IT was plain that Victor was ready for a verbal fight as he bounded across Queen Street, narrowly avoiding an uneven encounter with a double-decker bound for High Street and beyond.

“What have you to say about your precious Queen forcing Princess Kate to curtsy to the Duke of York’s kids, just because she’s a commoner and they’re so-called blood-line daughters?” he demanded. A sneer accompanied every word.

He knows where my loyalties lie – with HM. Former train driver Victor is a rampant republican, yet he has the loudest voice when it comes to singing the National Anthem before a football match. Strange really.

I stiffened the sinews and summoned up the blood as recommended by Henry V.

“In matters of protocol it’s for The Queen to decide precedent and who does what in the ranks of her family,” I replied somewhat loftily.

“But will Kate have to bow and scrape to Princess Anne’s children, Peter and Zara Phillips? They don’t have titles but they’re from the blood line?” he said, revealing a knowledge of the Royal Family batting order not expected.

I hadn’t a clue.

Love-15 (as they say at Wimbledon).

MORE was yet to come to damage my ego (about time, I hear you say). At the top of Broad Street a group of late-to-middle aged visitors – their accents betrayed an Antipodean connection – watched with rapt interest as a rising bollard sank earthwards to allow a council vehicle through.

“Sydney Harbour Bridge can’t do that,” I said as a conversation ice-breaker to a large chap with a cheerful face (it’s important to select carefully when indulging in a little ‘colonial’ banter.) He reacted with mock-critical comments about hold-ups on the M25 where a bridge – lifting or static – would have been preferable earlier in the day.

A couple more joined in and we were starting on the England-Aussie limited overs cricket tussle when I was given a hefty shoulder tap by a chap wearing a wide-brimmed summer trilby, that complemented his handlebar moustache.

“This is my tour,” he said coldly and directed his party to observe the façade of Balliol College.

Love-30.

FORTUNES appeared to be on the up when I ran into Bernard and Elaine, acquaintances from my days as a reporter in Thame more than 40 years ago.

Now living in the Cotswolds, they were in the city with their recently wed grandson and his wife. The reunion was delightful, until...

“We knew Peter when he worked for...” he told the young couple, naming a London-based evening newspaper I had never served, nor had any wish to serve. Oxford Mail from bald head to bootlaces, that’s me.

Love-40 – or time to retire hurt?