I interviewed a very strange man this week. He is a cultural historian called John Higgs who is of the opinion that we should all be looking forward to the future. Extraordinary, I know. His book is called The Future Starts Here. He makes the point that once upon a time we all used to be optimistic about the future and the good things technological advances would bring. Remember Tomorrow’s World? That TV programme was all about excitement regarding what was to come. The future would be better; that was a given. Growing up, I’m sure I believed that. As long as the Soviets didn’t blow us to kingdom come, the kingdom to come would be a bit rosier for us all.

Who believes that any more? Imagine trying to pitch Tomorrow’s World to the controller of BBC Two. What on earth would you put in the show that was for us to look forward to? After all, elsewhere in the schedule, we have Sir David Attenborough telling us the climate emergency is going to see us fried to a crisp before long. And even word of the staggeringly brilliant developments in medicine carry the nagging worry about how legions of oldies can be sustained.

And then there’s AI taking all our jobs. It was the day before yesterday that I started having a proper worry about this. I was in my local branch of Sainsbury’s. Not very long ago, there was just one bank of automated checkout thingies, flanked by an endless row of tills being operated by actual humans.

Then another bank of thingies took the place of half a dozen proper tills. I forgave this; it seemed necessary to have more automatic thingies as, at any one time, at least half of them appeared to be out of order.

But this week, things have got out of hand. The human-operated tills are now very much in the minority, reduced to a short row at the far end of the store, like museum pieces. In has come a huge bank of machines. The days of human contact as I shop appear to be over. It will be reduced to me shouting for help when I’m asked for verification of my age upon buying alcohol-free beer. Someone – please God, someone with a pulse – will materialise to check I look old enough (I do), swipe a card, touch a button and that will be it.

The single most harrowing sight I have witnessed at one of those machines is Kenny Dalglish, possibly the greatest footballer ever, pawing helplessly at the screen, bewildered. He was out shopping for his daughter Kelly, who lives around the corner. I couldn’t bear to see the great man so helpless. I sorted it for him, we shook hands and he went on his way, still mystified.

And now, this week, an extremely worrying iteration of the whole ghastly business has materialised: something called SmartShop. There are banks of little handset-scanner things, something about an app and a whole orgy of chaos lying ahead. I’m going to call Kelly and tell her to let me know forthwith if she’s sending King Kenny out shopping again. I’ll take him through it; we’ll learn together.

A close encounter with some royal vegetables

Unfashionably, I did feel slightly for Donald Trump this week. It’s a scary business meeting royals. I’m nobody’s idea of a royalist, but even my legs went a bit wibbly-wobbly when I met Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall.

It was in the garden at Clarence House where Christine Bleakley and I were interviewing them about said garden when we presented Daybreak. On being introduced to them, Christine conjured up a curtsey from somewhere. Panicked, I went into a bow but, having never bowed to anyone before, I realised I didn’t know how it was done. You wouldn’t have thought there’s a lot to it, but there is one key decision you have to make: how far down to bow. Once I was on my way down, I didn’t know when to stop. Before I knew it, my torso was at right angles to my legs. I was stuck there for what seemed an awfully long time. With a little gasp and a hand from Christine I just about managed to arise.

At the end of the interview, as a little joke, I told HRH that time was getting on and I had nothing at home for my tea. Perhaps, I suggested, I could take some vegetables from his organic garden. He laughed uncertainly.

As the crew were packing up, he sidled up to me and quietly said, out of the corner of his mouth: “Really, if you do need something, then please go ahead and help yourself.” He nodded towards the royal vegetable patch. I’m afraid that this simple act of kindness rendered me quite speechless. I stammered something unintelligible and waved the offer away with pathetic gratitude. He looked benignly at me, as if I were mad.

I have always regretted not striding off and manfully uprooting a couple of right royal carrots. Another time, perhaps.

Will old blokes ever learn to put on a condom?

I see more over-65s are picking up gonorrhoea, which is encouraging and discouraging news. It’s encouraging to hear that those of us galloping through middle age might still be sexually active throughout our seventh decade; it’s discouraging that the entirely common-sense precaution of popping on a condom seems beyond the ken of young and old blokes alike. Also, it would help if these afflictions were easier to spell. I once texted somebody about chlamydia without noticing it had been autocorrected to clammy diva.