The first blow was midships, followed a second later by another, left of centre of the ribcage. I hadn’t been so convincingly winded since foolishly believing I could stop and relieve the now legendary Willie John McBride of a rugby ball as he charged for our line during an alleged friendly match in Ballymena half a lifetime ago.

Today there were two assailants, but their total weight barely matched that of the right arm of the genial Irish giant. They were about nine years old (surprise made me forget the reporter’s basic drill of gathering name, age, address and occupation) and while there was no ‘leather egg’ present, each clutched what looked like a red golf ball.

“Sorry,” said the one whose head had done its best to dislodge my breakfast.

“Me too,” said the other, rubbing his forehead. My ribs had inflicted some discomfort.

The boys were joined by their embarrassed grandmother, who began to scold the boys.

“Rubber bands – it’s a damned silly game,” she declared.

The red golf balls turned out to be dozens of bands which they had wound around marbles. The boys had spotted another in my path along George Street; both were determined to add it to their ball.

They had probably tired of the Nintendo, iPod, skateboard and other expensive gifts Father Christmas had delivered. Not for the first time did I marvel at the inventiveness of the young. In the recent past I have witnessed children running a sweepstake on which counter number would next come up in the post office, while another pair awarded points and ratings for the variety of video tapes in charity shops.

I sought a grandmother’s leniency, pleading the boys were clearing rubbish from the city centre. She relaxed, but her next comment caused pain far greater than the twin-attack.

“I blame the Royal Mail. No wonder it’s hard-up when postmen are allowed to throw away all these rubber bands,” she said.

I tried to stifle a laugh.

Opponents of experiments on animals were in Bonn Square calling for the Oxford laboratory to be closed. I crossed the road to avoid discussion, watching instead from the Westgate Centre as they waylaid shoppers.

“What do you think?” asked a middle-aged man leaning on a stick.

Seeing both sides of the argument, I waffled so not to incur his wrath, should he be part of the protest. The stick was of the stout variety.

“Not that – Bonn Square,” he said testily. “If that’s an improvement with those long traffic light poles, cheap metal furniture and anaemic trees, I’m a Dutchman.”