I grew up as a clergyman’s son, an excellent introduction to the world for which I remain grateful. This upbringing did offer my siblings and me quite an unusual childhood.

One of the main features of it was that everybody knew my parents, and particularly my father.

He was, after all, the chap who dressed up in a cassock and climbed into the pulpit on Sundays to deliver a sermon — and perhaps more relevant to me, turned up regularly at my school and gave an assembly.

You’d think that as time went on, my young classmates would have grown bored of giggling and pointing at the vicar, saying “That’s your dad.” I can assure you they did not.

So for the first couple of decades of my life it was common, whenever I gave my name, for people to look quizzically and ask “Are you, by any chance, related to Rev. Chatfield?”

I was always gratified to say I was, not least because the social cachet of the local clergyman could be a useful thing.

Even now, nearly 50 years after my parents moved away from the parish of St John’s Sandown, I am still delighted if very occasionally I meet one of the select band of parishioners who remember them and ask if I’m connected.

When I eventually moved away from home, I was out in the world where few knew or cared what my parents did.

There I had to make a name for myself, no longer able to rely upon the Chatfield family standing.

Whether I subsequently kept up my clan’s honourable name or otherwise, is not for me to say.

But I am sure that whenever I’ve left a place the name Chatfield is better-known than when I arrived.

As with so many Island people, the time came to raise my own family and I returned to the Isle of Wight.

My sons are now grown up and travelling the world with success in their own careers, much to my pride.

They still have roots back here where they were raised, and although they are called Chatfield I doubt they ever have the experience of anyone asking them if they have any connection to me.

I have not yet achieved the level of fame my father once had and I am content to accept I probably never shall.

In fact, the wheel has turned: as I realised when recently I introduced myself to somebody.

On hearing my name he gave me that familiar quizzical look and then made the association.

“Are you related to that guitarist, Jack Chatfield?” he asked with excitement.

I confessed I was. This was a milestone. I have come to the point where my sons are now the ones making the news and are doing so splendidly.

I’m not quite finished with it yet, but I’m glad the family name is in such good hands.