It was Tuesday, the morning on which the Sentencing Guidelines Council announced stiffer penalties for those causing death by dangerous driving. As I made my way down the M40 towards Oxford, I listened on the radio as the council's spokesman made it perfectly clear what the harvest would be.

Suddenly three motorcycles sped past, their riders each wearing a yellow tabard bearing the word Police'. Traffic was heavy and while I will confess to doing 70mph ("Yes, only 70, Your Worships"), I can but guess the bikes' speed. Let us say they had disappeared over the horizon before I could utter what many would judge a blasphemous exclamation.

There was no indication they were in hot pursuit'; no flashing lights or sirens. They appeared to be simply burning rubber.

I assumed the flying trio were Thames Valley policemen. Surely no officers from neighbouring forces would be rash enough to try their luck on Chief Constable Sara Thornton's manor?

The assumption led to a smile because the spokesman for the Sentencing Guidelines Council was no less a policing luminary than Peter Neyroud, who until a short time ago, held the reins at Thames Valley's Kidlington headquarters.

English accents were as rare as hen's teeth in a crowded Broad Street. French, Italians, Germans, Spaniards and heaven knows who else abounded, each trying to make themselves heard above the others. It was like St Peter's Square without the Pope.

There was sympathy for the guide to a group of Spanish youngsters who tried to explain the poster outside the Museum of the History of Science: Heaven on Earth - Missionaries and the Mathematical Arts in 17th century Beijing' was its crowd-pulling announcement.

The senors' and senoras' expressions of bewilderment were the stuff of ancient carvings.

Bewilderment was not restricted to visitors. It was difficult to fathom why a table, weighed down with bottles of water, fruit juices and a large urn, should stand, unattended, in the centre of the street alongside parked cars.

Surely the city council wasn't providing free refreshments to the populace on a hot and sultry morning?

Such dreams of unlikely civic charity disappeared when eventually a small chap walked to the table and took a bottle. Curiosity overwhelmed. His reply, in tones not out of place on EastEnders, was that he was in charge of the gear, and heaven help anybody who helped themselves. Filming was taking place; Morse's old sidekick Lewis was destined to invade our TV screens once more.

The drinks were for the film crew.

With this addition to my knowledge, I went into Radcliffe Square where, perched on a narrow ledge in the wall of the Radcliffe Camera, was an unsmiling, slim girl - I have seen more meat on a butcher's pencil - in a brightly coloured, hooped top, brief skirt and vivid lime-green shiny high-heeled shoes.

Two professional photographers, one male, one female, were in attendance as she adopted pose after pose to satisfy those with the cameras. These included the inevitable Japanese group whose shutter clicking resembled the accompaniment to Flamenco dancing. How she maintained a straight face, I'll never know.

A group of visitors were eyeing the new Oxford martyrs' memorial on the north wall of St Mary the Virgin Church in High Street. Their distinctive brogue betrayed they were from Northern Ireland, a place where more than the 23 named on the impressive tablet have perished in the name of Roman Catholicism and Protestantism over the past 40 years.

They listened to their guide while recognising names from long-ago history lessons, as well as asking for details about lesser-known victims of 16th century intolerance.

My visit was not to view this large, handsome plaque once more. It was to see if the one dedicated to one of Oxford's great benefactors, John Radcliffe - moved to accommodate the new - had found a home.

Sad to relate, so far it hasn't. I would say watch this space, if only I knew which.