ANNO domini has dampened down my once fiery temper. However, two things are guaranteed to rekindle the flame – unkindness and rudeness. Examples of each were displayed on Monday, both by the same person. To describe him as a scruffy yob would be unfair to yobs.

He was cycling down George Street on the wrong side of the road before mounting the pavement beneath the New Theatre’s glass awning, scattering pedestrians. In front of him was an elderly Indian woman. The cyclist, probably about 20, let out a yell before screaming: “Get out of the way, n*****!” I won't dignify the word by spelling it in full. Readers can fill the blanks.

The woman leapt with shock as he repeated the obscenity. This time he was only feet away. She hurried on, obviously distressed. Laughing loudly, he stopped close to a young couple whom he clearly knew. They were visibly embarrassed.

I wasn’t prepared to let him get away with it and asked what he thought he was doing. He denied having said anything and then tried to turn it into a joke. I told him that neither he nor his behaviour was funny.

Asking him to apologise would have been futile. But I made it clear what I thought of his cycling antics and his rudeness to the elderly woman before walking off, the word “Tosser!” intended for my consumption, ringing in my ears.

* FORTUNATELY it took two tall, cheerful, fair-haired young men only a short time to restore my sense of humour. The day was hot. They were wearing matching beach shorts, sandals and flimsy T-shirts. At first glance it seemed the shirts were also identical. Pale blue, each showing a sketch of two slinky blondes in skimpy swimming costumes gazing longingly at a surf board. A word was written in large letters below below this tableau. Here the similarity ended. One was the word HAWAII – the other...DIDCOT.

* GRANDMAS are traditionally lovely people. They go out of their way to paint the world in glowing colours, with cheerful music an optional extra. A fine example of the species was in Cowley Road on Tuesday.

She was with two of her grandchildren – a boy and a girl – possibly about nine or 10-years-old. The girl looked in a butcher’s shop window and began to laugh while pointing at a handwritten sign.

“Look how they’ve spelled tomato – they’ve put an ‘e’ on the end,” she said. “It shouldn’t have one.”

The boy made a joke as well, only to be interrupted by grandma. “You can’t expect a butcher to know how to spell every vegetable,” she said kindly. “He has to remember how to spell all those meats.” See what I mean?