FOURTEEN years ago, I wrote a column about getting a phone call from a primary school headteacher, saying: “I’m really sorry, but Jack’s going to have to go to hospital.”

My blood froze as he explained that Jack, aged six, had been in the playground and his friend, Luke, had lost a button from his coat. Jack had found the button and he didn’t know how it had happened, but it just jumped up his nose.

The teachers had peered up his nose and couldn’t see anything, but Jack insisted it was up there so we had no option but to go to hospital.

Sure enough, it was confirmed that the button was lodged at the top of his nose and all kinds of attempts were made to get it out. At one point, we were warned he’d have to have an operation, but it finally popped out with the biggest blow he’d ever given.

That column sparked a frenzy of phone calls and letters from people who’d had buttons up their noses when they were little. Actually, it wasn’t just buttons. I heard from people who’d had Lego, Smarties, bits of crayon, chalk, and dried peas up their noses as children.

There was even a woman at Carlton Women’s Institute, near Stockton, who put her hand up during one of my talks and announced: “Well, I had the wheel of a toy tractor up my nose.”

Naturally, I told her it was nothing to brag about and carried on.

The letters and phone calls continued for weeks and culminated in an anecdote from a man who’d been day-dreaming on the top deck of a double-decker bus, going through Darlington, and pushed a rolled up bus ticket too far into his ear.

Imagine the embarrassment when an inspector got on and the chap had to explain: “Honest – I have bought a ticket, but it’s in me ear.” Anyway, I give this background from the archives because I feel it is only fair to go public with a rather alarming experience at work recently.

There I was, helping to proof-read pages in my capacity as editor of this illustrious organ, when I suddenly realised I was in a spot of bother. For some reason, and I really can’t explain it fully, I’d shoved a pen in my ear and the nobbly bit on the end had come off.

I tried to get it out, but it was stuck, teetering on the brink of going beyond the point of no return. I broke out in a cold sweat as I imagined having to go into casualty and fill in the form: Name: Peter Barron Age: 51 Occupation: Editor of The Northern Echo Problem: Pen-top stuck in ear.

I panicked and found myself shouting out in the middle of the newsroom: “Dave, Dave – help me, help me.”

Dave is the chief sub-editor and usually the one I turn to when there’s a crisis. Dave leapt to his feet thinking I was having a heart attack or a brain haemorrhage.

“What is it?” he asked as the newsroom fell silent.

“I’ve got a pen-top stuck in my ear and it’s about to go right into my head,” I replied.

Within seconds, he had me pinned to the desk with my head to one side, and was operating with an straightened paper-clip.

It was a delicate, painstaking task but he managed to rescue the situation before announcing: “Okay, everyone, drama over – let’s go back to getting the paper out.”

Children, let this be a warning to you… PSIF you think that’s bad, when I was speaking at West Auckland Women’s Institute recently, a member told me that a governor at Durham Prison once put a bullet in his ear to test an x-ray machine and it got stuck.

“That’s absolutely true,” she said.

It’s not known whether it triggered an official inquiry.

LOVEBOAT UPDATE

SO there I am, pounding away on the treadmill or the cross-trainer, and strangers come up to me in the gym and say things like: “So how long now til the loveboat – and how’s it going?”

It’s because I revealed a while back that I’m whisking my wife away on a Mediterranean cruise for our silver wedding anniversary and I’ve promised to get down to my wedding weight.

To answer the questions, we fly to Venice to board the boat on June 20, and since the start of the year, I’ve gone from 14st 11lbs to 13st 7lbs.

I was 12st 4lbs when we got married.

I’m jogging every day – but I think I’m running out of time.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

AT a meeting of Crathorne WI, Doreen Bancroft told me how her grand-daughter Katie, seven at the time, turned to her and said: “When you’re old and I’ve got my own place, you’re going to live with me.”

“‘Oh, that’s nice. Where will I live?” asked Doreen.

“In the cupboard under the stairs,” replied Katie.