HE was confrontational rather than aggressive. He was just sounding off, perhaps the consequences of a too salty breakfast kipper or pain from an ingrowing toenail.

“I don’t expect you’ll have anything to write about now the anniversary of the chap who drowned after saving two lads has passed. You’ve gone on about it for ages,” said the septuagenarian as he sat down with his wife at the next table in my favourite Covered Market cafe. I said I’d find something.

“You’ll be wandering around graveyards checking gravestones,” he exclaimed.

His wife tried to divert the outpouring by saying the story of Edgar Wilson, though rooted in sadness, had brought people together and that couldn’t be bad.

“What do you know about it?” piped up white cap. “You only read the death columns. I reckon you’re hoping to see my name there.” She made no reply.

“Will you write about me when I’ve been dead for 120 years?” he said, irony colouring every word.

That might prove difficult, I replied, unless my health was more robust than generally believed. He ignored the intended humour.

At this point his wife realised what he had said earlier and leapt to the attack. She was as intelligent as he was – more so. He failed maths O-Level. How dare he say such a thing in front of strangers. A genuine ‘domestic’ exploded. This seemed a suitable time to pay up and leave.

A TRIO of dogs was barking by the St Aldate’s gate into Christ Church Meadow. They were warning off another dog which was doing its best to hide behind its owner’s legs on the opposite side of the road. Two female police officers were, as they say, in attendance, but their business was non-canine.

They were encouraging one of the city’s permanent inebriates to pass through the gate.

They were not suggesting he should resume his drinking there, but find shade beneath the trees from the burning sun. He was being downright awkward and might not have been concerned for his own welfare, but the two officers were. I don’t care what the politically correct lobby will say, but I think our policewomen are wonderful.

IN Cornmarket Street the tall Big Issue salesman was asking passers-by if they fancied the latest edition for their recycling bin, while explaining to those who had met him before that he had sold his little white dog to Thailand – to a place called Soup. Before anyone runs to the RSPCA, the dog was a mechanical toy. In these days of financial hardship, a gimmick is useful. EITHER my popularity had sunk to a new low or those who would usually join me for a refreshing drink really were busy. I ended up alone – buying ice cream from Thornton’s.

“A cornet – with a double scoop, please. The plan is to reach Frideswide’s Square before it melts,” I told the man behind the cooler.

He was not convinced. He was right not to be. I had only reached the old County Hall when the top scoop fell to the ground, much to the amusement of a couple of children.

“Pick it up and lick it clean,” said a cheeky girl. I declined and walked on with as much dignity as possible.

Didn’t I tell the man in the white cap I’d find something to write about?

Oxford never lets you down.