I had a bizarre encounter with a gnomic chap at the AMT coffee stand at Oxford station this morning.
The bearded, woolly-hat-wearing conversationalist was passing the time of day with commuters as they snapped up powerful lattés for their journey into the capital.
"Your toes will be cold this morning," he gurned at me with a twinkle in his eye.
Not wishing to be drawn, I gave him a wan smile and carried on with the purchase of a latté with two sugars.
"Pinch your cheeks?" he inquired, motioning towards his own cheeks with his fingers clad in gloves with the finger parts snipped off.
"Not usually," I replied and he laughed, repeating the phrase in a kind of hushed amazement, clearly viewing this as some kind of victory.
I joined the hurly-burly of Botley Road traffic thinking that the fellow's future as an extra in any stage production of The Hobbit was most definitely assured.
Apologies for my absence in the past couple of days but I have been busy with a couple of news stories.
But on my return from a visit to the Jericho community centre, to talk to residents about controversial plans to build a four-storey block of flats on the site of the old boatyard, I stopped off at the Mind shop in Walton Street, opposite the entrance to Cranham Street.
This is one of two emporiums of old stuff that the mental health charity has in Jericho, with the second shop closer to the junction with Little Clarendon Street.
Through the window, and the pouring rain, I could see some book shelves at the back of the store.
There were quite a few high-brow texts and set books, presumably abandoned by students, and I spotted a cheap paperback copy of John Mortimer's finest plays, including his most enduring drama, A Voyage Round My Father.
The previous owner had placed a sticker on the title page listing the names of his entire family. Perhaps they performed their own in-house production at some stage.
The teenager at the till, who looked like the missing member of teenybobbers Hanson, was playing a Michael Jackson compilation very loud on a ghetto blaster. I'll Be There again, I'm sure.