THIS week I am speaking to you from a completely different perspective, on account of I am now officially part of the older generation.

That’s because I have two funerals to attend this week, following the deaths of two aunties.

Auntie Eileen and Auntie Joyce died within a few days of each other, suddenly bringing to an end my father’s and mother’s generation, which began in 1916.

They were the last two of my 16 aunties and uncles, and I was fortunate enough to know 15 of them.

They say only the good die young, but sometimes good people grow old.

Eileen and Joyce lived to be 89 and 91 respectively, and they were both nice people to know.

That is the best tribute you can ever pay somebody, and if you are fortunate enough to also be related to nice people, you are richer than a king.

I am thinking of Eileen and Joyce now and they both have smiles on their faces, which is a wonderful thing to be able to say about anyone.

Eileen, my mum’s sister, gave the impression nothing would ever stop her, and she seemed geared up to go on forever, while Joyce, a Liverpudlian who married into the family, always called everybody ‘Kid’, which the rest of the family never really got over and never tired of.

Everybody should have an auntie called Eileen and an auntie called Joyce. Those who don’t should qualify for some sort of rebate on their tax because life has short-changed them.

And people who call their auntie ‘Aunt’ should be similarly compensated, because it sounds so terribly unauntielike to me. We had loads of aunties in our family, but not a single aunt.

My wife still has both her aunties, plus another who is a very close friend of the family, so she qualifies as an honourable ‘auntie’ (and she’s called Eileen).

I have always thought this to be a very special title indeed, although it was not uncommon when we were children, and I suspect the honourable auntie label has become all but obsolete in the 21st century.

So how do I feel about being part of the oldest generation in my family?

Well, I suppose I do have the consolation that I am all but the baby of the generation, which means that - all things being equal - one day somebody in the family will look at my death and realise they have, in turn, risen to become a family elder.

More concerning than actually becoming the older generation is how much it is on my mind.

When you are in your fifties, all of these milestones and shifts in the fabric of the universe that you hadn’t thought about before suddenly seem significant, and it is easy to get preoccupied with them.

I guess getting older is mostly about the signposts that tell you how far you have come, as if we haven’t already seen enough things to remind us how old we are.

But my new status entitles me to be philosophical if I want to, and even morbid.

So I will.

While there is something concerning about the older generation falling by the wayside and a newer generation stepping up to take its place, it is also reassuring.

Deaths are easier to bear when they happen in the correct sequence, and far worse is when members of younger generations leave, ahead of their turn.

So while it is sad to mourn the loss of the last of a generation, at least it is the proper order of things.

And the smiles on the faces of your aunties go on forever.