The Best of Times

 I was walking along Market Street (pedestrianised) this morning when a man, walking briskly in the opposite direction, drew level with me and, as he passed, turned his head and, looking me firmly in the eye and grinning cheerily, exclaimed: 'Growing up in the Fifties and Sixties, eh? The best of times, weren't they, the best?' Slightly taken aback, I could but concur. 'They certainly were,' I declared. 'We were the lucky generation.' He had nothing to add, and was already on his merry way.
  It was a cheering encounter – the kind of thing that happens quite often in Lichfield – and I genuinely believe that my (and his) generation were indeed very lucky: we lived in times of peace, full employment, surefire pensions and ever rising prosperity, while many things improved dramatically in our lifetimes – not least the relative cheapness and ease of travel, and the range and quality of food and drink available to us. Of course, a lot got worse as well, but let's not get into that. I think it is probably fair to say we were in many ways a lucky generation, perhaps the luckiest. I don't see things running so easily for the next generation, or the next...
  A short while later, I was getting a duplicate front-door key cut. While I waited in the shop, I noticed a photo of the manager with a few lines underneath in which he tells us about himself. His interests, I learned, include cycling, running, video games – and, er, making bespoke Viking axes. Then I noticed that he was wearing a tie pin in the shape of a Viking battle axe. Funny old world.