THE four pretty mid-teenage girls from Kidlington – Martha, Lizzie, Emily and Megan – were prepared for a long wait at the New Theatre stage door.

They had a large waterproof to sit on, blankets for warmth and enough food to ward off hunger pangs for several hours. They had arrived at 10am - it was now 11am - and had just learned, courtesy of a tweet from Little Mix, the in-demand girls’ group booked to appear at the New Theatre that evening, the group was leaving Plymouth and would not arrive for another three-and-a-half hours.

The girls were happy to wait. It is called loyalty.

The four friends were not alone. There was a larger group of a dozen or more girls and young women – but not a male in sight. It surprised this superannuated ‘pop picker’. I mentioned it to Gary, a middle-aged chum I met minutes later, recalling that when I was a teenager we lads would be sure to turn out in droves to catch a glimpse of our adored female stars.

“I didn’t realise Gracie Fields had groupies,” he smirked.

CONVERSATION was of a more serious nature in my favourite Covered Market café. Michael, Irish as the Blarney stone, wife Mary, and 12-year-old son Peter – a fine name! – were entertaining James and Maureen, elderly relatives from Dublin. The topic was Pope Benedict XVI’s decision to retire. The adults were equally divided, the older pair uncomfortable with the break in tradition, while Michael and Mary’s sympathies were with the 85-year-old pontiff.

If papal infallibility had any meaning, then surely any decision Pope Benedict took must be OK. Finally, young Peter grabbed the chance to speak.

“Will he get lots of money like those bankers who quit?” he asked. Aghast, Mary told her son to show more respect – but you must admit it was a fair question. The Roman Catholic Church has never before been faced with a still breathing ex-pope.

AKIM, who sells crêpes from a van in Broad Street, took advantage of the day – Shrove Tuesday – to label his products as pancakes. And why not? True, wafer-thin crêpes are not as thick as those pancakes my grandmother used to make, but they are still delicious.

I chose to have one plastered with raspberry jam.

Memories of grandma generously laying on the red stuff flooded back. She would conclude by warning me not to let any jam drop on my clothes. What a good job she is no longer around. Crêpe consumed, as I licked my fingers, I spotted the large blob of jam on the lapel of my Sunday best black overcoat.