Everyone else might have been there to learn about Hollywood as an iconic expression of American culture, but I attended for far less noble reasons... I just wanted to see Stefanie Powers.

Cue twangy Eighties theme... “This is my boss, Jonathan Hart, a self-made millionaire. Quite a guy. This is Mrs H. She’s gorgeous. She’s one lady who knows how to take care of herself. By the way, my name is Max. I take care of both of them, which it ain’t easy, ’cos when they met, it was MURDER.’ Yes indeed, a slice of Hollywood royalty who served as a perky pin-up to millions of men during the Eighties.With more than 27 films and the hugely successful Hart To Hart under her belt, she was, and is, that real thing – a star (overlooking her I’m A Celebrity debacle last year).

Truth be told, I thought her event would be a sell-out.

After all, what was there not to like? A famous actress, who’d hung out with the likes of John Wayne, Rock Hudson, Ava Gardner and William Holden (with whom she had a long term relationship), and a great theme, co-presented beautifully by film historian Andrew Erish.

Perfect for a Saturday morning, right? Perfect for film lovers, right? Perfect for wannabe movie makers, right? No...

I can only imagine the clash with a certain Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, at exactly the same time may have had something to do with it. Remember, Oxford has a long history of revering men with beards. And while I have nothing against the Archbishop per se, I can’t imagine he’d strike a similarly radiant pose in either flats or heels.

Still, there’s no pleasing some people, so for those of you who did miss her talk – SHAME ON YOU. It was eloquent, charming, and very, very funny.

Afterwards, energised, I wandered into Murder Mystery: Bloodbath or Brainteaser? in which writers Sophie Hannah and Simon Brett debated the respective merits of the twisted new school of crime writing versus the cosy old charm of Miss Marple et al. Or, to put it more succinctly: ‘He twisted the knife until it was embedded in her spleen’ as opposed to ‘She fell gently back against the arm of her chair, drained of hope, punctured by the cold, steel blade of his lethal contempt’.

Conducted in front of a largely female audience (now what does that say about murder?), it tootled along like an episode of, appropriately enough, Murder She Wrote.

Wry and appealing, it never saw closure, but reassured some of us that serial killers are more fiction than fact.

And despite a few peeks and a little toe dipping in and yesterday, especially at the Family Carvery Lunch in ‘Hogwarts Hall’, so endeth my very first Oxford Literary Festival. And you know what? I just want to turn back to the beginning, Chapter One, and start all over again...