IT would be stretching the truth to say Oxford’s city centre was overrun by Gurkhas and their womenfolk on Tuesday, but the last place I saw so many smiling Nepalese faces was in down-town Kathmandu.

They seemed to be on every corner. They were collecting signatures to support their claim for equal pension rights with other British Army veterans, which no one disputes they are. Joanna Lumley’s campaign of a couple of years back gave them the right to live here; all they need now is the money to help them stay.

The Oxford public was not backward in obliging the grateful name collectors.

I admit to having a soft spot for the Gurkhas. It’s possibly because one diminutive corporal rugby tackled me into a trench, thus avoiding the attention of a fast-descending Indonesian mortar bomb in war-torn Borneo 45 years ago. But as they say, that’s another story.

IN comparison, there were fewer people handing out information and collecting the odd coppers for The Porch Steppin’ Stone Centre. Now 10 years old, its costs, like most things, are always on the increase. To my eternal shame I had never set foot in this amazing tardis of a terraced house in Magdalen Street, which offers help for the vulnerable, homeless, and newly or poorly housed people wanting to re-build their lives.

To put this right, I went to see the director Ian Callaghan, a former banker. I found an organisation that could be used as a model by anyone wanting to help the genuinely unfortunate of society.

There are strict rules and its members – they are called members to emphasise they have responsibility for its present and future – are left in no doubt. For example, anyone suspected of being under the influence of drink or drugs doesn’t get past the door.

A charge is made for meals – again a members’ decision – and everyone is encouraged to gain qualifications through the Open College Network.

Everything the centre does points towards members making the effort themselves. It was quite an eye-opener.

THE pack of cards had been torn in half and scattered across the pavement outside Pizza Roma in Frideswide’s Square. Was this the act of a desperate gambler or the petulance of a child losing another game of Snap?

A relatively new white pair of women’s shoes were abandoned on the West Street towpath near The Punter public house, only inches from the water. I scoured the still surface of the Thames.

Less than two yards away, a women’s black bra dangled from a tree. By now my imagination was in overdrive.

What is it I say about Oxford never being boring?