MILLIONAIRES who live in certain York penthouse apartments are getting steamed up because the roof leaks. Who says the Evening Press doesn't contain good news?

Some might suggest that is envy talking. Well, I cannot deny I would love to live at the top of the Westgate development, even if I did have to stuff the ceiling cracks with spare tenners. But only because Westgate is the one place in the heart of York where you cannot see Westgate.

In his piece yesterday, my colleague Steve Carroll wrote that the seven storey block of flats "quickly became a favourite on the city skyline thanks to its stylish design". Steve, your optician's appointment is overdue.

In my opinion, Westgate is grotesquely out of proportion to its surroundings and a blight on the city skyline. To me, the building manages to be both bland and offensive at the same time.

I believe Westgate was wrong even before it opened. They marketed it as "New York in York". But this isn't the Big Apple. York is a more like the Small Pickled Onion: irresistible, containing numerous well-preserved layers, and a bit anti-social.

New York has never clamoured for a row of medieval butchers' shops, so why did we put an English provincial version of a brownstone apartment block in our historic city? Forget repairing it, I feel the best way to improve Westgate is with a big demolition ball.

That said, a few holes in the flats' roof is no big deal. Which is a shame because if it were a scandal we could christen it Westgategate.

We all know this sort of thing happens across York. I have lived in rented accommodation where we welcomed the rain seeping through the ceiling because it discouraged the rats. No one sent in a team of "specialist sub-contractors" to our two-up, two-down. The letting agents only returned our calls when my housemate got mildew.

In another story last night, we reported how Skelton pensioner Sheila Huggins' life was being made a misery by yobs. Perhaps we should arrange a house swap. Sheila could get the York penthouse flat and a bit of peace, save for the odd drip, and the Westgate guys could move to the Skelton estate, and enjoy unrivalled views of their Mercedes being torched in completely arid conditions.

u NOW an apology. Folk round my way were faced with a sight too frightening even for Hallowe'en last Friday night. Me.

It was like this. My little boy wanted to go begging - sorry, trick or treating. Having cycled home in the pouring rain, I took him straight out.

He looked good, with a wizard's hat and cloak over his waterproofs and wellies. Just like Merlin, had he lived in a Westgate penthouse.

Unfortunately my son is not tall enough to be seen through the window in most front doors. So the same thing happened each time. We knocked. A householder, smiling in expectancy of seeing a cute kid in a silly costume, approached the door. When they looked up, their smile turned to horror as they were confronted with a man in a baseball cap demanding chocolate with menaces.

Our haul was one tube of Smarties, a snack-sized KitKat, a lollipop, and three boiled sweets for him; and a restraining order for me.

Updated: 09:47 Wednesday, November 05, 2003