When I started work one of the first things I was told was to go out and buy an address book for my private contacts.

I still use it today.

There, amid the changes and crossings out I find Central Electricity Generating Board Press Officer, Terry Pratchett.

Not that he was ever in. He admitted later he loathed the job and spent a lot of time as an observer at strikes well away from telephones. No doubt he was also dreaming of Rincewind, Sam Vimes and Death.

I swore at the time, but Pratchett made it up with his succession of laugh-out-loud books.

Indeed, Terry Pratchett was the first author I found indispensable who was also a contemporary.

One job he was involved with was the CEGB’s prototype electricity generating windmills on the shores of the Burry Estuary.

That was in the days when we owned the technology and greedy politicians had not gifted it to their mates.

A big launch saw the involvement of caterers who brought in piles of Caviar.

Not, perhaps, the best use of public money, but, by God, it was lovely. Apparently you are supposed to eat a small amount on a cracker, but that must be for economic reasons.

Nothing wrong with great dollops in a sandwich, I can confirm.

Pratchett at work was pre-Fedora and straggly beard, but I well remember the high, WG Grace voice and the sense of humour.

So no more Pratchett every Christmas. The world really is turning. Discworld too.