I’M NO xenophobe, but why do Americans have to make a song and dance out of everything they do?” The question came from retired college scout Cyril as we roosted on one of those expensive apologies for seats in Cornmarket Street. We watched contrasting examples of ‘crowd control’.

A group of 30 young Americans, all about 18 years old, had been summoned by their older leader with a view to invading McDonald’s for their staple diet. Two of the taller ones were instructed to form an arch (remember playing ‘The Big Ship Sails on the Alley Alley O’?) and the rest were told to file beneath as the leader counted them.

“All present,” half the arch eventually reported.

“It will take ages to get served,” said the other.

“Right – move off,” ordered the serious-faced leader after assessing the situation. The party went into Queen Street.

This was taking place while a school ma’am of the old school (please pardon the pun) was herding her group of primary school children.

She could have been one of my teachers from immediate post Second World War years; grey hair swept back, no make-up, fortified by firm foundation garments, ankle-length heavy skirt and ‘sensible’ shoes, not an inch of flesh showing above the wrist or below the neck in spite of the heat. She calmly recited a rota she knew by heart.

“Amy.” “Yes, Miss,” answered Amy.

“Claire.” “Yes Miss,” confirmed Claire.

“Dylan.” “Yes, Miss,” declared Dylan. Eventually the list was exhausted. Miss gestured silently towards the entrance to the Golden Cross and the group left, her ‘lambs’ accounted for.

“See what I mean?” said Cyril.

WITH many shops standing empty, it’s a delight to see the Black Sheep Galleries in High Street has survived its first year.

Hardly somewhere for people spending the remains of their pocket money. Originals and limited editions of oil, pastel and watercolour work by established artists abound, many selling for four figures. Yet clearly the quality is such that those fortunate to have a wad of the disposables are prepared to be patrons.

I discussed this with Leanne, the ever-smiling person on duty, but we steered clear of forecasts. It seemed inadvisable to tempt fate.

LIGHTS controlling the crossing at the Beaumont Street-Walton Street junction had a mind of their own. Pedestrians on both sides of the road were frustrated after spending several minutes pressing the button to summon the ‘little green man’. The ‘wait’ message and the ‘little red man’ remained firm.

A dark-suited, dog-collared cleric appeared from the Gloucester Green direction, and queried the delay. He pressed the button.

Within seconds traffic stopped and out came the green man. Like Moses after parting the Red Sea, the clergyman led the throng across, his face bearing the expression of one who knows someone in supreme authority was on his side.

THE juggler with the Indian clubs was displaying his skill outside Grey Friars to a strangely empty St Ebbe’s. I dropped what cash I had on to his collection cloth. It didn’t amount to much more than a pound because I was heading for the bank to restock an empty wallet.

“Thank you,” he said, going on to explain he was trying to raise enough for his bus fare to the John Radcliffe Hospital and check in for an operation within the hour.

My expression must have betrayed doubt because he produced a letter confirming all he had said. I noticed it was an operation a 30-year-old shouldn't have to face.