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SUDDENLY THE REALISATION has been thrust on me that I have reached the age when I am free--indeed, virtually obliged--to complain about the flaws and failures of present times (compared with the golden days of yore). My instinct is to resist stereotyping. However, the sensuous pleasures of the whinge are tempting.
The issue came to a head during lunch the other day when, for some reason--heaven's inspiration, perhaps--I expressed the opinion that things were probably, on the whole, after all, getting better all the time. A not unreasonable but compulsively mordant friend snorted indignant dissent. "You say that after the blood-soaked twentieth century?" he ...