Dame Stella Rimington, the former spycatching supremo, or to be more formal, Director General of MI5, wants to publish her memoirs. Hardly surprising - for no matter how many times our Government officials sign the Official Secrets Act, they cannot be relied upon to "keep mum". And Dame Stella is, after all, a woman - the first to hold the post - and, like most women, more skilful than men at communicating. And, being the custodian of so many secrets has a compulsive urge to share them - for cash of course.

You can be sure that this dame knows plenty. Apart from state secrets, security foul-ups and high society scandals, she knows where all the "bodies are buried". Her in-house moles will have kept her informed about those public officials and military intelligence "vassals" (that's an in-joke) who infest our government offices at home and embassies abroad and make tea as soon as they get to the office, submit inflated claims for subsistence, travel and entertainment allowances, use official vehicles for private use, make private calls on their office phones, practise sexual harassment, bunk off early on Fridays, and raid the stationery store for string and sticky tape at Christmas.

So, with all that to expose to the Great British Public, you can imagine the panic her revelations will cause. Little wonder that her successor, his opposite number in MI6 and their staffs are pressing the Home Secretary to put an embargo on her disclosures, despite such a ban being in contravention of Jack Straw's Freedom of Information Bill and the European convention on human rights, soon to be incorporated in English law.

Do I hear you ask: "Surely that's not how our security services carry on?" Yes, I'm afraid so. And they're not alone. So, what's to be done? Well, for a start, if we put a ferret-like watchdog in every Government department, in next to no time enough public money could be saved to keep the Millennium Dome open until it pays for itself. Well, almost.

There will be few nods of agreement at what I'm about to say, but I don't care, credit must be given where it's due - York's traffic wardens will be missed.

Not just by the "I don't give a toss for anybody else, I want to park my car outside Marks and Spencers all day" motorists, but by the thousands of tourists from all over the world who flock to our city to explore its nearly two-thousand years of history, only to get lost in its maze of streets with "gate" names, and walk around all day dodging beggars and bikes.

Not seeing policemen patrolling the streets, they home in on anyone wearing a uniform for advice and directions. And who have responded better to their needs than North Yorkshire's traffic wardens? Tourists from Flagstaff to Yokohama knew the former doyen of the city's elite TW corps as "Smiling George" or "unlucky for some" for his cheery chat and helpful manner. Even getting a ticket from George was a pleasurable experience, and defaulting motorists so privileged would often reward him with a polite: "Sorry, officer, I didn't see the sign." How can mere ticket-issuers replace such ambassadors?

Forty-something mums and dads producing belated issue have been given much publicity recently, so I'll add my four-pennorth. Back when it was fashionable for a girl to wed in her teens to an older man, my maternal grandfather and grandmother were 68 and 48 respectively, when they produced twin girls to complete their soccer team.

Of course, in those days there were no televisions, Pampers or children's allowances. But kids had much fun fighting over who was to wash-up, change napkins, make beds, peel spuds, run errands, chop firewood, fill the coal scuttle, and black lead the grate.

Oh, happy days.