THE seven-year-old girl was choosing an Easter egg from the expensive range in the specialist chocolate shop.

Nothing is too good for an only grandchild her grandparents confessed they were paid-up subscribers to that belief. Grandma spotted some chocolate figures of soldiers and bonneted ladies in colourful foil and offered them as extra treats.

"Are they made from brown chocolate?" asked the girl. The assistant assured her they were made from the best dark variety.

"Miss her schoolteacher says making brown things like that is racist," the girl said, when turning down Grandma's offer.

Until then, Grandad had stood by with an adoring expression, wallet in hand ready to pay. In an instant, he turned crimson with rage.

"First we had to ditch the Robertson's Jam golliwogs, now it's chocolate soldiers," he said. "What are these politically correct loonies doing to our kids?"

A CROWD, sizeable in village terms, gathered for the annual egg-rolling event.

There was no doubt the trays of past-sell-by-date, hard-boiled eggs would be sold for a children's charity, but changes had been made since last year, changes outside the organisers' control. Experience and the form book counted for nothing.

The narrow lane, down which eggs would tumble, had been resurfaced by the council. What had been a ridged, unpredictable hurdles course was now a perfectly smooth track, fit for a 100-yard sprint albeit at an angle of 35 degrees.

But competition was red hot mostly among the male adults, who were determined to master the new conditions and beat their neighbours. Young heads were shaken at their fathers' undisguised rivalry, while the children were satisfied to mischievously force the straw-hatted, clipboard-carrying referee to dance out of the way of the gambolling eggs.

TWO friends both great-grandmothers met for their weekly coffee, blueberry muffin and chat at Tchibo in the Westgate Centre. One looked unusually concerned. Recognising me from earlier weeks, her friend leaned across.

"Hilda's sent a card to the Queen for her birthday, but she's worried," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"She put a first class-stamp on the envelope and sent it to Buckingham Palace, but she didn't know the post code. Do you think it will find her?"

STILL on the topic of birthday cards for HM, a chum phoned from the North to say she had sent one very tasteful with a view of Windsor Castle'.

"It was the least I could do," she said. "The Queen made a point of sending one to my mum."

I resisted putting dirty finger marks across the patina of her patriotism by reminding her that card had been for her mother's 100th birthday and that she the daughter had written to the Palace giving due warning!

THE response of a young male member of staff in one of the larger DIY stores when it was suggested a little service would not go amiss: "I'm not here for customer service. I'm here to make a living."

Maybe management should focus its attention if you get my meaning.