Give credit where it's due - they never miss an opportunity. I refer to those evangelists who are determined to save our souls.

My latest encounter was in a busy Oxford sub-post office while posting a Bible to my honorary granddaughter. She lives in the United States and I had to go through the process of declaring what was in the package as well as confessing whether a letter or a message was inside.

The inclusion of such would have rendered the parcel liable to higher postage charges.

I said truthfully - after all it was a Bible - there was no letter, but a brief inscription on the flyleaf. The assistant said this did not count.

Business over, I moved away. The gaunt man stepped out of the queue, sacrificing his place, and grasped my arm.

"You are wrong about the messages," he said.

A puzzled expression was his cue.

"Are you familiar with the Holy Bible?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, airing my limited knowledge. "The King James Version - it's a bestseller."

He pressed on.

"There are messages on every page, in every chapter of all 66 books. They are for you. Don't ignore them. Time is short," he warned, while taking a crumpled, doom-bearing tract from his pocket and pressing it into my hand. I had not seen the like since my days in Northern Ireland more than 40 years ago.

I thanked him and made for the door while he found a new place in the queue, courtesy of a young mum, juggling with two small children and three large parcels.

A small, elderly woman in a tea cosy style woollen hat had seen the incident, but had missed the dialogue.

"What was he trying to sell?" she asked loudly.

"He wasn't," I said. "He was giving something away."

"I bet there's a catch," she frowned.

I believed the small Italian was drunk. In a way he was - intoxicated by beauty. He was leaning against the wall of the Randolph Hotel in Beaumont Street, gazing across the road while uttering words like "Bella, bella!"

I wished him "Good day". This prompted him to speak.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he said, sounding every bit the Latin lover.

"Who?" I replied, my eyes eagerly following his dramatically outstretched arm and twitching fingers.

"The building, what you call the Ashmolean. I am a visitor and seeing her for the first time; it is how you say - exquisite."

I gave the museum façade my full attention. Free from scaffolding that has hidden so much for so long and gleaming golden in the Tuesday morning sun, it was all he said, and more besides.

"How lucky you are to have such a building in your city," he said.

"Yes, we are," I replied loftily, while feeling guilty that it had taken a tourist from Milan to make me realise it. Familiarity breeds contempt. Worse still, it cultivates indifference.

How's this for understatement? This message appeared last week on our area's Neighbourhood Watch website. The location has been left out at the request of the police.

In a slightly unsuccessful attempt, offenders attempted to commit a robbery at a store in xxxx. The offenders arrived at the store with weapons at around 9pm last night. Fortunately, the store was closed for the evening and they left the scene.' I love the phrase slightly unsuccessful'.