THE three young teenage girls, clutching their fashion-accessory mobile phones like life support machines, were giggling loudly as they came down the escalator of a Westgate Centre store.

I followed their line of vision to see what had caused such merriment.

Two women, not yet stricken in years, nor in the first full flush of youth, were trying on short-sleeved jumpers in a store.

Not for them the privacy of a changing room.

The open ground floor, in full view of the girls or anyone else for that matter, was their chosen spot to remove top garments, stripping down to slips and bras.

"Polish!" confided a disapproving grandmother while trying to shield the impromptu show from the eyes of her young grandson. "Not known for their modesty, the Poles."

I didn't feel qualified to contradict her knowledge of the habits of this central European nation.

But on hearing the two exchange words of approval for their chosen jumpers, I felt their language and accents were more akin to Cowley than Krakow.

THE small girl was eager to show the first person available a coloured cartoon character her young mother had that minute applied to her arm by means of a paper transfer patch.

I just happened to be that person.

"Look," she enthused, waiting for my approval as I made closer inspection in busy Templars Square.

"It's really smart," I said, giving the hoped-for reply, while recalling those days a lifetime ago when, in the brief gap between the marbles and the whip-and-top seasons, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck adorned our young limbs from morning until bath time.

"Mummy has one. It's blue and it's on her bum - do you want to see it?" she asked, her voice echoing around the mall, attracting the attention of young and old.

I declined the kind offer in the interest of preserving what dignity was left to the red-faced parent, before bidding them both Good morning'.

THE father of an eight-year-old chum was horrified when the boy emptied his pockets on returning from the school fete. He had £7, give or take a few pence.

He had earlier left home with just £2.

Relieved to learn he had not helped himself from the till or taken up robbing banks, dad was nevertheless alarmed by the truth.

It came from the sale of the ever-popular school specialities - chocolate brownies - the lad had explained. He and a couple of friends had pooled their cash and bought the lot from the cake stall before selling them on to disappointed school mates - at a vast profit.

I couldn't hide my admiration for the enterprising trio, but promised the concerned dad not to say as much to his son. But of such are multi-billionaires and entrepreneurs made. After all, they were responding to market forces.

Perhaps I should drop a line - anonymously, of course - to Sir Alan Sugar...

NOT for the first time, the younger generation has monopolised space this week.

But mention must be made of the leather bush-hatted man aboard a small cycle that looked as if it had been made up from the discarded parts of a dozen bikes.

His long blue coat trailed in Cowley Road while he sang for all who might listen.

"It's been a long time... it's been a lonely long time," he sang loudly and lustily if not completely in tune, causing heads to turn - and smile.

However, the man with the large lawnmower who was crossing at the lights-controlled point was less than amused as the warbling cyclist shot past on the red, missing his ankles by inches.

But with a shake of his head, even his frown changed to a grin as the rider and the song faded into the distance.

That's Oxford for you.

Never a dull moment.