THE patron saint of journalists and writers is St Francis de Sales, a 17th century Bishop of Geneva who once famously remarked that more flies were attracted to a spoonful of honey than to a barrel full of vinegar.

That the circulation department sounds his more natural home is neither here nor there.

Were there to be a patron saint of daily columnists, it would surely be Mr Micawber, he whose favourite saying - as Dickens observed in David Copperfield - was that something would turn up.

Today's column is thus particularly grateful to the blessed Tim Stahl in Darlington, who in a story about bus liveries in last week's John North column spotted a reference to "anorakism".

An anorak, says the admirable Bloomsbury English Dictionary - published in 2004 - is a "boring, unfashionable or studious person, especially someone who is excessively devoted to a hobby or interest."

Mr Stahl, a retired surgeon, is a volunteer guide at the restored pumping station in Coniscliffe Road, Darlington and wishes to register a new illness - anoraksia nervosa.

"I intend to erect a sign, " he says after another busy weekend, "warning that all staff on duty suffer from this condition."

THOUGH usually known as St William's, the Roman Catholic church on Albert Hill, Darlington, is officially dedicated to St William and St Francis de Sales. Upon entering the saint's search terms into the Echo's omniscient electronic archive, however, all that results are images of Mr Tony Blair. This, to be fair, appears not to be another example of our Prime Minister getting above his canonical station but of him signing autographs at St Francis de Sales church in Liverpool - where actor Tony Booth, the PM's father-in-law, had the blessing service for his fourth marriage.

WHAT of St George, he to whom so much spurious jingoism now attaches?

After a St George's Day service in Spennymoor on Sunday, we walked up to Middlestone Moor and then onward through Bishop Auckland main street.

There was a single flag in Spennymoor, a lot of meretricious paper bunting provided by John Smith's brewery and, in Bishop, a shop window festooned with enough red and white crosses to make you World Cup weary already.

"Don't mention the war, " read an asinine message across the middle of a large flag.

Though George understandably features in the Oxford Dictionary of Saints, the Oxford English Dictionary barely acknowledges him. There's St Brigid's anemone, St Bruno's lily, St Elmo's fire - something to do with ships' masts - and even St Vitus' dance, one of many illnesses named after the saint thought best able to ward them off.

All that's attributed to St George is "a creamy white flattened mushroom." England surely expects better than that.

THAT, too, of St Bernard, after whom the brandy snappers are named? A 12th century Cistercian monk, he was clearly a chap who kept one step ahead. But why, at youth club dances all those years ago, did we stamp about doing the St Bernard's waltz?

Not even the sagacious John Briggs can offer an answer, save that the dance arrived in England around 1904.

Maybe a terpsichorean reader can help.

THOUGH prominent in Rothman's Football Year Book, St Johnston - pride of Perth - fails to make the Oxford Dictionary of Saints. The dictionary, however, that "St Johnston's riband" is Scottish slang for the hangman's noose. Enough rope, maybe someone can explain that one, too.

STILL with the broad church, last Saturday's At Your Service column came from the delightful village of Scargill, in Teesdale, where the congregation still meets in what was the Victorian schoolroom. The original desks remain, perfect for domino drives save that the doms tend to fall down the inkwell shafts when shuffled.

Bill Bartle in Barnard Castle is reminded that Len and Isabell Dixon, friends from the town's Methodist church, once farmed in Scargill - their son still does - and had a visit from "King" Arthur, of that ilk.

They found him affable. "I don't agree with his politics, " said Isabell, "but he was nice around the house."

A SINGLE discordant note on a lovely afternoon, that same column observed that Thine Be the Glory - Christendom's greatest hymn, Oh For a Thousand Tongues in second place - had been amended to "Yours Be the Glory."

It reminded Chris Eddowes, an elder at Hartlepool United Reformed Church, of what she considers her "greatest foot in mouth moment".

At the URC centre in Windermere, she was banging on about why they bothered to print modern and traditional versions alongside one another in the hymn book - "especially as no-one sings the modern version, anyway".

She was told it was a more accurate translation - "and then realised I'd been holding forth to Alan Gaunt, the translator of the modern version".

A sympathetic note, too, from the Rev Leo Osborn, chairman of the Methodist Church's Newcastle district. There's even, he says, been a suggestion for a new version of Rock of Ages.

Rock of ages, broke in two Let me hide myself in you. . .

APROPOS of precious little, Chris Greenwell in Aycliffe Village spotted in last Tuesday's paper - "unhappily in the insolvency notices" - a reference to Fast Wettlepot, near Middleton-in-Teesdale, and is curious (as well he might be) to discover how it came by its name.

Billy Neilson in Bishop Auckland noted the reference in last week's column to a bus travelling author who'd get an inspector to sign a little chitty verifying her route.

"When, " asks Bill, "did you last see an inspector on a bus?"

. . . so finally, back to St Timothy de Stahl, who while lunching last week in Shildon - a restored town centre with which he was considerably, surprisingly, impressed - spotted three youths wearing "current fashion" crossing the road in his direction.

They walked, he says, "with that strange bouncing gait that appears nowadays to indicate that they are 'up for it'."

As they approached, he became aware that an old man with a stick had said something to them. "I thought perhaps that he was remonstrating with them, or that they had taunted him, but I was wrong.

"He had asked them to help him cross the road, which they did with great delight. Off they went, chuffed, and so was I. Hopefully, so was the old man."

That's Shildon folk, of course.

Saints we may never be, but good lads, nonetheless. Another Sales pitch, another spoonful of honey, next week.