Cloth hankies are making a comeback - as a fashion accessory. Deedee Cuddihy turns up her nose at the very idea.

IT'S one of the most contentious issues of our time. No, not BSE, euthanasia or the National Lottery but the great hankie debate: where do you stand on cloth versus paper? The question cropped up recently on a train to Ayr when a trendily dressed youth, sitting with a group of mates, pulled out a hankie and blew his nose.

Nothing unusual in that, you may say . . . except his hankie wasn't a throw away paper one but the old fashioned cloth type.

In fact, the more I've looked, the more I've noticed that lots of other youths who wouldn't be seen dead in a traditional cardie or a flat tweed cap, are quite unselfconscious about using the kind of hankie that their grandfathers - and their grandfathers before them - would certainly not have sniffed at.

The truth is, however, that having been brought up in the United States, I am deeply suspicious of cloth hankies, no matter the age or dress sense of the folk who are using them.

Americans are so scared of germs that as soon as the throw away hankie was invented, cotton ones were virtually made illegal which is why the sight of a sodden wad of cloth being fished from the sleeve of a jumper or a trouser pocket is such an alien one to your colonial cousins.

``I always said Yanks had no breeding,'' snuffled by friend Rory who is a confirmed cloth hankie user and has very strong views on the subject.

``Females seem particularly keen on the disposable ones,'' he claimed. ``But they don't seem to realise that the whole point of paper hankies is `blow and throw'. You're not supposed to let them dry out so you can use them again.''

Another friend, Liz, admitted to using paper hankies but declared she never went anywhere without a large size cloth hankie as well. ``Cotton hankies have so many uses,'' she said. ``Especially when you're travelling. I've washed my face with them, given my shoes a polish and tied one around my head as an Alice band. And when you're far from home, carrying a favourite hankie can be a real comfort.

``I feel sorry for children who aren't brought up to carry a proper hankie,'' she added. ``After all, what are they going to wrap around their knee if they have a fall or use for a sling when a doll or teddy has a broken arm?''

However, Liz recalled that there was a downside to the cotton handkerchief: ``Going to your auntie's for tea on a Sunday when she'd spit on a corner of her own hankie and insist on cleaning your mouth with it.''

Both Rory and Liz complained that it was more difficult, these days, to buy a single hankie when you needed one but there are still shops where a request for a solitary cloth handkerchief would not be sneezed at.

In Glasgow, Kelvin House on Dumbarton Road has loose hankies from as little as 49p (``some people have to use cloth because they're allergic to paper'' an assistant pointed out) while at Henry Burton's in Buchanan Street, you can pay as much as #16 for a posh Swiss cotton hankie with a lace trimmed edge; just the kind of thing a glamorous young widow might want to carry at the funeral of her 90-year-old millionaire husband.

For my part, I'm sticking to paper. And now that disposables are available in so many different colours and designs - including Pocahontas, Casper and a pattern ``specially developed to complement your bedroom - surely it won't be too long before even my friend Rory stops turning his nose up at them.