There's one in every hospital ward - someone who, through length of residence, knows everything, including the condition of, and prescribed treatment for, their fellow patients. And I don't mean the ward sister.

This week, armed with obligatory grapes, I visited the mother of my three young godchildren.

She had been taken to hospital a few days before and was being cared for in a six-bed ward.

Sitting opposite fully clothed was an amply-built elderly woman, her right leg generously bandaged beneath a stretched trouser leg.

Smiling broadly, she made no bones about asking my relationship to my young friend. "Honorary Spare Dad", I said, a truthful description that appeared not to win the woman's approval.

"She's the youngest in the ward by some years. Beatrice is 90 next week and Eileen won't see 80 again," she announced loudly, caring not whether Beatrice or Eileen was happy for personal details to be broadcast.

The third patient had a brother in Llandudno. The last of the ward's sextet, for some reason, merited no details.

I commented to my friend that the fluorescent light at the far end of the ward was on the blink. My words were picked up on the woman's radar.

"It's been reported, but you seem to need a risk assessment before anyone changes a light bulb," she said scornfully.

Trying to discuss arrangements their father and I had made for the children, I moved closer, lowering my voice to a whisper. Old eagle eye almost fell over the foot of the bed trying to eavesdrop. Honorary Spare Dad, indeed!

The ward was stuffy. Could I open one of the windows a tad? The charge nurse agreed and I lifted the heavy bottom panel only for it to drop back.

"You'll need something to wedge it," said the woman. "There's two books on that table. Don't use the Gideon's New Testament - it's far too thin. The Reader's Digest abridged stories volume is much better."

Rain began to fall heavily in Cornmarket Street so I headed for sanctuary in the Covered Market via The Golden Cross. Passing the leather goods shop which only a couple of weeks ago I had reported was offering free fresh lemon juice to parched shoppers, I saw the welcoming sign had gone. In its place was a new one, bearing three words: More umbrellas inside.' No flies on that shop's staff.

It was still raining when I ventured forth. Walking slowly up High Street was a family of Iranians - great-grandfather, grandparents, young mum and dad and two children.

All were bareheaded and exposed to the elements - except for the younger child who was being carried in a front sling.

Secured by the father's beard and spread over the baby's head was a copy of that day's edition of the Oxford Mail.

Informative and multi purpose - that's the OM.

f=85 Helvetica Heavy s=8d=4,3,1Mf=nimrod biODESTY - a characteristic friends and critics alike say I rarely display - prevents me from relating this story at the head of this week's Cabbages and Kings. But on Tuesday I saved a woman from serious injury, if not death.

I walked along Queen Street towards Carfax, following a smartly-dressed petite woman. The viewfinder of a large and expensive camera held to her eye.

Outside Marks & Spencer, she moved to improve her view of the spires in High Street, stepping off the pavement into the road - and into the path of a double decker.

Quick as a flash (well, it was rather speedy), I grabbed the woman's arm, unceremoniously dragging her back to the pavement.

After the initial shock and indignation, it dawned why I had been so moved to manhandle her.

In a Dixie drawl through which a Yankie sabre would find it difficult to slice, she said she had problems getting used to our traffic driving on the wrong side'.

I couldn't bring myself to point out Queen Street is one way.