IS Oxford falling out of love with buskers? “Nonsense,” I hear you say, and nonsense I hope it is. But hear me out.

In last Friday’s Oxford Mail we read about James Ludlam having his guitar and amplifier confiscated for persistently playing too loud and too long in Cornmarket Street.

The city council quite rightly flexed its muscles. He had ignored warnings between January and June – verbal and written – so had only himself to blame.

ROX traders’ chairman Graham Jones was reported as saying buskers who spent too long at the same patch had a negative effect on trade, while the Deputy Lord Mayor, Councillor Tony Brett, felt it was better when there was no amplification and performers used their own skills.

But on Tuesday, a classically trained soprano was made to feel unwelcome as she sang at the end of Market Street, resulting in her cutting short her allotted time.

She did not raise objections – she’s too much of a lady for that – but a sizeable group of people enjoying her performance were left disappointed – me among them.

Was the complaint council or businesses inspired? She had not been at one site for the entire afternoon (I can testify to that), so she did not fit into Mr Jones’ area of complaint, while the barely audible aria music, played on a small machine, hardly qualified as obtrusive amplification as described by the Deputy Lord Mayor.

So what is going on?

FOUR-letter words – you know the ones I mean – have a well-deserved bad press. I don’t like to hear or read them and the trend of so-called comedians who include as many ‘f’ words as time allows does nothing for my chuckle muscles.

But the four-letter word I dislike most is ‘hate’. It signifies the darkest of all human emotions and lately I have been disappointed even to see the word blazoned across posters encouraging help in the fight against heart disease.

On Tuesday afternoon a woman in a George Street café declared over a period of no more than five minutes, that she hated her next door neighbour, thick-cut marmalade, low-crutch jeans worn by youths, spotty or clean-faced, child poverty – and bad language.

How hateful can you get?

I HAVE – or rather had – a favourite shirt. It was inexpensive, post office red with short sleeves. In a moment of crazy generosity I gave it to a chum. Replacing it from a city centre store would be no trouble.

“We’ve only got that shirt in slim-fit,” said the assistant casting a critical eye over my expanding waistline.

So much for generosity; so much for tender, caring assistants.