your memory fails you.

Truth is, my family tree is unexciting and monoglot, a solid, unbroken line of dour Yorkshire folk who toiled as weavers, loom workers and subsistence farmers. We have, as far as I am aware, not a drop of Celtic blood nor a whisper of Irish craic in our genes. Frankly, I would have welcomed an Irish grandparent, if only to qualify for a second passport, but it was not to be.

While we're we're on the subject, despite occasional musings from readers, I never had a billionaire Uncle Cecil who ran Rhodesia. That rumour is a steaming heap of Bulawayo.