THE Woodstock Arms was no more. All that remained was a pile of rubble and the free-standing sign bearing its name.

I stood on the opposite side of Woodstock Road. A tear welled up, considered moistening my cheek, but had second thoughts on reviewing the freezing weather.

My mind harked back 40 years or more to the days before the breathalyser when I would meet fellow reporters for a few pints. After flirting outrageously with any female bar staff, we would moan about having too many evening jobs.

My mind was elsewhere when an immaculately dressed man, probably in his late 50s or early 60s, spoke. I had to beg his pardon and hope for a rerun.

“Holds memories, does it?” he asked in a tortured cut-glass accent that made art critic Brian Sewell sound like someone from EastEnders. I confirmed his inquiry.

“How about you?”

“Many and varied, some of a romantic nature, some too painful to recount,” he said.

“It was where at 19 I encountered for the first – and last – time, a spliff, a joint. This delightful girl whom I was trying to impress, offered it.”

“You realised the danger and resisted temptation?” I suggested in my best missionary voice.

He put me straight.

“Not really. I accepted it, threw up and was asked to leave. My street cred, or what we called it, was in shreds. The girl ended our flimsy relationship.”

  • OVER the past few weeks it has been a pleasure to wander around the Christmas market in the precincts of the old jail and Oxford Castle.

Much as I object to the ‘festive season’ starting before clocks go forward, the atmosphere generated by those colourful, gift-filled cabins was wonderful.

On Monday the last of these cabins were being cleared. It caught at least three would-be shoppers by surprise.

“Have they gone already?” asked the spokeswoman of the bewildered trio. I confirmed their fears.

“Why?” she pressed, seeking an explanation.

I told her the market had run its planned course. The answer was accepted if not appreciated.

To tell the truth it seemed to me that by its absence, something of the excited expectancy of Christmas had been removed a fortnight before the big day.

  • THE chap in the day-glo jacket was holding a 5ft-long metal pole, on top of which was a wooden object resembling the ear-piece of an old-fashioned candlestick telephone. He stopped, tapped the ground with the pole and put his ear to the wood.

Curiosity won. “I’m searching for water,” he said, adding that modern equipment was all very well, but you couldn’t beat tried and trusted methods.

He moved on before I could ask more.