The queue was a daunting sight. It stretched from the main door, wound between display stands and barriers before fanning out to await a disembodied voice inviting St Aldate's Post Office customers to head for the next free desk.

My heart sank at the thought of waiting heaven knows how long, particularly as the chap in front had clearly not washed for some time and stank accordingly.

The nostrils of the woman in front of him were similarly offended and she ostentatiously took out a handkerchief and held it to her nose and mouth.

Just then, a smiling young woman, complete with authority-bestowing plastic name badge affixed, walked up.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"Only if you can get rid of this queue," I replied pessimistically.

The smile beamed on. What did I want? Postage stamps and a large letter to be weighed, measured and charged for accordingly.

No problem. Go to the retail counter, she advised.

But what about the people who had been waiting for some time, I asked?

She simply motioned to the retail counter.

The letter was weighed and costed and the stamps bought in no more than a couple of minutes. I headed for the door. The queue had barely moved.

The woman was still holding her handkerchief and there was a noticeable gap between the odorous chap and the customer to his rear.

The smiling woman was there, sifting small beer' customers like me, and sending them to the retail desk.

"I feel a bit guilty," I said, not altogether truthfully.

"Try to live with it," she said with a wink.

Friends reckoned Alec was not given to generous impulses, so it was obvious he was seriously impressed.

He had treated three of them to coffee in the Westgate Tchibo - the first time in ages.

Alec is 50, and, by his own admission, a cynic, but something had happened that morning to dent his cynicism and renew his faith in human nature.

He said roadworks had forced him to make a detour from his usual route into Oxford.

He needed petrol and pulled into a small service station, one he hadn't used before.

It was only when he had filled his tank that he found his wallet was not in his pocket.

He realised it was still on his bedside table.

Alec went to the desk, mumbled an apology in embarrassed tones, saying it was a motorist's worst nightmare and that he would return home immediately, pick up his cards and cash, and return.

He had nothing of great value to leave for security, but would the attendant like his address and phone number, or the name of someone to vouch for his character?

The employee smiled and waved away the suggestions.

"No problem. You'll be back," he said.

Alec drove home and was at the service station again in half an hour.

"Top man!" called out the attendant, smiling broadly as Alec walked in.

"No - you're top man for trusting me," said Alec, deeply moved by this blind faith.

Gives you a warm feeling, doesn't it?

The young family of five had been to an egg-rolling event near their home in north Oxfordshire and were about to enjoy an Easter Day lunch at the village local.

The two sisters, aged nine and seven, excitedly told me about the morning's happenings: how the older girl had won a prize for the furthest roll, the younger one explaining that her egg had hit a bump and bounced out of bounds; the hot chocolate and ginger biscuits and the antics of the man dressed as a chicken who was the competition judge.

Their six-year-old brother was uncharacteristically quiet.

"What did you like most, Andy?" I asked.

"Throwing sheep poo at all the girls and seeing them run," he announced gleefully - and loudly - to a packed dining room.

Mum buried her face in her hands.