LITTLE did I think as the Pear Tree park and ride bus vainly attempted to avoid sunken grates in Woodstock Road that all too soon I would face a near-international incident.

I had struck up a conversation with a young Polish miss, who that day was celebrating her first birthday. Her vocabulary in any language was limited, but she made it clear with giggles and gurgles that she wanted to remove my spectacles. I made it clear it would be better if she didn’t.

We were decanted in George Street, said our goodbyes and I headed into Cornmarket Street. No sooner there than Alan – not his real name for reasons that will soon be obvious – a recently retired Cowley car worker emerged from a shop and we began to discuss the burning topic of the day – Arsenal’s drubbing at the hands of Manchester United.

We hadn’t started our analysis of the third of the eight goals when we were summarily interrupted.

“Where is the Ash-mu-lum?” said the interrupter, a man of about 40-45, accompanied by a woman of probably the same age. His guttural tones set him in Germany or Austria.

“Don’t you mean the Ashmolean?” said Alan. Building cars for BMW had made him a stickler for accuracy.

“It’s the same thing,” snapped the man, pointedly turning his back on his corrector after first delivering a menacing stare.

I said we were only yards away and would gladly accompany them. As we walked – Alan tagged along too – I said how fortunately we were to have so many excellent museums in Oxford and began to list them. Again the man interrupted brusquely.

“Once Berlin had the finest museums in the world until they were mindlessly destroyed,” he said, a note of anger in his voice.

“Oh yes,” said Alan. “Who had you upset this time?” Ouch!

QUICKLY steering Alan in the direction of the Martyrs’ Memorial, I headed for Pembroke Street, museums still fresh. The Modern Art Museum and the Story Museum were closed, but the window of the Rochester Story Supplies, which is attached to the latter, raised a smile with its usual crazy notices.

The first read: ‘Boat for hire. For messing about on the river. [A clear reference to the story, The Wind in the Willows] No weasels need apply.’ Another notice, barely an inch square, and written in the tiniest letters, announced there was ‘Room to let. Apply within – Mrs Pepperpot. Suit small person.’ Simple stuff I accept, but unlikely to start World War Three.

CONGRATULATIONS to Scotsman Alasdair, Jacinta from Chile and South African Saskia for their tours of the city at £1 a person – the modest fee and any tips given to Oxfam.

Last seen, Alasdair was steering a group beyond Carfax while Jacinta was lining up the next fact-thirsty visitors. Saskia’s whereabouts were unknown at the time of writing.