I don’t know about you, but personally I don’t care much for raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.

And I care even less for bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens.

My apologies, therefore, if these are a few of your favourite things. Actually, if you do have a list of favourite things, I’ll buy you a drink if you see me in the pub.

I have been thinking about favourites ever since attending a funeral last week.

It was for a man called Frank Jurga, who was our financial adviser and gave us some excellent advice when we were first buying a house together, many years ago.

And because he also happened to be my brother’s next-door neighbour, we would occasionally bump into each other and have a chat over the garden fence.

What I liked about Frank was he always had something interesting to say, and was always genuinely interested in what I had to say.

In my opinion, these are two of the very best qualities anybody can ever have.

But it took an excellent speech by Frank’s son for me to suddenly twig exactly why he was so likeable, and the rest of the packed crematorium must have thought so too, because the speech deservedly got a spontaneous round of applause.

It was the bit where he said his father was the only person he knows who had a favourite stretch of motorway.

I expect it was the elevated section of the M5, just outside Bristol – because, as it happens, I also have a favourite stretch of motorway, and that’s it.

It suddenly occurred to me that to be able to find qualities in almost anything – even motorways – is a good ability to have, and so much better than those people who will tell you what’s wrong all the time, and never get round to telling you what’s right.

I’m not talking about having favourite colours or chocolate bars, but specifying a preference when other people wouldn’t think it necessary to have one.

I, for example, have a favourite typeface.

I suppose that’s not so unusual when you think that more than half my life has been directly or indirectly concerned with arranging words nicely on a page, but I don’t think most people would care much either way.

In case you do: Gill Sans.

I also have a favourite tree, and if you go down St Philip’s Road in Upper Stratton, I’m sure you’ll spot the one I mean.

There’s no stopping me now, so I am also going to tell you my favourite hill is Liddington, and I suspect if you asked most people in Swindon who express a preference, you would get the same answer.

For a moment, at the crematorium, I thought how sad it was that I never knew what Frank’s favourite stretch of motorway was, and how nice it would be to talk to him about it now.

And then I thought: no. It’s immaterial.

It doesn’t matter what his favourite was. The important thing was having one in the first place. I’m pretty sure he also had a favourite typeface, tree and hill, and more besides.

If you think about it, there are a whole group of people who will happily always tell you what their favourite anything is: children – because choosing your favourite is one of those things that make childhood a happy time.

I take my hat off to any adults who, like Frank, can take that same fascination with the world and everything in it, and make it last a lifetime.