PINKY was in the pink – covered with a blanket and nestling on a hot water bottle, a Thermos flask at the ready for a top up. The city might have been struggling with sub-zero temperatures, but not him.

Pinky is a 10-year-old ginger tom cat, companion of musician Tim who was entertaining Cornmarket Street crowds on his harmonica. The bed of comfort was on a wheeled shopping basket. The furry feline enjoyed any sweet words or ear scratching on offer.

“He also likes riding on a bike,” said Tim, who before I could show disbelief, produced photographic proof. “He thinks he’s a dog,” he added, this time showing a picture of Pinky on a lead.

Inevitably our attention turned to the weather, and he said the plan was to head for the West Country fairly soon.

“Pinky likes it down there, don’t you Pinky?” he said.

I’ll swear the cat purred loudly in confirmation.

  • TWENTY four hours before statisticians, with the excitement of a dead sheep, announced the recession was at an end, Derrick, nearing 60, lost his job as a window fitter.

It came as a surprise because there had been all that talk of homeowners improving their property rather than moving on. Windows were something self-respecting houses should never be without.

‘Rationalising staff levels’ – whatever that means – was the reason given. As it stood, they possibly endangered any improvement on that 0.1 per cent economic growth.

We met in a Covered Market cafe. I was about to sympathise but he held up his hand.

“Before you offer to buy my coffee – don’t,” he said. “The drinks are on me. This has given me the kick I’ve needed for some time. First there will be a holiday for my wife and me, then I’m off to the World Cup if I can get a ticket. When I get back I’ll write that story I’ve been talking about, but doing nothing for years.”

“Confessions of a window fitter?” I suggested.

“Hardly,” he replied. “Losing my job is one thing. Giving my lady wife evidence for divorce is another.”

  • SHIP Street was closed beyond the News Cafe. A massive crane with one of those long booms mounted on a stout set of wheels barred the way, while safety-helmeted workmen made sure no-one defied the No Entry sign.

The crane was there to help dismantle and remove a smaller crane and its tower, used in the Jesus College development scheme. Cyclists and pedestrians tutted at the inconvenience.

Five students were trying to reach Turl Street when I walked up. They eyed the workmen; the workmen eyed them.

“You’re an agile-looking chap,” said one of the students with a broad grin. “You leap the barrier, we'll follow.”

I declined the mission, but that ‘agile-looking’ comment was a temptation – even if it was sarcasm masquerading as flattery.