CHARLES Simon, incomparable and incredible, pauses over one of the 40 Dunhill King Size which each day he allows himself. "I've been smoking since I was a choir boy. I can't afford it, but I do it," he says. "It's all a matter of luck, either you're one of those who go on living for ever or one of those who pop off early. My only advice is never to go near a doctor. He'll probably find 40,000 things rotting inside you and then all you'll do is worry yourself to death, anyway." Mr Simon is 91, best remembered - a theatrical irony - as Dr Jim Dale in the long running radio serial Mrs Dale's Diary, which attracted seven million daily listeners. For 15 years previously he ran a repertory company in Darlington. Mrs Dale, apparently, was forever wondering if Jim were all right. The old chap is absolutely blooming. He still drives himself everywhere, still works every day ("harder than I do," his agent had said), had only that morning been making a television commercial for throat sweets. "God knows which ones," he insists. "You do these things and you've no idea what they're for. All I know is you can make a commercial in a day and with repeat fees earn more than you can in a year playing Hamlet at the National Theatre. I do them for the money."

Born in Wolverhampton, he first trod Darlington's boards in 1935, won a £20 bet that he couldn't stage a successful production at the Theatre Royal in Northgate, fought in vain to save it from closure the following year.

Two days later, he opened with his own repertory company in the Temperance Hall in Gladstone Street, recalled how an army of volunteers had worked round the clock to ensure that the show could go on - "There was a chap with a wooden mallet who went around waking up those who'd fallen asleep."

On a Thursday afternoon in January 1940 he married repertory company colleague Nancy McDermid, both back on stage that night in something called Meet the Wife - "singularly appropriate" observed the Northern Despatch. His wife's parents lived in Blackwell and kept a grocery shop in Major Street; his sister Muriel was bridesmaid, wearing her ATS uniform. Nancy died in 1958. His second wife, a vicar's daughter 24 years his junior, died two years ago. A new leading lady? "Let's just say I have connections," he chuckles. "I'm not without company if I can avoid it." The Gladstone Street hall burned down in 1946, destroying 50 tons of scenery, 4,000 volumes of plays and numerous wardrobes rich with costumes. Though they moved to the Royal Astoria in Northgate, times and tastes were changing. Despite a public appeal which raised £700 - the money was returned - the company took its last bow in 1950, losing him £5,000.

"It has been patiently and arduously built up over the years at the expense of one man but allowed to pass out of existence with barely an expression of regret," he said at the time. Half a century later his memories are fonder. "We had some hard times in Darlington, but we had some very good ones, too. Both the corporation and you press people were very supportive."

While in Darlington he also produced Living Theatre, a colour magazine which peaked at a 75,000 sale - in response, he says, to an "alternative" publication called The Other Theatre. "It was about the sort of thing you perform in bloody lavatories," Mr Simon insists.

Twenty years ago he compered two nights of old time music hall at Newton Aycliffe Leisure Centre (very old time, very music hall), returned to the Civic Theatre in 1980 in Blithe Spirit and in 1982 in The Importance of Being Earnest. "They'd gained one of those circular roads or something," he says. "I was looking forward to seeing the High Row again but couldn't find the bloody thing."

Mrs Dale's Diary had begun on radio in 1948, Simon chosen in 1963 from over 100 applicants to play alongside 56-year-old Jessie Matthews - herself a new Mrs Dale. Seven of the seven million rang the BBC to complain that she was too young. The Northern Echo, for reasons best known to itself, sought the opinions of 15 Darlington doctors' wives - 12 said they never listened, the other three didn't know.

It ended in 1969. Though Mr Simon wrote, backed and starred in a play based on the radio programme, its tour ended - in Rotherham - after just six weeks. "I am on the breadline in every sense," he said at the time.

Among his latest roles is W S Gilbert's father in Topsy Turvey, a film about Gilbert and Sullivan. "I recognised him immediately, as robust and commanding as ever," says theatrical manager David Kirk. Forthcoming appearances include a part in a "modern" LWT production of A Christmas Carol, another in 102 Dalmatians ("that's modern, too") and in something called The Final Curtain. Charles Simon's own final curtain may be some way off yet. "I'll work until I drop and I've no plans to drop," says Dr Dale, and lights himself another Dunhill.

DAVID Kirk, aforesaid, is from Darlington, too, his father for 34 years a North Road GP and theatre enthusiast. He moved south in 1953, on his office wall in Wimbledon a playbill for Blind Alley - written by his father and performed by Charles Simon and Company in 1937. Dr Charles Kirk had arrived in the town in 1913, became a partner in Dr Fisher's practice and was later joined by Dr Archie Morrison.

David was leading man with the YMCA Little Theatre in Sunderland when he wrote a play called The Hour and the Woman, failed to find a backer and - "a model of obstinacy at the age of 22" - both promoted it and co-starred with Olga Dawn at Darlington Hippodrome. "I could have lost £80 in one week, an awful lot of money 50 years ago, but when I worked it all out I'd made myself a profit of £18 12s 6d. The play took a bit of re-writing and a bit of carpentry but really did quite well. After that I was on the theatrical slippery slope for life."

IT was the Three Wise Men, was it not, who were warned in a dream that Herod was after their blood and so went by a different route.

Another intended word to the wise, someone rang after we'd accepted an invitation to a 10am meeting of Spennymoor Pub and Club Watch. "Don't go," he said, "they're after shafting you." We went anyway - sat next to the polliss, just in case.

In passing, no more, one of these columns had mentioned several months ago that Spennymoor town centre seemed awfully quiet at night. "Why we know it is," someone said at the meeting, "but there's nee call to put it in the paper." After that 22 carat example of blaming the messenger for bringing the news, everything went fine.

Spennymoor has lots of pubs, but not enough customers. The Pub Watch committee exists not just to look out for trouble and trouble makers but to promote the town. It's beginning to work. Ten people have already been banned from all members' premises, their photographs hung in the rogues' gallery though it's said that some don't do the culprits justice. If they don't, it's likely the magistrates soon will.

Gavin Musgrave, the polliss, reported that in the past month they'd not been called to a single incident on Pub Watch premises. "You can't have better proof of its effectiveness than that," he said.

They met in the Bridge, beer John Smith's, tea Tetley's. "What the town centre needs is a family pub," said local councillor Ben Ord. They needed another pub, it was agreed, like they needed an extra pound on a pint, though the Top Hat club plans a £700,000 ground floor caf/bar.

Like others in Spennymoor, they were also concerned at recent extravagances like the town centre fountain, otherwise known as the municipal car wash. A few more statues, someone said, and they'd be just like Shildon.

They proved a very good bunch, seriously intent upon urban regeneration. We parted as friends, no bother.