THERE was something a-foot among the scaffold poles partially obscuring the front of the magnificent Rhodes House.

To be precise it was an inch short of five feet – a diminutive woman, fighting with two large wheeled suitcases, a backpack and the prospect of trying to negotiate the cases across the cobbled area of the Oriel Street junction.

The woman was struggling. Yet the safety-helmeted workmen seemed too engrossed to notice, while the public in general seemed less than concerned. Man of Steel, aka Superman, was elsewhere engaged, so dodging a Blackbird Leys-bound bus, enter this knight devoid of shining armour. Could I help?

The offer was grabbed, not so much with both hands, but with a heart-felt thank you, delivered in an American accent.

Thus began a three hour adventure with Sandra, an academic who has worked worldwide and has now decided to quit the Big Apple for the relative sanity of Oxford. Minutes before she had been decanted at the wrong bus stop. Lusty case carrying was called for.

But what set her apart was that she had made few plans – and what she had didn’t include immediate accommodation – temporary or permanent. Oxford, at the height of the tourist season, is no place for chancers. Dead ends were investigated but eventually we met Kayleigh, receptionist at the YHA near the railway station. Prospects were dim. Yet from being unable to offer anything, she eventually drew up an eight-day accommodation programme that should see Sandra over the worst.

She was marvellous, a credit to YHA and the city.

I WAS in demand – well, sort of. Minutes after leaving Sandra half a dozen young visitors approached. “Please help us,” purred a doe-eyed 16-year-old Italian girl. “We are finding it hard to …”

This was nothing new and neither were the tactics. She and her chums were in competition with other young people, aiming to win a prize that would take them to London for the day. Select the prettiest girl and get her to flash her eyes and the target (ie me) would be eating out of her hand before you could say ‘Broad Street’.

This amounts to cheating. Are they not expected to wander, search and observe and not collar the nearest likely source of information? Don’t be so pompous, Unsworth. Of course it is and they are, but which grandfather would be mean enough to refuse?