Every generation of teenagers has its dominant ‘youth culture’ and mine was affectionately known as ‘hippies’. It is only later in life, maybe when your own kids embrace their own culture, trends, and music, that you come to recognise that the fashion and dress style is just an alternative uniform to make people aware that you belong. You are a part of the group; a fully paid up member and, to dredge up an old piece of hippy linguistic currency, you know where it’s at. Man.

Leaving aside the short-lived and extremely silly horticultural aspect of being a hippy – and the drugs – the bell bottom trousers, psychedelia and, er, the drugs – the Afghan coat, the light-shows and the, well, you know what, one of the more dominant components of the uniform was long hair. On men that is. Women had always had the opportunity of wearing their hair long without people from the previous generation shouting indignantly at them “get your hair cut” or – a real favourite in the 1960’s and early 70’s – “I’d put you all in the army you bunch of pansies – that’ll sort your lot out”. Such pearls of wisdom were commonplace from those just a little too old to cut the hippy mustard and not uncommon from those who had Rocked Around the Clock in their drapes, drainpipes and winklepickers just ten or so years previously.

I feel sure that those that truly embrace the prevailing culture of their youth are slower, in later life, to be too judgemental about the phases that succeeded it. Did I, for example, wince at the punks with their chains, multiple piercings and safety pins through their noses? Of course not. Honestly. Well… OK. Just a bit. Not the uniform itself – it was the mutilation I didn’t get. But there are always those – in reality a majority – who don’t join in and who remain aloof from the prevailing ethos. I sat opposite one on a train a few days ago and she made it plain – from the disapproving looks, the foot tapping, finger drumming and almost sub-vocal tut-tutting that I was not the sort of person she wished to share a train carriage with.

If she partook in any youthful exuberance my guess would be that she moaned softly and politely when she saw Cliff Richard perform Livin’ Doll. She quite obviously felt that someone my age – younger than her by say fifteen years – was somewhat letting the side down. She was clearly offended by my long hair – silver now, wispy and lacking on top and prone to stay where the wind last blew it instead of falling gracefully back into shape. If that was not bad enough she was obviously outraged by my dangling haematite earring sculpted as a feather and probably suspicious of the small, golden leaping swordfish on a chain around my neck. And if all that wasn’t bad enough – I smiled at her!

The uniform of the man across the aisle from us was all Armani – Armani briefcase, Armani eye-glasses and Armani suit – all labelled – all showing. My friend across the table was clearly wondering why she had the misfortune to have me to stare at and not him without ever realising that he would most probably have not smiled and if he did would, no doubt, have Armani engraved on his lillywhite teeth. But alas she had me and I, of course, derived great enjoyment from the encounter.

It almost made me feel 18 again.