THE disembodied voice came from within a knot of 11 teenagers in a rainy New Inn Hall Street. It wasn’t a young voice.

“Could you tell us where there is an English food restaurant where we can all sit together?”

Then, like the Dead Sea, the group parted and a small middle-aged woman wearing the tired expression of somebody in charge of young people, stepped forward.

“We are from Moscow,” she said in faltering English. “Can you be most helpful?”

As my knowledge of Russian is limited to asking someone to lend me ten roubles until tomorrow, it seemed best to stick to my native tongue (English with a dash of broad Yorkshire).

Even so, by their expressions, the young people were grasping only the occasional word. Slowly I listed half a dozen places, highlighting the menu for which they were renowned. After each the woman interpreted what I’d said. It was a slow job, but what is time when you’re doing your bit for international relations?

After the sixth, she paused, waiting for a reaction. It seemed an inordinately long pause. Eventually a girl spoke.

“McDonalds.”

She said nothing more, leaving her friends to murmur support. Some repeated the word. This universally known eating house had not been on my list.

The woman’s expression betrayed that this would not have been her choice. With a shrug and respect for a majority view, she accepted defeat while bemoaning the fact that they could have stayed in Mother Russia if all they wanted was something from a fast food outlet. Still, could I point them towards the Oxford branch?

What else could I do but guide them to Cornmarket Street where Big Mac beckoned.

HERE’S something heart-warming. I’ve been itching to tell readers for weeks, but dare not tempt fate. One of the saddest stories to appear in Cabbages and Kings, and one which generated the column’s widest reader response, was that of my little blue-eyed chum Olivia, who was born with muscular spinal atrophy and died last June aged one year and 20 days.

She was Max and Sam’s only child. A hole was left not only in their lives but in all who had met her.

Some weeks ago Sam told me she was pregnant again. It was early days and she and Max could not risk getting too excited in case the baby had the same genetic defects as Olivia. Nerves were shredded as they waited for results of several tests. These came at various times. Would good news be dashed by bad? Was it too much to hope?

This week, I can reveal that mother and daughter – expected in mid-July – are doing fine.

Before you ask, yes, that is a tear in my eye.