WE ALL need somewhere to go and grumble. Charles Dickens knew this and created a lovely term for such a retreat, calling it a "growlery".

This coinage appears in Bleak House, which can be seen tonight on BBC1 in the first part of what looks like being a fantastically good new adaptation.

Mr John Jarndyce ushers orphan Esther Summerson into a study-like room, saying: "Sit down, my dear. This, you must know, is the growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here."

What a wonderful notion. It occurs to me that a column is a little like a growlery, in that it is somewhere to withdraw to in order to have a growl.

So please feel free to enter my growlery. I like to imagine that this is a book-lined hideaway, with a coal fire gently spluttering in the corner and an uncorked bottle of wine waiting on the table. In fact, it's an open-plan office with an uninterrupted view of my long-time colleague Charles Hutchinson. But never mind.

With toes warming in front of the imaginary flames, I would like to have a growl inspired by a story in Tuesday's Evening Press. This revealed that a former York school once earmarked as a new Arc Light homelessness centre could be sold off for only £125,000.

One reason for the Shipton Street school site apparently being worth the price of a small terrace house is that the building is listed. This presumably prevents builders from following their preferred practice in York, which is whenever possible to knock down fine and salvageable old buildings and put up instead something new and nasty in search of a quick profit.

Each generation has a duty to itself - and to those that follow. All too often, it's the following part that is forgotten. How else to explain the paucity of good new buildings erected in this fine historical city? Look around and ask yourself this: in a century's time, what buildings will future dwellers of this city gaze upon and say: "I'm so glad the far-sighted folk of 2005 built that"?

At a guess, I'd say approximately none - aside from the Minster library extension.

It doesn't say much for our age that all we are leaving behind is a collection of essentially disposable so-called executive flats and a load of shops.

There, I've had my growl. Now I'm going to drink that imaginary bottle of wine, which will taste marvellous and only give me a pretend hangover.

OH DEAR, the dangers of making a joke.

In a throwaway paragraph last week, I floated the suggestion that all traffic lights in York may be set to green whenever a Smart car approaches.

This was not intended to be taken seriously but was a gentle dig at council leader Steve Galloway, who drives one of these minuscule motors, which he sometimes praises extravagantly for their all-round green-ness and Smarty-pants-ness.

My attempt at humour was lost on the jolly annoyed woman reader, and Smart car driver, who rang to complain that the lights certainly didn't change to green whenever she drove up to them.

I tried to explain my doubtless feeble joke, but my critic was having none of it, delivering her rebuke and, having had her stern say, ringing off.

That'll teach me - or perhaps it won't.

Here's another footnote to the saga of Ann Reid, her daughter's wedding and the fixed traffic lights. Lovers of slightly obscure music from the Seventies should dust off Stormbringer, a 1970 album by John and Beverly Martyn.

John Martyn has always been a favourite of mine, even if he does try the patience at times (especially when collaborating with Phil Collins). Anyway, seek out the early collaboration with his onetime wife, skip to track eight and play it loudly whenever City of York Council's transport supremo happens to be passing through a green light.

The song in question? Oh, it's a cheerful ditty called Traffic Light Lady.

Updated: 10:28 Thursday, October 27, 2005