It would be so much easier if there was one individual to blame for it, rather than collective human greed and self-delusion, if we could, say, pin it on Bill Gates or Steve Jobs or Dr Beeching or Tim Berners-Lee, but we are not in a superhero film, where a supervillain is mandatory; we are in the world, where supervillains are amorphous entities made of money and nepotism and spin and many many grasping hands. I will say this, though: Beeching trod on my toes once, during his brief destructive reign as British Railways chairman, and he was the smuggest of gits while he did it. He didn’t even take the time to learn to pronounce Wychcombe properly before mooching around the station with his clipboard, condemning it – gave it the long ‘y’ at the beginning, like some nobhead. ‘WHYchcoombe Junction, you say, over in Devon? Hmmrph. I suppose that is feasible, provided I am back in East Grinstead by supper.’ Afterwards he submitted his findings to his boss, Ernest Marples, the Minister for Transport, who, it should be noted, was married to Baroness Ruth Alianore, a tarmac heiress who held a stake in the M1 and other new major roads. I rued a lost opportunity, so when Beeching returned eight years later, to officiate at the opening of a new heritage steam railway in the area (the chutzpah of the man!), I was ready. It was a windy day and the sharp, heavy tiles I succeeded in dislodging from the roof of the station as he walked past came within eight inches of doing their job, but ultimately – being six miles from here – it was outside my range.

No, I am not able to control weather. You could say I just have a stake in it, like Baroness Alianore and her early motorways.