THE expression on Philip’s unshaven face should have been a warning. It was too early in the day for his regular intake of cans of lager to have mellowed this former soldier whose address is anywhere he can find a place to lay his head.

“I see you’re not on the New Year Honours List,” he said checking the names in one of the national broadsheets. “It would have been worth a couple of pints if you had.”

My omission did not surprise me, I told him. Honours should go to those worthy of them; to people whose contributions counts. Assuming a modest air, I asked how anyone could justify my inclusion. I couldn’t, but, deep down, hoped Philip might argue the point.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin and gave the matter some thought. Eventually he spoke.

“You have a point. I can’t think what use you are to the world at large,” he said before wandering off down St Ebbe’s.

  • I hoped my self-esteem might be repaired when I ran into Laura, an acquaintance from my days in Thame half a century ago.

We hadn’t met since June 19, 1970, the day the electorate gave Harold Wilson his marching orders from Number 10 Downing Street and Ted Heath sailed in.

“I’d know you anywhere. You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, planting a lipstick-loaded kiss on my right cheek and lifting my flagging spirits to fresh heights. But it was a short-lived elevation.

“But you were bald even then, so you always looked much older than you were,” she announced quite loudly, ensuring the aforementioned spirits were returned to racks in the basement.

  • The tranquillity of the Old Schools Quad beckoned. Hopefully there would be no-one to twist the knife further in my damaged soul. But it was not to be.

There was a metal fence enclosing the quad with only a narrow pathway around to give access to the shop, the Bodleian Library or the exhibition room. Four workmen, yellow-coated and helmeted, were tearing up the flagstones, numbering and stacking them.

How long would it be before the work was done?

The chap who seemed to be in charge said it would be a long job, with no change until June. Before the stones were replaced, the surface on which they lay would have to be raised by six inches – all in the name of making the whole quadrangle wheelchair-friendly.

What was wrong with those wooden ramps that had served well in the past? Was it not a waste of money in these days of tight purses? These and other thoughts raced through my mind.

But I didn’t put the questions to the men or anyone else. In view of earlier experience, the odds were against me enjoying the answer.

If this is the norm for 2011, then roll on 2012!