Of all the inappropriate presents I’ve bought my godson over the years, the nadir was the Swiss Army knife I sent for his 11th birthday. I was pretty pleased when I ordered it: a genuine Victorinox, none of those Chinese knockoffs. He’ll be removing stones from horses’ hooves in no time, I thought to myself. But a week later he sent me a thank you note in unusually shaky handwriting saying the knife had been confiscated by his mother after he’d had it for only a day because he cut his hands to pieces. Had I ruined his chances of being a violinist or a heart surgeon? 

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It all started promisingly when I was asked to be a godfather in 2008. His parents were living in New York so I flew out for the christening and awkwardly held him in church just as awkwardly as I hug him now. For his present I bought some rather smart art deco salt and pepper shakers from the London Silver Vaults. But since then I worry that I haven’t been the best godfather. 

Rather as Britain lost an empire and is yet to find a role, to paraphrase Dean Acheson, the godfather’s........

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