VOICES were raised during Wednesday’s market in Gloucester Green – and it was nothing to do with the price of fish.

More than half a dozen men and women, some traders, some customers, all determined to be heard, spoke over each other, decibels increasing by the second. Rules of civilised debate were ignored. I stood some yards off trying to get the gist of the argument and found to my surprise there was no argument. All were in agreement.

“That’s it for me. Never again,” said one. “They’ve lost all credibility.”

“Do they think we’re stupid?” asked another.

“It just wouldn’t happen like that,” said a third.

What was the burning topic that generated such unity? The decision to shelve the St Aldate’s regeneration scheme? The city bankers’ bonus outrage? Soaring petrol prices?

It was nothing like that. It was the much talked about cot death and baby swap storyline in EastEnders. I should have realised it would take something special to stir spirits on such a cold and wet morning.

RETIRED friends Ken and Philip were laughing so lustily they could barely speak. It had started seconds after a third chum had left the Queen Street cafe where they meet each week.

Other customers looked on, wondering what could have been the cause of such hilarity. For what seemed an age, they found it difficult to speak. Eventually one explained.

Their friend B****** – he was the one who left – had received that morning a letter from the taxman informing him that he would no longer be required to fill in a self-assessment return, something he had faced with dread since his retirement almost seven years before.

“Does this mean I won’t have to pay tax from now on?” he asked his friends.

The two had exchanged a glance and with a wink had decided to fuel this pipe-dream. For the next 10 minutes B****** had listed the things he intended to do with the extra cash, courtesy of HM Revenue &Customs.

“He’s a bit of a tight-wad, so to hear him in spendthrift mood was too good to resist,” said Ken.

“Mind you, he didn’t volunteer to pay for the coffee,” said a temporarily straight-faced Philip.

Laughter then resumed.

IT came as a surprise to see that one of Cowley Road's longest-established Oriental restaurants had closed. It had served the area well and earned accolades from my old colleague Chris Gray, who knows a good meal when he tastes one.

News of this departure was announced in a brief notice on the window. It said they had moved to Didcot.

A hand-written comment, stuck to the outside of the window, caught the eye. It said: “Didcot? Jesus wept.”