Being at a loss to add anything meaningful to that which has already been written about Coppergate II, the Dome, floods, global warming, pensions, petrol, and the shambolic US presidential election campaign of Messrs Gush and Bore, I shall be unashamedly nostalgic and tell of a personal 'disaster' in my childhood.

My recollection of the incident was evoked by the combination of Stephen Lewis's recent thoughtful article about 'growing up', a BBC Radio York listener's reference to accumulators (wireless batteries), and this sad time of year, when we remember the fallen heroes of past wars.

I was six; my widowed mother was working on the south coast and I was living with my maternal grandparents in Plumstead, London.

My grandparents' had brought up their 11 children to pull their weight when they lived at home, and expected their grandchildren to do the same.

One of my more responsible Saturday morning jobs was to take two accumulators to the 'wireless shop' for recharging and to collect two replacements. The journey was about a mile and involved climbing over, or ducking under, an iron railing, which surrounded a deep and wide ravine that had to be crossed to reach the shops.

On one occasion it was decided that Aunt Beryl, my grandmother's youngest child, a year my junior, should accompany me to carry home a loaf and crumpets. Off we went, me with an accumulator in each hand and she swinging her shopping bag and skipping along beside me.

When we came to the railing, Beryl ducked under and I climbed over. As you might expect, we collided. This caused me to drop one of the batteries. Being made of glass, it smashed and acid splashed over my shoes. Beryl was shocked and frightened and started to cry, so I sent her home and continued on my errand.

Leaving the surviving battery at the shop to be recharged, I returned home in a state of dread, with only one battery and no crumpets or bread.

My grandparents' lodger, Charlie Hudson - who had come to stay with them for a few weeks, but remained until he died 40 years later - was retired and said to be 'well-off'. He rarely went out during the day, but sat in 'his' chair, smoking a clay pipe and listening to the wireless while waiting for his next meal. After the evening meal he would go to the local pub and stay there until it closed.

When I arrived home, Mr. Hudson - who had heard Beryl's story of my mishap - was sitting by his silent wireless looking very angry, and before I could make my excuses, he ranted and raved at me for being careless.

But much worse was to follow: in a sudden fit of violent rage he picked up my homemade fort - containing my treasured lead soldiers - and hurled it at me. I ducked and it hit the wall, scattering soldiers across the linoleum-covered floor.

Striving not to cry, I checked for casualties and found four of my favourite Grenadier Guardsmen had lost their heads.

A few days later - my guardsmen's heads held on with matchsticks - Charlie was leaving for the pub as I was off to bed.

As he passed me in the hall, he whispered hoarsely: "Sorry, lad, I shouldn't have been so mad; you were doing your best," and slipped a silver sixpence into my hand. I couldn't believe it, a whole sixpence - enough to buy six new guardsmen!

Life wasn't so bad after all.

W Sullivan's letter (November 10) about the proposed issue of free bus passes, to replace bus tokens, for York's OAPs, prompts me to suggest the city council's new scheme does not appear to make provision for wheelchair-borne pensioners, who are unable to board most buses. At present they can use bus tokens for taxi journeys.

To lose this concession would be unfair.