Greeks called them dog days — days on which nothing much happened. Had a citizen of ancient Athens been in Oxford, he would have declared Tuesday was such when writing home.

Children having started the autumn term and university students still drifting back, the streets were relatively quiet, offering fewer opportunities than usual for observing the human race in all its splendid colours.

But quality doesn't require quantity — as I discovered when walking past The Queen's College in High Street.

Mind you, the episode started with my being unceremoniously roused from mid-morning sloth by unexpected growls and barking. These came from a small dog, tethered to a post while its owner removed an undesirable deposit to a bin. There was something of the Staffordshire bull terrier about the dog, although it was evident some pedigree ancestor had strayed with its affection.

A woman in her mid-30s hurried over and apologised unnecessarily. After all, I almost trod on the animal. Before you could say 'Sit' or 'Walk on', she explained she had rescued the dog when it was a couple of months old, a mistreated, starving bag of bones. It had become an important part of her life.

The woman - I'll call her Peggy to avoid embarrassment, and besides, I like the name — told me she had never been allowed a cat or a dog at any time in her life. It had made such a difference. She had suffered her share of problems in life — some self-inflicted — her most recent a nervous breakdown, returning her to the drug dependence she had kicked in her late teens.

Now the little dog — we'll call her Pat because I like that name too — had given reason to get out of the house, where she would otherwise sit and brood in self-absorbing daytime loneliness, and appreciate being alive — free from drugs.

Today they had already walked to Summertown from Jericho and back and were now heading down Cowley Road. Such athleticism would have been a non-starter before Pat came into her life. I joined them on their walk. They were excellent company. As people admired the dog's healthy appearance, Peggy's self-esteem soared with every compliment. She had rescued Pat, but as sure as Spillers make dog biscuits, Pat had rescued Peggy.

It was a dog day — a special dog day.

This was top-drawer, multi-skilling — or so it seemed. The smartly-dressed young man leaned on one leg against a window outside the Westgate Centre's main entrance. His left leg was bent, to provide a table for a small laptop, the keys of which he tapped vigorously.

A mobile phone was clamped to his left ear, steadied by his shoulder and cheek, while he engaged in loud conversation.

Meanwhile, he attempted to open a sensitive, spring-controlled umbrella with his right hand.

It was the stuff of politically correct, animal-free circuses. What an act to fill the spot between high-wire walkers and the fire-eater!

Had he been in the circus ring, his fame might have lasted. But a small child, enjoying pushchair freedom, ran into the man's right leg. He swayed before the phone dropped to the pavement with a clatter and the laptop slipped from his knee, to swing harmlessly on its safety chain.

His reaction was exemplary as the mother apologised, but his stardom was tarnished.

Perhaps women are right — maybe men can do only one thing at once.

Seen in Sainsbury's Westgate Centre supermarket: a young woman pushing a trolley containing two loaves, a couple of six-litre containers of milk, two bottles of wine and twin girls — dressed identically.

“That's taking the buy-one-get-one-free offer a bit far,” quipped a teenage Goth to the twins' mother.

Happily, she showed greater appreciation of his humour than his unsmiling, heavy mascara-eyed female friend, who bore a striking resemblance to Lily in that TV comedy, much missed by many of us of a certain age, The Munsters.

Her expression could best be described as dark.