My father Richard, who died last month aged 88, was a profoundly impractical man. He could not drive a car, swim, whistle, use a mobile phone or computer, or play any ball game apart from croquet. One of his most common remarks was (he could not pronounce his ths), ‘Vis wretched fing [a door handle, a light switch, a well-wrapped parcel] doesn’t seem to work.’