KNOWING my aversion to the playing of MP3s and texting in the street, on the grounds that both are antisocial, it was hardly surprising Philip, my ex-military policeman friend, pounced in Radcliffe Square. In his words I was caught red-handed – or to be more correct, ear-phoned and wired.

“You’re a closet user,” he declared. “This will take some explaining.”

“Not so,” I replied haughtily, while switching the MP3 to stand-by and removing the well-padded earphones. “This is different.”

I was one of the first people to take advantage of the Playhouse and Live Canon Oxford Poetry Walk project, launched this week. Equipped with the necessary kit and a map, collected from the theatre, I was guided around 17 locations by such departed luminaries as the gossipy Jane Austen, saintly Gerard Manley Hopkins, debauched John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, playful Lewis Carroll and down-to-earth John Betjeman, who read appropriate poems and prose at the various stops. It was an hour of sheer bliss.

What’s more, I’m likely to take the walk again before the project ends in September.

So Philip can show the picture he took on his confounded mobile phone to whomever he wishes. My conscience is clear.

EARLIER I had been in Cornmarket Street when approached by an elegantly-dressed man, whose accent betrayed he was from Australia – Brisbane to be precise.

“What time do shops around here open?” he asked. Many were, but his interest was in Pylones, the store that sells the useful and the bizarre, all in bright colours.

We found the window card that said business started at 10am – 20 minutes ahead. He couldn’t wait, which was a disappointment, because he would have liked to buy a couple of gifts for his young teenage son and daughter back home. Perhaps there was a branch in London, his next – and final – port of call.

“But it’s not like a gift from Oxford,” I said, doing the promotional bit.

“They’ll be able to buy something when they come here to study,” he replied.

“Only if they're good enough!” said the portly old gent, standing nearby and bearing the hallmarks of a seasoned don. He was content to wait those 20 minutes.

THE toddler, released from his shackling pushchair, was having innocent fun pushing the swinging noticeboard on the A-frame in Broad Street. His mother was urging him to stop. She saw me approaching.

“Look, this man is coming to tell you off,” she said.

“Oh no I’m not,” I said and joined the lad in his harmless mischief.

This prompted him to stop, leaving me to field the stares of a less-playful public.