Green is supposed to be a soothing colour, which is why theatres traditionally have a green room where luvvies attempt to lift the tension before treading the boards.

Maybe whoever was responsible for the partly green decor of the St Giles Cafe also had the psychological wellbeing of its customers in mind, but if so, it failed to brighten my mood as I waited -- and waited -- for my cholesterol-laden fare.

The cafe is near the celebrated Eagle and Child pub, on the same side of the road. It isn't far from some of Oxford University's colleges -- and given that students are neither famed for their cooking ability nor their refined palate, it draws them like a moth to a flame.

I thought it would be worth popping in for a lunchtime fry-up on Sunday, only to discover the compact eatery was crammed, with a gaggle of would-be diners waiting by the counter for a place at one of the seven small tables.

Squeezing in, I ordered egg, sausage and chips and a cup of tea from the limited menu.

I toyed with the idea of bacon, which looked crispy and appetising. But I settled for sausage because I like to regard myself as a connoisseur of what in the BBC TV series Yes, Prime Minister was once termed the 'emulsified high-fat offal tube'.

A couple of minutes later, a member of staff pointed to a space at one of the formica-topped tables next to the counter, pushing a cuppa my way, and I took my cue.

Easing into the spongy seat, I was grateful I had bought a newspaper en route. Little did I realise I would be able to browse a good number of the news pages, plus take a shufti at the review section, before my lunch arrived. There were some papers and magazines in the corner for the benefit of customers who had come unprepared.

The cup of tea was strong, although I had been hoping for something brick-coloured (and in a chipped mug, if truth be known).

My fellow diners -- several of whom reveled in their student status by wearing fleeces emblazoned with their college crests -- seemed to prefer fizzy drinks; quaffing Diet Coke or Lilt while enthusiastically delving into their greasy fodder.

Time seeped past. The two women next to me, who had ordered a few moments before me, grew impatient.

One fidgeted, which made my seat shake, as it was connected to hers by a strut.

"They're cooking the same stuff for everyone," muttered the other. "It's only chips, eggs and beans, so why is it so slow?"

Meanwhile, more customers had come to swell the ranks (and drop litter, which accumulated in the aisle). Because I was seated next to the counter where they were ordering, the occasional elbow and shoulder bag strayed uncomfortably close to my left ear as I flipped through my newspaper and indulged in some passive smoking.

When the food arrived -- actually, I went up to get it -- there was plenty of it, which there should have been, given the price (£4.20 for the food, 70p for the tea). I don't class that as being -- well, cheap as chips. A chicken pie and chips would have set me back £3.50.

The chips, which oozed over about two-thirds of the plate, were golden and fairly thin, rather like oven chips.

The fried egg was crinkled, but tender, with a pleasingly yellow yolk.

The sausages were unappetising. Six beige-coloured cylinders the size of chipolatas, they were mushy and pink inside, giving little hint they had ever been part of a snuffling, grunting porker.

I didn't mull over the meal, despite waiting 45 minutes for my chance at the trough.

Although the place was less crowded by 1.30pm, a few customers were still arriving and I guessed I might be asked to order something more in order to be entitled to stay. So I shuffled off into the chill wind.

The St Giles Cafe may once have been able to trade on its reputation, attracting the likes of poet Elizabeth Jennings, but if it was hip in the Oxford of yesteryear, it's now in need of a hip replacement.

I'm quite a fan of the 'greasy spoon' tradition, but this was one disappointing lunchtime stint.