THAT icon of the family – the sweet and indulgent grandmother – had reached the end of her tether. (Why patience should be likened to a rope or halter, used to restrict a beast of burden, I’ve never understood.) She seemed at loss to deal with her six-year-old grand-daughter, a petulant young miss who was sitting on the pavement outside Waterstone’s, blocking the flow of pedestrians while screaming abuse at her elder for denying her some fudge, available in various flavours at a shop yards away in Broad Street.

The grandmother, in her late sixties, smartly dressed and doing her best to maintain a smile despite her offspring’s brattish behaviour, was clearly embarrassed.

“She's usually as good as gold,” she told an unconvinced woman of similar age who, while acknowledging it might incur the wrath of childless, anti-corporal punishment do-gooders (her description), had suggested a sharp slap would solve the problem.

“We’re going for lunch soon and I don’t want anything to spoil her appetite,” explained grandma.

She explained she looked after the girl on a daily basis during school holidays. This week her daughter and son-in-law were on a second honeymoon, so it was a round-the-clock task. She admitted ‘feeling her age’.

After what seemed an eternity (if was probably only a few minutes), grandma whispered into the child’s ear. The abuse ceased, the girl stood up, victory etched on her face, and they walked down Broad Street – you've guessed it – to the fudge shop.

Before moving off, I glanced in Waterstone’s window. As if on cue, there was a book bearing a cartoon of a crocodile and the title I Really Want to Eat a Child.

THE Canadian visitor and his French wife were keen to learn much about Oxford and its famous sons and daughters.

We were introduced by a one-time tourist guide while enjoying an alfresco cuppa in Broad Street. I mentioned the roots of TE Lawrence – Lawrence of Arabia – were firmly in the city’s soil. The effect was explosive. Lawrence was his hero. He had read almost everything written about the man, so how the Oxford connection had escaped his memory he was at a loss to understand. So was I.

The family home in Polstead Road seemed a suitable building to see; before I knew what was happening I had volunteered to accompany the couple there.

A brisk walk up Woodstock Road and he was gazing fondly at the late-Victorian brick semi, bearing the tell-tale blue plaque (his wife seemed less impressed – it was hardly Versailles), before proffering a fiver for my troubles.

Miffed at being thought as someone whose help came only at a price, I stoutly refused – only to be censured when I met the ex-guide once again that afternoon for undercutting the service. Some days you just can’t win.