NOSTALGIA runs through the veins of poetic pensioner Mrs I. M. Cook. And she's kindly sent me a sheaf of her reflections in verse, including the one below, reminding our more mature readers of times when the nit nurse regularly searched for unwelcome 'visitors' among the heads of local schoolkids.

An era, too, our Clinkham Wood writer reminds us, when tripe, cowheels and plum duff were among the 'stick to yer ribs' items on the 1920s home menu.

I WAS told the moon was made of green cheese,

Examined each week for nits and fleas,

I was dosed each Friday, my bowels to move,

Kept in on Saturday, the results to prove.

Brimstone and treacle was a yearly dose,

We 'spring cleaned' our body as well as the house,

Parishes' food I drank by the gallon,

To lift me up, but not quite to Heaven,

I was bathed every Saturday with carbolic soap,

Mam made sure the germs had no hope

To invade my body, both inside and out,

If I didn't behave she gave me a clout.

Hot-pot , lobbies, cowheel and plum duff,

Rhubard and custard (ooh, I hated the stuff!).

Good times and bad times. All I can say,

I'm glad it all happened yesterday.