THEY were not typical TV critics - two women, probably of early 1930s' vintage, taking a breather with coffee and toasted teacake in Brown's Covered Market caf.

Nevertheless, their opinions of chat show guests from the world of entertainment were defined and non-too-complimentary.

"They only go on to get publicity for a book written to give their flagging career a leg up," said one, spooning a second heap of sugar into her cup.

"And, have you noticed how many pull stupid faces at the camera while they're in the room at the back waiting to go on?" said the other, naming and shaming a number of guests on recent Jonathan Ross and Paul O'Grady shows.

"Perhaps they're nervous," suggested the first, offering a little of the milk of human kindness before pouring the rest into her coffee.

"That's no excuse," replied her friend. "They're supposed to be professionals. You don't find Michael Caine gurning like some silly school kid. But there again, he is a Sir."

"Neither would old Queen Mary," added the first, introducing the Queen's imperious and long-departed grandmother.

Her friend struggled with this surprise addition to the debate. It was a real conversation stopper. I avoided their gaze.

The thought of Queen Mary, ankle-length fitted coat, torque, pearls, parasol, et al, exchanging risqu banter with Jonathan Ross, was just too much.

'POPPY, Sir?" The small woman offered one from her tray as she stood on Debenham's corner.

"I've got one," I replied confidently.

"Where? At home?" she countered, an expression of disbelief clouding her features.

I felt my coat lapel. There was nothing, only the pin. Somewhere between Carfax, where I had been accosted earlier, and George Street, it had been lost. I explained, feeling she might be sympathetic.

She was totally indifferent.

"You ought to buy another. You can't walk around Oxford without a poppy. What will people think?" she said without a smile.

I pushed some cash into her tin. She handed over the poppy.

"What about a pin?" I asked, tongue in cheek.

"You've got one," she said. "Giving you another won't help unless you use it properly."

She offered no advice on how this should be done, instead heading off a couple of poppy-less shoppers who were making a dash for the Debenham escalators.

HOW the driver of the Vauxhall Corsa parked in Worcester Street car park managed to put the rear-view mirror to its proper use, I'll never know. The back window was a mass of stickers with barely room for a fly to land.

Fox FM competed with BBC Radio Oxford; the Lifeboat with the Air Ambulance; Guide Dogs for the Blind were kennelled alongside Hearing Dogs for the Deaf; the Donkey Sanctuary and the Lions of Longleat occupied two of the corners, the Woodland Trust and the National Trust held sway at the others.

Everyone was invited to keep Hands off The Horton, Banbury's under-pressure hospital, while noting there was a Princess On Board. Presumably a similar sign was displayed on the owner's other car, which a suction-held card assured us was a Porsche.

Thirteen notices on one small window? Is this a record - or simply a safety hazard?