Who wants devolution for England?

"NOW regions demand the same powers as Scotland," trumpeted one headline this week on the alleged enthusiasm for devolved power in England. I don't know a single normal person who cares tuppence about it.

ON closer inspection, the "regions" demanding greater powers (according to the headline) turn out to be not normal people but council leaders. No surprises there. The eagerness of bigwigs to become even biggerwigs knows no bounds. Today you may be plain Councillor Blogs but tomorrow, under devolution, you could be the Regional Commissioner, the Supreme Alderman, The Reichsprotektor of Greater Mercia. And the citizens will pay for it all, even if they don't want to and if no-one ever asked them.

AND off to a glorious little mediaeval church for the Advent service. I was most impressed with ye ancient oak beams, a twinkling sea of candles, mulled wine, mince pies and a lusty village choir straight out of Thomas Hardy. But I'm not so sure about the religious bits. The vicar ventured into the dangerous territory of why a loving God allows children to suffer and die, but she didn't even attempt an answer.

I CAN remember a time when the priest would thunder from the pulpit, assuring us that this sinful, mortal life was merely preparation for the life eternal and all the wrongs of the Earth would be put right in Heaven. Today's vicars may hold profound and strident views on gay marriage, bedroom tax, climate change and female bishops but they seem a bit embarrassed and tongue-tied about heaven.

I MAKE no apologies, as a wicked old atheist, for venturing into church. It happened to be exactly 100 years since a young officer from the village joined my old regiment. He was posted to Palestine where he was killed in a skirmish with the Turks. A stained-glass window in the church recalls the loss of this beloved son, the family's only child. The Advent sun set and the window blazed in glory.

TWO of my neighbours with grandchildren have seen the new Paddington film and both report a) it is far too good for kids and b) when the film ended everyone applauded.

IN September 1939 my father, then 14, was put on a bus and evacuated from his home in the back-street slums of Bradford to a Dales village where he was billeted with an elderly lady he called Aunt Maud. He had grown up in what we now call the underclass and his wartime evacuation was his first exposure to respectable living. Aunt Maud transformed my father's life, his outlook, his ambitions. When she died, the old lady left him her furniture and her jewellery, some of which we treasure to this day. The point of this story? More than 20 years after my father died, none of us in the family has the slightest idea who Aunt Maud was. We don't even know whether she was Maud or Maude. We don't know her surname or even the village where this inspirational, life-changing lady lived, because we never got around to asking Dad. A few days ago, the relationship-support group Relate published a survey of regrets felt by the over-50s. Fifteen per cent of people regretted not asking their grandparents more about their life, and I'm sure the same applies to parents. So as this festive season approaches, make time, switch off the telly and talk to the old 'uns because one day it will be too late. In the words of the supermarket advert, once they're gone, they're gone.