SHE was the picture of elegance. Even from 20 yards in a busy Cornmarket Street, the young woman with shoulder-length flowing hair stood out. Her fitted black jacket, her short, but not-too-short black skirt, her high-, but not-too-high-heeled shoes, were the mark of someone who takes infinite care with her appearance.

The only questionable part of her outfit was the wide-brimmed black felt hat – something she was fighting to keep on her head. Tuesday morning was somewhat windy. It was an incident waiting to happen – and it did.

A strong gust wrenched the hat from her grasp and carried it at speed towards Carfax. She turned and followed as quickly as her heels would allow.

Enter a knight, not in shining armour, but wearing a mackintosh and cloth cap, walking with the aid of a stick and leaning heavily on the arm of his female companion. Neither was in the first flush of youth.

He watched as it approached, measuring speed and flight, before lifting his stick and pinning the hat to the road with skill not seen since the days of the Raj when cavalry officers enjoyed a morning’s pig sticking. His expression was unashamedly smug.

The young woman ran up and retrieved her hat, then planted a big kiss on his cheek. The smugness intensified, as with false modesty, he responded to her words of thanks, before kissing her on the cheek.

Meanwhile his companion shook her head. “He never misses a trick when it comes to playing the hero,” she told me before steering him into WH Smith’s.

THE temptation was too great. After all it was St Giles’ Fair and I hadn't succumbed for nearly 40 years.

It wasn’t the desire to risk life and limb on those terrifying machines that toss one into the outer darkness, risking the return of breakfast.

It was candy floss, blue and luring, perched on a stick. I invested £1.50 and squared up to this cotton wool-like monster. I then realised I’d forgotten how I used to tackle it.

No matter which side I approached, nose and chin made contact before my mouth.

The left lens of my spectacles was coated with the stuff and my fingers were a mass of stickiness as I tore pieces and stuff them in my mouth.

It was a most uncomfortable 10 minutes as I clumsily polished off the candy floss, earning sideways looks from young and old alike.

After a clean-up, my handkerchief was covered in the sticky stuff but I felt reasonably confident that nose, chin and lips were cleared.

Several minutes and numerous amused glances later, my chum Tom and his grandson Davy approached.

“Why has Uncle Peter got blue cotton wool on his forehead?” the observant six-year-old asked.