At the debate on "Has television destroyed Britain?", Michael Grade responded to my remarks by describing me as a "middle-class, middle-aged, public school old fart"
It was the young interviewer from Radio Cornwall who put me properly in my place. "So your film is going out tonight?" she inquired chirpily. "Well, actually, it's a book, and it was published last week." "Fine," she replied. "Let's go ahead. So Mr Clarke, your book . . ." I was on the local radio treadmill - hunched in a small studio in Television Centre for 12 consecutive ten-minute slots with BBC local radio stations around the country. You never know what to expect: a quick canter through the publicity handout, or a series of pointed questions from someone who has strong and contrary views about the way life has changed over the past 50 years. And then there's Vanessa Feltz. The call sheet simply said "Radio London", so I wasn't expecting to be plunged into the live discussion she was conducting with an unspecified number of other guests. I needn't have worried, because Vanessa did all the talking. She also failed to notice that my allotted time had run out, and when we were nearly five minutes into the next booking (Radio WM), I decided I would have to ignore that old convention that it's the interviewer who gets to bring proceedings to a close. "Thanks, Vanessa, it's been lovely to talk to you, but I'm afraid I have to go," I said, and pressed the "clear" button.
The Media Society arranged a debate with the compelling title: "Has television destroyed Britain?" This was presented (erroneously, or exaggeratedly at best) as the thrust of my book, but I was persuaded that it would make for a livelier debate. Unsurprisingly, quite a lot of television people disagreed with the proposition, and several of them agreed to come along and explain why. It wasn't so much a debate as a ritual dismembering. Michael Grade responded to my opening remarks by describing me as "a middle-class, middle-aged, public school old fart". I thought that was a bit rich from the man the Daily Mail dubbed the "pornographer-in-chief", but being unable to dispute the detail of the charge sheet, I let it pass. Next to speak was Peter Bazalgette, begetter of Big Brother, and he clearly thought Grade had been a bit soft on me.
Bazalgette, as it happens, is a cricketing acquaintance, though the fixture between his team and mine was cancelled last week. In the light of what happened a few days earlier, a break from the great game is not unwelcome. After two decades of largely pleasurable summer Sunday afternoons, I suffered the exquisite humiliation of a "King's Pair" - dismissed first ball in two consecutive innings. For non-cricketing readers, let me explain that this is roughly as embarrassing as, say, pouring a glass of red wine down the Queen's decolletage. And it happened at one of my favourite village grounds - The Lee, perched in the Chilterns near Aylesbury. The bowler was an old friend, Stuart Rudd, who looked suitably remorseful as I left the pitch. Even the cattle in the neighbouring field lowed mournfully. Well, that's what I've been hearing in my subsequent nightmares.
The fire in our new loft extension broke out apologetically. Literally. Our estimable au pair girl came downstairs to say she was very sorry, the temporary curtain had been burned by a lamp. A few minutes later, we heard screams from upstairs: the curtain had burst into flames. The damage to the room was confined to the window, but lots of firemen bustled about to make sure there were no hidden embers. I've had frequent dealings with the fire service over the past year, but only through a string of interviews about their pay dispute. It was salutary to see some of them in the flesh, at work. They, and the rest of the public services, seem to represent a perpetual enigma for policy-makers. Our occasional nanny is a Polish paediatric nurse who has battled for more than two years to get a job in a London hospital. She has done everything asked of her, speaks excellent English and has all the qualities anyone could ask of a nurse: we are certainly happy to leave Benedict and Joel (11 months old and boisterous) in her care. Yet the NHS has treated her with disdain. Whatever happened to London's nursing shortage? If anyone can enlighten me, I'm easy to find.
Meanwhile, the airwaves continue to reverberate to the sound of mutual recrimination between politicians and spies. All journalists worth their salt now have contacts in the security services with axes to grind. Top spooks are becoming minor celebrities, and we shall doubtless hear them soon on Any Questions?, or see them on Crimewatch appealing for information about al-Qaeda operatives. I was reminded of how much things have changed at a golden wedding party for an uncle and aunt, who both reputedly worked for MI6 in their younger days. As far as I know, they have never talked about their time in "the service", and wouldn't dream of doing so, even now.
My uncle does, however, have one claim to real celebrity. During his time with the postwar Antarctic surveys, he not only travelled to the South Pole with Sir Vivien Fuchs, he had a glacier named after him. Now I think of it, I could have used that story for my appearance on Radio Cornwall. Nobody would have noticed.
Nick Clarke's book The Shadow of a Nation was published last month
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