EVEN this harsh weather-conditioned northerner had to concede Wednesday morning was particularly chilly. That fleece waistcoat, so long considered suitable only for the ancient or infirm, came into its own.

So it was no surprise to overhear a woman, well-stricken in years as the Good Book says, comment on the length – or rather the lack if it – of modern misses’ skirts – or, in some cases, the complete absence of them.

She had enlisted the ear of the lone women at the next table in the Marks & Spencer cafe, who agreed with her on all counts, thus encouraging further criticism that included accusations of neglect on the part of parents and the absence of sense among the wearers.

She included her granddaughter among the latter.

This was too much for her equally elderly husband who sprang to the defence of the girl.

“It’s fashion, and if you’re not in fashion at her age you might as well be on the moon,” he said, adding that he understood that also was a cold as well as lonely place.

This cut no ice with grandma and she waxed on for a few more minutes while he turned to his newspaper. She rounded off by asking if his attitude would be the same if she wore such clothes.

I waited for his reply. None came but his expression, clearly visible to me but hidden from his wife, said it all.

THE card stall at the top of St Ebbe’s was attracting those people who, while feeling they had passed the age of spending a fortune on a Valentine Day’s card at one of the expensive shops, still felt obliged to continue the custom rather than risk the wrath of their partners.

“There are cards for everybody and every occasion – bar one,” announced the lugubrious-looking chap who was watching the customers come and go.

“And what is that?” I asked.

“A card for someone you don’t like,” he said.

He moved on before I could ask him to expand on why he felt it necessary to invest on such a card in the first place. IT would seem the driver of the blue Peugeot had upset someone. I am not privileged to know the circumstances, but a message had been written in the dried salt on the read window; large letters, the word written in reverse and from right to left.

The message would be seen by the driver once he returned to his vehicle in Polstead Road and glanced into his rear-view mirror.

The word was offensive, one we wouldn’t care to repeat in a family newspaper like the Oxford Mail.

The letters were beautifully formed, even and stylish. It is not exaggerating to say they were impressive, almost a work of art.

But how much more impressive it would have been had the writer been capable of correctly spelling the offensive word.

After all, this was Polstead Road.