I have spent the last three days sorting boxes, drawers, files and mounds of papers, trying to put some order into the chaos of my life’s archive. Almost everything I find, even the old bank statements, triggers a memory.

Some of the objects help me remember events, some of them remind me of people. A lot of things have been consigned to a black sack, but many papers and items have been keep in a new coherent filing system. 

But what’s the point?

Well one day I might write some memoirs. There’s a conceited thought. Who would want to read them? 

I justify my hoarding for posterity on these grounds. Of all the things I have found, the things that have interested me most have been the things my own parents and grandparents left me. I found, and don’t recall ever reading before, a hand-written account by my father of being told at the age of six that the First World War was over. He had at that age known nothing but the war and wondered now that it was over what the newspapers would find to write about. He described the scenes in the London suburb where he lived and being allowed to buy a flag for a penny to wave as part of the cheering crowd.

I have also found his father’s naval records. My grandfather was an engineer in the Royal Navy and rose to the rank of Rear Admiral. Every ship he served on is recorded plus the comments and recommendations from his commanding officer when he was moved or promoted. He saw active service in the First World and took part in the Battle of Jutland.

During my life I too have watched episodes of history being made. Perhaps my grandchildren will be interested to read a family eye-witness account. When I was with the BBC I met people who will, one day, be recalled in the history books. I found amongst my papers a transcript of an interview with Mother Teresa. I found the research notes made during a high-profile investigation into the cover up of safety breaches at the Dounreay Nuclear plant, now closed down. There were photographs, long-forgotten, of me in South Africa. There were reviews of books, letters from readers and listeners, assorted ID badges from past events and, to my amusement, a batch of sticky labels from my friend, the eccentric humourist, Ivor Cutler.

One of them read ‘Never knowingly understood’; another ‘Kindly Disregard’; a third said, ‘To remove this label, peel it off’. Perhaps I’ll start using them.