Hot weather can bring out the best - and worst - in all of us. Such was the case last Saturday. The conversation was loud and animated between a husband and wife in Sainsbury's plush Kidlington store.

It was, to use current phraseology, a domestic'.

"I don't want to tramp around here all day - it's my day off, I need the rest and I want to get my feet up in the garden," declared one half of the duo.

"Stop moaning - we need to shop. If we don't have the right food for when your mother comes, you'll blame me," said the other.

"Every Saturday, it's the same - you want to go shopping whether anybody's coming or not. Why can't you go after work?"

"Because I work as well - remember? You never used to complain. Sometimes I think you're awkward for the sake of it. God! You're getting like your mother."

And so the cross-talk continued, much to the amusement of a young shelf-stacker who struggled to suppress a giggle while the pair tossed food into the trolley with the precision of First World War soldiers lobbing grenades at the Hun.

Nothing unusual about that, I hear you say. Perhaps not - only it was the wife who was complaining about the shopping trip, not the husband.

Later that day, seats were at a premium in Christ Church Meadow. A portly chap wearing a leather Australian bushman's hat, open-neck check shirt, out-of-place black striped trousers and heavy black shoes generously moved up to create space.

"Is this the start of a glorious summer or is it all about global warning?" he asked in a distinctive Belfast accent.

Meteorology not being a strong point, no opinion was offered, but I observed the conditions were welcome.

He hesitated before his next comment, clearly wondering what the reaction would be.

"If it is global warming, the worst effect won't be felt for at least a couple of generations. I won't be around, so if I'm honest, I don't care. Is this irresponsible?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he didn't give a damn if I did.

Somehow enjoying an April day, the like of which few can remember, I found it hard to condemn.

A friend's father died suddenly at the weekend. He was in his mid-80s and had enjoyed a full life, never having been afflicted by those illnesses to which so many of the elderly - and indeed the young - fall prey.

She was coping well, especially as the arrangements were being made by phone and at a distance - her father having lived in the North West. However, not surprisingly, her 10-year-old daughter was finding it difficult, especially as their last meeting only a few weeks before had found him in his usual good form.

I tried soothing words, all about grandad not wanting her to be so upset, but to remember the happy times and the fun they had enjoyed. (Why is it that, no matter how sincere the meaning, they seem clichéd and trite?) "It's all right for you to say," she replied tearfully. "But it's not your grandad - it's mine."

Which recalled those well-intentioned, yet pointless words of comfort of half a century ago when my best pal' was suddenly no more.

The scene was more suited to November 5 than April 24. The conspirators, huddled over pints in a George Street pub, were young, at a guess, all students and determined to succeed.

Their mission: to defy the authorities and leap into the river from Magdalen Bridge next Tuesday morning. Their method: peaceful diversionary tactics.

I will not grass' on the plotters, even though my youthful indiscretion has been overtaken by late middle age caution and concern for their safety.

However, the police might watch out for an over-large Dalmatian dog!