TWO unmarked police cars with three outriders, all flashing blue lights, roared past in New Road before turning right into the what was once the main approach to Oxford’s dreaded prison – now the up-market Malmaison Hotel.

I gave chase (as any honest copper might tell the magistrates) but when I arrived at the aforementioned approach, they had disappeared.

“What’s all that about?” asked diminutive Mildred, who although in her late 80s, pushes her shopping trolley from Botley to the city centre every day. She accepted my ignorance with poor grace while deciding we should both wait and see what happened next. After about 10 minutes the mini-cavalcade re-appeared, roaring back in the direction from whence it came. I had no chance to question the first outrider as he stopped traffic to ensure an unhindered exit for everyone.

“Ring someone to find out what it’s all about,” said eagle-eyed Mildred before resuming her trek. Who am I to argue? Watch this space.

ONE of my boasts is that I know or recognise most of the city’s Big Issue vendors. Cathy was someone new.

She stood outside Marks and Spencer’s in Queen Street, Storm, her 11-year-old dog and only companion, lying close by and sheltering from the rain.

At the risk of upsetting the Big Issue team I cannot imagine anyone doing the work unless they have to.

Cathy would seem to be no exception. She returned to Oxford a short time ago from Cornwall where her job had disappeared and the home that went with it. Her few really happy memories are of living with foster parents in the city some years ago. If anywhere is home, it is Oxford.

But in reality home is a tent south of the river. She has to erect and dismantle it daily. Her sole income is from selling the Big Issue. The only advice she seems to get from those employed to help is to go back south.

Let me check. Yes, it is 2014.

READING for a fine arts degree sounds a relaxing line of study. But is it? Later in the day I met a first-year student near Oxford Castle making her way to Osney Mead where there is a studio in which she was to do some practical work. She needed a little advice on remembering how to get there. (Who can recall everything thrown at you in freshers’ week?) Determined that courtesy shall survive, I offered to carry her brushes box. It resembled a gas technician’s tool chest – and weighed as much, if not more. I don’t regret having over-stretched arms as a result. They are testament to fine arts being no easy ride.

MEANWHILE the mystery of the police convoy lives on. Keep watching...