FOR reasons which will be explained in Thursday's John North column, we were summoned last Thursday to a meeting of Spennymoor Pub Watch, ten o'clock kick off. It was in The Bridge. A notice behind the bar proclaimed "Happy minute: 11am to 11.01." Watching brief over, proceedings adjourned to stately Whitworth Hall - on the road from Spennymoor to Page Bank - in the company of Paul Hodgson and Robert Ellis, chalk and cheese champions of Spennymoor Boxing Academy.

Hodgy's the front man, more tattoos than Edinburgh Castle, jokes like the one about what Crook lasses use for protection during sex. (Answer, a bus shelter.) Robbie might be termed the straight man were it not for a formidable right hook and a twinkle. Ernie Wise had cracks, too.

It was also in their company that we'd last been to Whitworth, when Mad Frankie Fraser - the well known author and enforcer - had addressed the boxing club's presentation night, urged the impressionable not to follow his example except by writing to the Home Secretary to demand Reggie Kray's compassionate release.

On that basis, presumably, the boys were also invited to Mr Kray's state funeral and East End Encomium, unable to attend because Hodgy had a re-start (as they say in Social Security circles) the same morning.

Hodgy, in truth, has had more re-starts than a 1921 Austin 7. Just when the prospect of leaving Her Majesty's dole queue draws near, alas, he invariably conks out again.

Whitworth is the ancestral home of the Shafto family, the country park estate recently bought by Ferryhill lad and Cayman Islands tax exile Bill Gates, who made his money from sports shops.

Bill, memory suggests, was one of five. Kathryn, the charming waitress, was one of 12 - it transpired - and had featured by association in one of these columns around a quarter of a century ago.

Inevitably inviting comparison with the old woman who lived in a shoe, her dad had bathed them all, tucked them in, omitted to take a roll call and only realised after a commotion next door that he had one of theirs, an' all. For such things are we both remembered.

Whitworth, at any rate, now has three eating options: the up-market Four Seasons restaurant and French influenced Silver Buckles brasserie in the main building and Shafto's Inn on the other side of the lake. The walks are quite splendid.

We lunched in Shafto's, all three instantly recognised, real ales including Theakston's, Nimmo's and Conciliation but soft options still the doctor's order.

(The consultant's colleagues have now taken to sending him these little cuttings. He claims to find them quite amusing in an emetic sort of way.)

The novelty among the starters - satay chicken kebabs, nachos or bacon, mushroom and cheese melt, perhaps - is something called breakfast salad, a well presented and well dressed little number comprising sweetcorn fritter, bayonner ham (bacon by any other name) black pudding wedges, bits of egg, lots of leaves and a "piquant" brown and tomato sauce. Novel, and very nice.

Hodgy had that, too, Robbie the kebabs, the salad dressing again particularly appreciated.

Kathryn herself reckoned almost everything to be ineffably wonderful, but then she would. Anyone recall a waitress saying something stinks?

The boxing boys both weighed in thereafter with Thai salmon and potato fish cakes (£6.95), upon which judgement was reserved until Hodgy had sallied off to find some more tomato sauce.

"You're lucky there's no bread and butter, he'd have had a Thai fish cake and tomato sauce sandwich," said Robbie who does (as we were saying) occasionally have good lines.

Both reckoned it very good - "burny" said Hodge, in a complimentary sort of way, though the column's Thai style curried chicken was all right without exactly being spice of life. Bit bland, fellers.

We all had a deliciously light treacle sponge and custard with which to finish - the best, said Robbie, since he'd worked down the factory. (These days he cleans windows; Hodgy, of course, doesn't.)

Afterwards we tried some photographs of the lads sitting - physically if never metaphorically - on the fence, only later spotting the notice about those climbing thereon being fed to the wolf hounds. They'd probably have had a pretty good lunch, though - on balance - not so enjoyable as ours.

l Shafto's Inn, Whitworth Hall, Spennymoor. (01388) 811772. Open seven days; children's facilities; fine for the disabled, three course weekday lunch from about £10.

FUSION cooking's the in-thing, apparently, its meaning probably explained by an invitation to the opening on October 16 of The Lotus Garden - "the region's first Oriental fusion restaurant" - on Hartlepool Marina. "China, Thailand, Japan, Hartlepool," it says simply. Ah so.

THE Builders Arms is in Newton Aycliffe town centre, its strongest beer ginger. On one side is the Thames Cleaning Centre (they've been trying that for centuries) on the other, static, a mobile phone shop. The Builders is a caf and shop, not a pub, its Christian roots underlined by a sub-text from the 127th psalm: "Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it." The menu offers filled "crossaints" - heathens or Frenchmen might call them croissants - bagels, interesting butties and cakes and things for afterwards. It was Wednesday, 1.30pm. The minestrone soup was perfectly good, the egg mayonnaise and bacon croissant (or whatever you wish to call it) marred only by the absence of bacon.

Within five minutes of our arrival, however, they'd started putting chairs on the tables and getting ready for home. As hints go it was about as subtle as blitzing Sodom for one or two minor indiscretions. Newton Aycliffe was very quiet on Wednesdays, they said. The Builders were having a half day.

THE Stile's newsletter has arrived, bearing a graphic of a sad faced chap with a walking frame ("my health doesn't improve" writes co-owner Mike Boustred) and the news that the much lauded restaurant in Willington is for sale. Jenny James, Mike's partner in the Good Food Guide listed business, is also recovering from a minor operation. They hope it will continue as a restaurant - "providing a civilising influence on the cuisine of Co Durham" - and are open again on Saturday. Mike quotes Hirohito: "I'm sorry that the news isn't particularly to our advantage."

A pre-match meal at Newcastle Breweries' Wheatsheaf in Woolsington, next to Newcastle Blue Star's ground, the starter so forgettable it's impossible three days later to remember what it was, the "mega" steak and ale pie OK. Innovative, presumably, there's also a blackboard featuring "today's Geordie word". Friday's was hooky mat. That's two.

....and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a chief sausage.

A head banger, or course.