Ever since the doctor ordered me to see a specialist at the Churchill Hospital, an appointment I must keep this week, I hadn't been myself. Fear of the unknown is the worst kind.

The Dark Side had triumphed. I had become short both in tolerance and temper.

Forced into buying new belts because of an expanding girth was the last straw, proving conclusively that vanity can always survive.

"I've had to get new ones as well. Mine were too large," chipped in the assistant in an Oxford store men's department as we sorted through the 36-plus range.

"Overdoing the exercise?" I suggested to this slim, good-looking young man.

"No. I've got bowel cancer and must have surgery. I ask you, bowel cancer at 21. What a thing to learn at Christmas!" he replied without any traces of self-pity or bitterness.

His chilling answer to what now seemed a crass and unfeeling question made me lose the thread of our conversation. But once recovered, I asked if he felt just a little aggrieved at the lousy hand he had been dealt.

"Oh yes," he said, still managing a smile. "The operation is two days before the World Cup starts. What sort of luck is that?"

After wishing him well, I left, feeling decidedly guilty.

Rain was not allowed to spoil the family day at Broughton Castle near Banbury in aid of the Helen House and Douglas House hospices for children and young people.

When the waters rose in that famous moat, the hosts, Lord and Lady Saye and Sele, threw open the doors of the great hall. Stalls and sideshows were packed between treasures and suits of armour, below Old Master portraits of the family's ancestors.

One present-day artist much in demand was the face-painter. Two small girls emerged from the makeshift studio.

"Who are you?" I asked the older girl, who had been made up to look like a black and white dog.

"I'm one of the 101 Dalmatians," she said proudly.

Her three-year-old sister, sitting in a pushchair and bearing the painted features of a tiger, fixed me with bright eyes. She would not be ignored.

"And what are you?" I asked.

"I'm a little sod," she replied innocently.

Mother's face needed no make-up to turn bright scarlet. Embarrassed, she apologised, blaming the children's grandfather for teaching them such things.

I couldn't stop laughing.

Two notices on blackboards at neighbouring eating and drinking houses separated only by Dawson Street in Cowley Road. The first was at Caf Coco: Enthusiastic, hardworking staff required for full-time and part-time bar and waitering sic positions. See inside.' The second, written possibly with tongue firmly in the cheek, was at the Kazbar: Positive, hardworking, long-haired freaky people, apply within.' A Westgate Centre sports shop offered a replica shirt of Premiership-relegated Sunderland at a bargain basement £2.95. It had been £30.

How are the mighty fallen!

Mind you, I couldn't find an Oxford United strip at any price.

Hiding with shame or just out of stock?