WHEN I take out a sheet of paper to write this on, I do so from a folder marked A4. In front of that one is another marked quarto, and yet another, foolscap. A few odd sheets left over from another era, when they reigned supreme. We never gave it a thought that they'd ever change - nor did we see a need for it, but yet it happened. A4 comes as 210x297, and like a lot more measurements, it's just another thing that this thing called 'Europe' has forced upon us. I was quite happy adding one-half pint of water to whatever I was mixing, rather than 284ml, or when buying some timber, a piece of 2x3 was a lot easier than 51x76.2. All I can see that Europe has given us, so far, is a lot of big numbers. Oh for the simple life!

I had a letter this week from 'Upabackadoonyonder'. That's Willy fra' Stape, who comments on the use of toys made of old tinplate cans, etc and he tells how, on Bonfire Night, he and his mates could make all the bangs they liked with the aid of a Golden Syrup tin, and some carbide. The modus operandi was to ask dad for a spoonful of carbide (which he used for his bicycle lamp) put this in a treacle tin, add a little water, hammer on the lid - and smartly take cover. The resultant bang was far better than a Penny Demon. These would keep on performing when all the crackers were used up. The advantage was that the bangs didn't cost anything. The drawback was the fact that the tin lids flew so far that they tended to get lost in the dark, so it was of benefit if you went with a few spare lids in your pockets. Another fun game was treacle-tin stilts, which was what we called them, and it seems that all small boys followed a similar behaviour pattern in their amusements, for Willy reminds me of these. Willy calls them 'scrawters'. Which indeed they were. Two Golden Syrup tins again - they were about the stoutest tin of their day - lids firmly on, and two holes through from side to side through which a length of Massey Harris was threaded, enough to reach with the hands. Each foot stood on a tin, which were kept in place by holding the string tight. Each small boy could then progress along the street at some four or so inches (10cm!!) taller, which was a novel experience. Not only this, but whilst being silent off road, when on a town pavement they made the most awful "scrawtin'" noise, guaranteed to set teeth on edge within a distance of 200 yards. In addition to the fun aspect, the empty treacle tin was also very educational. It helped to teach metalwork, the handling of explosives, scrounging, etc, which, as Willy says, were things which were handy in later years! This letter certainly raised a smile for me and a reminder of things we did, which he supported with a sketch of the scrawters in action. Thanks Willy.

Meanwhile, the girls were playing hopscotch, reciting at the same time the doggerel that made it all worthwhile and which only they knew.The hop, on one foot, which had to be twisted sideways, at the same time making contact with a flat stone (which I expect they had a name for), sending this into the next correct square. At no time must the other foot touch the ground (I think). Must have been good for learning balance, perhaps deportment even. Folk were happy then, although poor, and I'll bet not one of them had even a half-penny in their pockets, which wouldn't come till Saturday (hopefully).

Back to today, and the Gazette & Herald tells me that the Boundary Commission is to change the name of Ryedale to be, once again, Thirsk and Malton. T&M is what I grew up with, being an electoral designation, but which didn't mean anything to me then. I suspect this is a purely political move, behind it all there'll be some hidden motive. There is also the suspicion that the commission is trying to find something to do to maintain its position in the scheme of things, and what else than messing about with boundaries. As I've said before, leave well alone, or as coined by Lance Bert in Nation's Business: "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." I don't feeling like 'joining'. I like the name Ryedale, it has a pleasant air about it. The faceless ones can call it what they like, Ryedale is where I live.

10.30am - I wonder if the post has come yet? Or in the event of none being through my letterbox, does it mean I'm not getting any? Regular delivery times have now gone by the board, and you just have to keep going and having a look behind the door. Reading the mail over breakfast was a pleasure (usually) as well as a habit which we seem to now have denied us. Signs of the times!

Politicians: "You slam a politician, you make out he's the devil, with horns and hoofs. But his wife loves him, and so did all his mistresses." Pamela H Johnson, British author 1912-1981 (from the comedy - Night And Silence. 1962).

Updated: 11:32 Wednesday, December 03, 2003