IT takes a mere glimpse of that blue light or the sound of the accompanying soul-piercing siren to awaken the serial fire engine-chaser lurking inside even the longest superannuated reporter.

When three fire engines turned into a busy Cornmarket Street, there was only one place to be – a decision chosen by young and old, toddlers in pushchairs, many propelled there at speed by those on grandparent duty.

Shops were evacuated; customers and staff from Next, River Island, Fat Face and Carphone Warehouse – businesses united for mutual survival by a common fire alarm – stood outside on a cold Tuesday afternoon. Fire crews sprung into action, taping off an area of Market Street where the seat of the fire – if there was a seat – was believed to be in the upstairs premises of Ladbroke’s.

Firefighters, some with breathing apparatus, loomed large. They herded the inquisitive public to areas deemed safe. Only pigeons, peering from their privileged spot on the edge of the Carphone Warehouse roof, could defy them.

We waited for the action, but we waited in vain. Shop staff – some in flimsy outfits – began to shiver. Bored children wanted to know why they couldn’t climb aboard the fire engines, seeing as they were doing nothing. It was all a bit of a let-down.

But was it? For the first time that day many briefly forgot the cold. The city’s ‘finest’ were seen once more to be on the ball, while for me, it rekindled memories of past blazes.

Did I ever tell you about...

THEY were hunting in packs; dozens of early teenage French children were cornering shoppers to ask half a dozen questions as part of their English studies.

It was far from arduous for either party. The questions were standard and none required a first-class degree to answer.

But this was too much for Barbara, a middle-aged housewife and mother (her description) from Cumnor.

“They’re everywhere,” she said indignantly. “Five groups have already stopped me between the Covered Market and the Westgate Centre. It’s impossible to do what I need to do.”

“You could refuse,” I suggested. “You could say ‘no’ and walk past.”

Her mood changed.

“That would be rude and they are somebody’s children. I hope you didn’t,” she said, casting a threatening glance.

I couldn’t contain a smile.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

THERE is a small notice in the Castle Street bus shelter where passengers wait, bound for Elms Rise, Wantage and beyond. It reads: ‘The City Centre bus information map is being reprinted. It will be displayed here as soon as it is available.’ The notice is dated June 2010.

Please tell me the latter is a printing error.