THE laughter of four men, well stricken in years as the Good Book says, could be heard far beyond the door of the Costa Coffee lounge in Cowley Road.

They were looking at photographs, each producing a roar louder than before. My well-practised quizzical look (who needs to hack into telephones?) prompted one of their number, Cliff, to invite me into their circle. I was introduced to Len, Philip and Cyril. “It's the first time we’ve got together since Stan’s funeral,” said Cliff.

“Stanley!” corrected the others. Apparently he was somewhat touchy about shortening his name.

Len, who preferred the abbreviation of his name, explained. Bachelor Stanley, for all his warmth and fine qualities, was a snob; he was a postcode snob before postcodes were invented. He had lived in Headington, quite near the Green Road roundabout, always pronouncing ‘Headington’ with a well-aspirated aitch. They would tease him, telling him he lived in Barton.

“I live in Headington,” he’d declare, adding: “I wouldn’t be seen dead in Barton.”

At this point Philip handed over a photograph he had taken on the day of the funeral. It showed a hearse heading towards Oxford Crematorium, while passing the Bayswater Road sign.

“He had no choice,” said Len, wiping tears from behind his glasses. “He was seen dead in Barton!”

Cue for more laughter. With friends like these...

* WITH the tourist season at its height, Broad Street was possibly at its busiest since they stopped burning recalcitrant priests there. But such was the mix of nationalities and tongues, the place was more akin to the Tower of Babel than a medieval killing field.

When what passed off as an English tongue was heard, it only served to annoy.

“This isn’t where they burned the martyrs,” creaked a rasping American voice to his companions. “It was where the Martyrs Memorial stands.”

“Not so,” interrupted a polite retired academic. “The spot is marked by stones set in the shape of a cross.”

“Nonsense,” said the American. “Why put the memorial outside the Randolph when the spot is miles away?”

Ignoring the exaggeration, the academic suggested it was because the memorial was too large and grand to fit between the shops and Balliol College, before quickly moving on and leaving me to field the next question.

“Where is St Michael’s Church?”

I suggested he turned around and headed into Cornmarket.

He stopped me with a raised palm of the hand. “I was told it’s in Broad Street.”

“Well, it isn’t” I replied.

“It was when my friend came here a couple of years back,” he persisted.

“Keep looking if you like,” I said. “It’ll be a long search!”