Sadly, I don’t think my two teenage daughters have ever embraced Blue Peter. I’m not sure they even really bothered watching it. If they did, it certainly hasn’t made anything like the impact it did on me and my generation.

They can’t believe it was such compulsive viewing in the ’70s.

But then they struggle with the concept that I existed in a world comprising just three television channels – that screened until around midnight, then played the national anthem and plunged into darkness. Nothing left but a high-pitched wail to ensure you remembered to turn the TV off. And, of course, remove the plug from the socket to prevent your house from inevitable explosion (‘s electricity really so much safer now or did it just take us around 100 years or so to trust it?).

I can’t imagine my childhood without Blue Peter. I hung on every word uttered.

But then the presenters, like others of the era, were well-spoken, middle-aged(ish), gentle, charming and solid. Nowadays the criteria for presenting shows appears only to be young, fit and spray-tanned to within an inch of your life.

I keenly watched the trustworthy Valerie Singleton assist Freda (the show’s tortoise) out of hibernation and bathe each eye with a separate piece of cotton wool. I remember her insisting this was essential to stop spreading any infection from one eye to the other. This warning never left me. To this day I am physically incapable of using the same wad of cotton wool to remove my makeup from both eyes. It’s probably cost me a small fortune and helped send several extra bin bags to landfill.

The Blue Peter Christmas appeal was always a highlight. I remember the gut-wrenching suspense of wondering what they would be collecting for their worthy cause. One year was used stamps, another milk bottle lids. You may vaguely remember both – stamps are now a threatened species, milk bottles virtually museum exhibits.

One of the other delights of Christmas was the making of their advent calendar. The day those two wire coat hangers were twisted together, wrapped in tinsel and topped off with candles was when you knew that Christmas really was nearly here. Nowadays, the authorities and several national charities would have kittens if they thought young children were being encouraged to combine naked flames with highly flammable materials. They may have a point.

Despite the hours avidly spent watching the presenters making amazing models and Mothers’ Day gifts, I never once made a single thing. For a start we never had an empty bottle of washing up liquid when required – they seemed to last a damn eternity in our house. And most of the other materials were just so unobtainable. Sticky-backed plastic, something the show used in abundance, was available locally but expensive. And you have no idea how exotic a paper fastener was in the ’70s. My daughters can’t believe you might as well have asked your mum for some moon dust.

They may not share my passion for Blue Peter, but what my girls have afforded me is the indulgence of repeating those immortal words: ‘Here’s one I made earlier...’