THE city was too quiet, I complained. How could a chap find something to write about when Oxford wore the atmosphere of a public lending library? Then it happened...the tall newcomer stood firm, gazing down at the smaller and somewhat chubby man sitting across the table. After what seemed an age, the latter looked up and spoke.

“Yes?” His one-word question was more like a challenge.

“Anyone sitting there?” the other asked nodding to a chair occupied by two well-filled Tesco canvas carrier bags.

“No,” said the first man. “But where do you expect me to put my shopping?” “Try the floor. I need to rest my backside,” declared the other.

The bags were moved grudgingly and the newcomer sat down without a word of thanks. A stony silence followed.

This wasn’t happening in a disreputable back-street bar; other customers didn’t fall silent and edge to the walls – just in case. Nor did the aproned man behind the counter move nervously towards a phone while expecting glass or fists to fly. The antagonists – if they could be described as such – were of ripe years, at a guess both well past the three score years and 10; their drinks were no stronger than tea being taken in my favourite Covered Market café.

“That was close!” retired railway worker and amateur Thespian Alec said with mock relief. Over-playing the scene, as he has the habit of doing, he wiped away imaginary rivers of sweat.

“You said there was nothing much happening today – you nearly had to eat your words.”

The two men turned to look in our direction, their expressions best described as grim. It seemed a good time to move on.

ALEC’S wife, Win, has a smile that can brighten the dullest of days. We met her – by arrangement – at Carfax.

The smile was missing.

“I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake and sent someone the wrong way,” she confessed.

Win reported she had been outside McDonalds in Cornmarket Street when approached by a small elderly woman who identified herself with the words “Moi Francaise” followed by a waving of hands, a pleading look and two more words: “Cowley Road”.

“You know I don’t know much French, but please tell me ‘ à droit’ means ‘to the left’,” she said more in hope than expectation.

“Sorry, old girl,” he said. “Never mind, Botley can be nice at this time of year.”

For Win’s sake I suppressed a laugh.

WHAT a pity it has been necessary to once more prune the large trees that line the river bank of Osney Island’s East Street, leaving them like leprosy-stricken hands of some magnificent giants.

I’m sure there’s a defendable reason, but it’s a pity never the less.