Can’t complain, saw the world, saw action, know what I mean?” I’m at the post-bingo cafe with Tom, who is indulging one of his lengthy reminiscences. To be fair, he has some fairly remarkable memories to share – national service in the Malayan jungle, a season at county level cricket, a brief spell inside for affray, two wives, a director in the corporate world, even a spell as a mayor.

Winnie, another of the gang who hangs out at the community centre, has a darker tale: disowned as a single parent, a series of relationships with wild, unreliable men, all of them ending badly, and while the shades may have been deep rather than bright, hers has been a technicolour life. And then there’s Elizabeth, who had a life in education, her final 10 years as head of a large primary school, with her name, her habits, quirks and wisdom unforgettable for literally thousands of now-grown human beings as an inspiration for life.

But apart from a one-off appearance for London Scottish, mine has been a life devoid of drama, crisis and colour. I was never a contender – there are no glittering prizes on my mantelpiece. To be reminded of the insignificance of one’s life at a stage when it is too late to inject any drama is uncomfortable.

I can wax lyrical about the rationing of sweets, the sound of a doodlebug, powdered eggs, tripe without onions, the tangerine in the Christmas stocking, the outside privy, and the days before central heating, but I have fought in no wars, delivered no speeches, mounted no podiums and never hit a century. In an age of celebrity mania, such deficits are particularly telling.

I have lived unnoticed, a nobody among non-entities. Sure, there may be a few people who remember my helping hand, a reassuring word, a comforting gesture. But I’m not sure whether I have a tale worth telling.

Such a conclusion so late in the day offers two conventional responses. One is to allow disappointment to degenerate into curmudgeonliness. The other is to disengage from the world, to retire into self-isolating moksha in a spiritual care-home and take care.

However, there is a third option. To take part, to take risks, to make amends. There is a world of human need desperate for the grandparental qualities of patience, wise minds, soft hands, gentle voices. I can repay the privilege of my long and crisis-free life by filling in the holes in that social fabric – making the tea, taking the tickets, washing the dishes, hearing the stories.

It will keep my mind alive while tiring out my body but how much better to go out with a sigh of exhaustion than a whimper of complaint.