The column hotfoots it to a restaurant which was badly damaged by fire a year ago, to see what's risen from the ashes.

WHAT might paradoxically be termed the indefinite article, the phone book lists the Old Farmhouse neither under "Old" or "Farmhouse" but under "The".

It's a crossed line curiosity shared only with The Diocese of Durham, a breakdown in communication which may explain why there aren't so many folk in church these days.

We went to the Old Farmhouse on a Sunday, too, seats seldom allowed to get cold - like colliers' beds in the bad old days - before eagerly being reoccupied.

A few bairns were buzzing around, too, prompting the uncharacteristically querulous comment from The Boss that those who allowed children to run around in busy pubs should be taken out the back and shot.

The greater firing squad fodder, in truth, are those who believe that the way to pacify a noisy child is to fetch it one round the ear hole. Is a clip round the ear still considered reasonable chastisement, anyway?

The pub's a couple of miles out of Darlington on the road to the airport, badly damaged by fire a year ago but again blazing away quite merrily.

The smoking area is relatively small, the fire wholly under control, the white aproned staff absolutely exemplary. If the food is to be formulaic - and being formulaic is among the reasons why pubs like the Farmhouse sometimes fall foul of columns like Eating Owt - then it's good that the staff are not.

Most carry little gadgets on their belts. "We get a buzz from the kitchen," a waiter explained - don't we all, mate - though he added that there were times when he'd like to throw it in the bin.

Diners find a table and are given a numbered wooden spoon - "a bit like the doctor's," said The Boss - to stick in an empty wine bottle.

The bottle in turn is festooned with abstinent little aphorisms like "The trouble with wine is that it makes men confuse words with thoughts" - attributed to Samuel Johnson - "Though the human body is 90 per cent water, the prohibitionists still aren't satisfied," attributed to Billy Buggins, or someone.

Food's from a large card marked "Sunday" and includes roast beef and roast turkey. Thereafter the waiter totes round a large pudding board, like the flat-capped chap at football matches who used to walk round at half-time with the winning numbers in the meat draw.

Many of the dishes are chicken-based, few fishy. There's even one called "Country chicken", presumably having come from a battery farm in a field.

We'd started with a nicely presented avocado, bacon and baby spinach salad, served with undercooked Charlotte potatoes. Isn't apple Charlotte, anyway?

The lamb shank with borlotti beans which followed was in turn marred by anaemic mash. The Boss, who'd begun with a very enjoyable goats' cheese in batter, risked a second agricultural revolution at the Old Farmhouse by asking for the fishcake starter as a main course, with chips.

The staff took it in their stride, as they did everything else, criss-crossing on the stone flagged floor like a formation team from Come Dancing. The only problem was the white and enfeebled chips. What is it with the Farmhouse and taties?

It is not in the least to suggest that there's a deep-rooted problem, a couple of pints of Bass adding to a perfectly pleasant experience. Two courses for two, around £20-£25; food served until 9.30pm.

No need to worry about the telephone number, either. As things turned out, they don't take reservations, anyway.

SHILDON lad John Littlefair reports that Bill Nixon, a fellow member of the Methodist church choir, went into a restaurant in the Middleton Grange shopping centre in Hartlepool last week and asked if they had mince and dumplings.

"Pensioners?" asked the assistant.

"Yes, please" said Bill, somewhat taken aback when the assistant then cut the diddle diddle dumpling in half and relocated 50 per cent.

"I wonder what they'd have done," adds John, "if it had been a fried egg?"

BURNS Night and the lunchtime restaurant car on the train northward to Edinburgh is almost empty, as if the Scots are saving themselves for the delights of neeps and chappit tatties yet to come.

No haggis is on offer, no free dram, wee or otherwise. The menu is probably what they call modern English, on this side of the Royal Border bridge, anyway.

Much of it is credited to John Dalby, head chef at the much lauded (and awarded) Blue Lion at East Witton, in Wensleydale, said to be a favourite haunt of the heir to the throne.

There is also a note on the menu about using mobile phones with consideration for other customers. The only truly effective way to regulate mobile phones, of course, is to throw either phone or user - or both - off the Royal Border bridge, aforesaid.

The views were splendid despite a steely sea, the journey smooth save for a slight fit of the shooglies near Alnmouth. Not all the food travelled as well.

Three starters embraced carrot and tomato soup, black pudding hash and a dish of smoked haddock said to be resting on a bed of potatoes with an oyster mushroom, cream and leek sauce with a poached egg on top and then grilled with mature cheddar cheese.

It was all too much, so many potential flavours that none, save the haddock, could with certainty be identified.

Beef and onion suet pudding, another Dalby designer dish, was simpler and therefore more successful. A splendidly old English affair, as trusty as it was crusty, it was rendered yet more robust with a drop of Guinness and a red wine sauce. They fought Bannockburn on such things. The vegetables, similarly unfussy, appeared to have come into too close contact with the water troughs.

Either starter or pudding is complimentary before 3pm and since it was complimentary, it would be only right to say something nice in turn about the apple crumble and custard - the other two puddings being cheesy.

The crumble is another of John Dalby's, described as "baked slices of apple cooked with sugar, butter and cinnamon topped with a soft crumb and covered with custard".

Complimentary? How does nowt nor summat sound, and a lukewarm nowt nor summat at that?

On-board catering is hugely difficult, but wouldn't they be better with a Taylor's pie and a spoonful of mustard? With the free pudding and two Cokes, the bill was £21.

HAVING failed to find haggis and neeps on the journey to Scotland, we headed southwards via Tow Law FC - welcome home, lads - and were back in the Britannia in Darlington in time to find Burns Night still in full fling, though the piper had already called the tune. Still, there wasn't just plenty of food left but we were bought a pint by a stranger. "It's because the paper just wouldn't be the paper without you," he said. Thanks.

...and finally the bairns wondered if we knew the biggest species of mouse in the world.

The hippopotamouse, of course.