Cars usually surround the village green as their owners pop into the post office or the small general store. I won't identify the location and hopefully avoid reprisals or embarrassment, both of which are possibilities as the story unfolds.

It was the height of the mid-morning shopping period. Family saloon replaced 4x4 and vice versa with great regularity. Only one person was constant to the scene.

She was in her mid-60s, a grandmother and a resident of that village, these facts later revealed without need for prompting. She was dressed in an ancient mackintosh, Wellington boots, tea-cosy woollen hat, held down by earphones and carrying a metal detector. The last mentioned she used to scour the grass at the edge of the green. Occasionally she moved towards the centre, checking the route of an unofficial path made by those taking a short cut.

"I never thought this place would offer up treasure trove," I commented, a sneaky way of finding out what she was up to.

"It doesn't - but there are rewards," she said.

It seemed shoppers, often hampered with small children, were careless with loose change. Sometimes it would fall on the road and make a noise, but more often than not, it tumbled silently on the grass. On a good day she could collect a tidy sum. She had borrowed the metal detector from a grandson and as he hadn't asked for its return, she had hung on to it and now made a couple of sweeps' a week.

"This sounds like a nice little earner," I suggested. "A few extra pounds are never lost."

She gave me an old-fashioned look. Surely I didn't think she pocketed the cash? Nor did she restore it to its rightful owners. It went to two Oxford charities, the names of which she asked not to be mentioned - just in case their worthy organisers viewed the money as ill-gotten.

Oxford was quiet, even for a Tuesday. Doubtless the cold and now damp weather adversely affected the joy of the morning. Only a Pennsylvanian couple and their daughter, studying here on an exchange arrangement, were inclined to pull out the camera and pose in front of Exeter College's ornate Broad Street doors.

Big Issue salesmen sought refuge in doorways, less inclined to press the public too hard for business. Even the woman selling Turkish jewellery outside the Westgate Centre seemed more interested in solving the puzzles in a sudoko book than in touting her wares.

Nevertheless, two incidents brightened the morning. First, there was the tall, slim girl whose poise would not have disgraced a catwalk. Trotting alongside in a less assured fashion was an equally tall young man, his college scarf draped across narrow shoulders while holding in place somewhat long blond hair. He was noisily trying to impress.

There was a white van in Turl Street. Leaning against it were two workmen who spotted the earnest endeavours of the young man. One was holding a cordless electric drill. As the couple passed, he mischievously turned it on, thus letting out a high-pitched scream. This threw the man off his stride, causing him to lose his footing on the edge of the opposite pavement.

He stumbled.

Perhaps it would have been better had he fallen. The girl might not have laughed so heartily.

The second incident was in Gloucester Green where workmen prepared for the next day's market.

Stalls were in place and now a Land Rover towed a trailer between the rows, from which were taken rolls of brightly coloured stall covers.

They were like so many candy sticks or poles from some equestrian event.

Neatly and uniformly placed against the stalls, they pointed skywards at various angles, turning Gloucester Green into a scene that, on better days, would have been any camera-toting tourist's paradise.

As it was, with rain dripping off my nose, I could enjoy it free from clicks and flashes.