Last year, my friend Tom signed me up as a member of the Labour Party. Unbidden, and with no cost to myself. I tell you this because it means that occasionally Tony Blair sends me mail thanking me for my hard work, but recently a somewhat bulkier missive struck the Sagremor doormat, again from our great leader. It turned out I was eligible to vote in some internal labour post election, which I actually did online. i voted for a miss Philomena Muggins, entuirely because of her name, which is the best I have ever heard outside Music Hall. I had no qualms at the time, but since then have felt the icy hands of fear running up the trouser legs of intuition. What if her policies are decidedly lacklustre and her outlook wholly unsuitable? What if scores more labour voters are in the grip of whimsy? Perhaps she changed her name specially? In short, what have I done?

This morning, whilst packing some sandwiches in a plastic bag for work (to take to work, that is, not as work.) I noticed it was branded 'Heritage.' Well I don't mind telling you I let out a huge sigh of relief! Here was I, thinking I was contributing to the huge piles of non-biodegradable waste which litter the land, but it turns out that there's a rich tradition in the venerable 'Nisa Lifestyle' company of making the things. Probably out of hessian, or something, in the olden days.
I'm sure the formation of 'olden days' is a rare survival of an archaic grammatical form, but sadly I can't remember what.