On Friday night my wife, Lisa, and I watched the three episodes of 63 Up while my youngest daughter and her friend, in a respite from the brutal slog of GCSEs, caught up with a week of Love Island upstairs. Those of us who like to feel as if we have grown up with Michael Apted’s series – I was born the year after the first film, Seven Up!, was broadcast in 1964 – might be tempted to see some kind of tale for our times in that juxtaposition. There probably isn’t one, except to hope that some smart producer, with an eye on longevity, has signed up the love islanders for return visits in 2026 and 2033 and 2040, so we can observe the effect of time and mortgage interest and sleepless parenting on their muscle tone and wayward eyes.

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