THE headline on the front of Tuesday’s Oxford Mail exercised the five retired men tucking into afternoon tea at my favourite Covered Market cafe.

Parking fees are a ‘tax on our religion’ it announced in large capital letters, echoing the views of five city clergymen unhappy at city council plans to reintroduce Sunday parking charges in certain Oxford streets. These would hit attendances at city centre churches.

He spluttered toasted teacake crumbs as he condemned the council’s plans. It was nothing short of greed, he said.

His neighbour, enjoying a cheese scone, claimed to be an agnostic with hopes of being convinced about an after life, felt that if churchgoers were sincere they would attend no matter what the cost.

An Eccles cake eater chimed in, saying that apart from his Palm Sunday ride on an ass, he couldn’t recall Jesus calling for transport to the synagogue.

The man with the black coffee (two sugars), thought for a few seconds before quoting St Matthew’s gospel: ‘Render therefore unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s’ – before returning to his coffee with a telling slurp.

Eventually the man I know as Twinkle, spoke up.

“The solution is simple. Churches could adopt the practice of some shops and restaurants who give parking vouchers to valued customers. If the churches’ main concern is falling attendances and not the cash on the collection plate, then everyone will be satisfied.”

The look in his eyes betrayed how he had earned his name.

BROAD Street was again the backdrop for a film in the making. A large boom held a camera peering into the gateway of Balliol College.

But it was not Lewis or any other regular requiring Oxford for its location. Technicians and the directing team were speaking in Hindi. Curiosity won the day.

One of the girls wandering around with clipboards, told me Bollywood had come to town, all the way from Mumbai.

The name of the film was Dezi Boyz – she spelled it out.

A fellow onlooker, military moustachioed and ramrod straight, buttonholed me. What had I learned?

“Dezi Boyz!” he exclaimed with disdain. “What strange spelling – and at Balliol too.”

HE wore a green top hat and an elastic-held ginger beard suspended well below his chin. His greeting of ‘Top o’ the morning’ was sincere – if not universally understood in Wednesday’s Gloucester Green market.

“What does that mean?” asked a Portuguese visitor. A stall holder made heavy weather of the answer, then gave up.

“He’s Irish. They get like that near St Patrick’s Day,” he said.

“Who is St Patrick?” persisted the visitor.

Fortunately for the stall holder a customer craved his attention.