When I sit down to write these columns, I often don’t know what I’m going to write about, and occasionally still turn to my Dad’s archive to inspire me.

This week, I’m sitting here in a state of indecision as I’m finding it difficult to choose a topic from one of his columns that I dug out from 1976 in which he writes about various things, including the month of November, noise, magpies, sweet chestnuts, and an old dialect poem.

And each little section is fascinating, but I only have enough space to consider one of them. Which one would you choose? And which do you think I will? Read on to find out…

Dad was a countryman through and through and was never more content than when he was sitting in his conservatory with my mum, taking his morning break from writing, chatting over their coffee while overlooking the gorgeous view of their garden and the peaceful valley beyond.

The thought of living in a bustling noisy town had always made him shudder, as this 1976 extract reveals: "Modern society has produced many more sounds, some of a very aggravating nature." 

He adds: "Modern disco dances thrive on brilliant moving lights and outrageous noise, so harmful to the youngsters’ eardrums, and teenagers turn up the volume on their TV sets or record players to a level far higher than necessary."

Despite these words, Dad was pretty tolerant of the youngsters playing music in his own home. In our "posh" lounge (which was used on special occasions, or when people we wanted to impress visited) we had a mahogany-veneer radiogram. It was roughly the size of a semi-detached house and now and then we’d be allowed in the room to play our vinyl records.

Darlington and Stockton Times: Me in our ‘posh’ room with my brother Andrew in 1970 celebrating his 18th birthday. We were

Mum and Dad had bought it in the 1960s, and it was considered very "with it" at the time. I remember that my elder sister had been given a Pinky and Perky record called "Celebration Day" one Christmas. It was bright green vinyl, and I know Mum and Dad were thrilled to hear the squeaky tones of those two little pigs drifting through the house singing classics like "Donald, Where’s Your Troosers" and "Grandfather’s Clock" over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

How disappointed they must have been when cassette tapes were invented which meant we could play our music on more portable devices that we kept in our bedrooms with the doors shut (although my brother was soon to become a punk fan, and the floorboards that separated the kitchen from his room above were no match for the Sex Pistols on full blast).

We still have concerns today for our teenagers’ eardrums because almost every one of them listens to content through headphones ALL the time. They don’t seem to be able to walk anywhere, or take any journey, without a mobile device attached to them via wireless earphones, and when they get home, they disappear into their rooms to continue watching stuff on their PC through another, usually bigger and more powerful, set of headphones.

At least we parents don’t have to suffer their dodgy taste in music blaring through the house anymore, but we cannot monitor the volume at which they listen to it. You can’t help but think they must be doing long-term damage to their hearing, but will they take notice of our warnings? Of course they won’t, because since the dawn of time, teenagers have ignored all parental portents of doom concerning their health and well-being. It is one of the more enjoyable aspects of being a teenager.

I used to tell my dad off for having the TV on too loud, and it is ironic that these days my children tell me off for having the TV on too loud too. I warn them that my worsening hearing is a result of not listening to my parents when I was a teenager. They tell me it’s just because I’m getting old.

Whichever is true (and don’t tell them, but I do think it’s actually more to do with ageing) I look forward to the day when they have their own children who, when they become teenagers, won’t listen to a thing their parents say. And I will knowingly look on with more than a degree of smug satisfaction.

Contact me via my webpage at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.