THE air was thick with tension as I scanned the poker faces of my business rivals. Cash was piling up, stakes were getting high, and deals were being clinched.

For me there was only one contract left to sign, one deal to seal, one acquisition I couldn't ignore. I had to get my hands on the Rover's Return.

My niece had already snapped it up; all it took was a shake of the dice and a smug glance in my direction, and her little silver Scottie dog was guarding Weatherfield's prize property. There was only one thing for it - I offered her big bucks, plus the Kabin and Kevin Webster's garage, and it turned out to be a deal she couldn't refuse. The Rover's was finally mine, albeit it at a hefty price.

My Coronation Street Monopoly had been gathering dust in my spare room until I dug it out recently while spending an evening with my niece and nephews. Tired of seeing them tapping away at mobiles and tablets, I gathered them around the kitchen table and before anyone could say, "Put a pikelet in it, Martha Longhurst" we were buying, selling and accumulating wads of bank notes with a capitalist gusto that would've had Mike Baldwin working up a sweat.

The thing with Monopoly is it never really ends - four hours and two tubes of Pringles later we were still closing deals on Fresco's and Jack Duckworth's pigeon loft. But in an age of digital gaming, it was heartening to see the youngsters engaged in a board game.

As a child of the Seventies, long before the days of Angry Birds, I spent hours playing games like Scrabble, Connect Four, Operation, Cluedo and Mastermind. There were card games too, and I still recall the soft shuffling sound of cards on the plastic table of our east coast caravan on rain-soaked afternoons. Newmarket, Rummy and Chase the Lady were favourites, all played for loose coppers or matchsticks, and under my dad's no-nonsense guidance we learned to play at speed.

Best of all was The Golden Egg, a card game that was a highlight of our annual Easter pilgrimage to my gran's house in the Midlands. It was a dog-eared pack of cards that probably pre-dated the war, but I loved its old-fashioned charm. I've never forgotten the simple pleasure of turning over the golden goose card and scooping up a small fortune in matchsticks.

The Golden Egg game disappeared over the years, possibly via the same car boot sale my Famous Five collection ended up at, and I've searched in vain for another copy.

I still live in hope of it turning up somewhere. You're never too old for the golden goose.