IT SERVED me right. I should have left the door locked, leapt into my car and sped (Thames Valley Police and all-too-regular A34 traffic hold-ups willing) to where an ever-fascinating public awaited in Oxford.

Instead I unlocked it to answer the phone. It might have been one of the family, perhaps a sick grandchild.

It wasn’t the former and thankfully not the latter, but someone with an official-sounding voice conducting a survey on health. He named his organisation. It would take only a couple of minutes. Good manners learned at my mother’s knee prevented a refusal. After all he too was some mother’s son.

He needed opinions and data from people ‘of a certain age’; would it be an imposition to ask mine? He earned himself Brownie points by declaring I didn’t sound anywhere near that milestone in life.

Minutes ticked by. Were vegetables part of my regular diet? (A boyish aversion to many still remains.) Did I over-indulge in dairy products? (Milky hot chocolate doesn’t count.) What about fruit? (If someone peels me a grape I don’t refuse.) When told I didn’t smoke his praise would have earned me a Blue Peter badge had he been empowered to bestow one.

This was the cue to introduce the pomegranate.

Did I realise it had magical powers capable of preventing cancer, heart and liver problems to name but three?

Attacking the seeds with a pin as in school days was not enough. They had to be taken in pill form and these cost more than £30 for a fortnight’s supply. However, for half that price...

So all this chat – it had lasted more than 25 minutes – had been part of a sales pitch! I stopped him saying I would prefer to carry on with his survey.

What was his next question? He hadn’t one. Didn’t I want the pills? He seemed crestfallen by the answer.

I thanked him for his call and as he was about to hang up he remarked to someone at his end that it had ‘been a waste of bloody time’.

I agreed – but was too polite to say so.

  • “Use your fork,” the mother told her daughter, who appeared to be about 10 years old. The child was about to grab the large piece of coffee cake from her plate in the M&S cafe famed for such delicacies.

“But I don’t usually...” protested the girl, only to be silenced by mum who was clearly out to impress the woman and two children whom they had met for a day in the city.

Using a fork was second nature to that trio.

The girl struggled, looking awkward and unhappy. But mum was too busy talking to notice or – I suspect – care.

Perhaps it was divine judgement that made that large blob of cream detach itself from the mother’s fork and deposit itself on her lap.