I DON’T know what I expected to find when I wandered along to Somerville College the day after the death of its famous luminary, Margaret Thatcher.

A knot of Old Somervillians wanting to pay their respects? Perhaps a few bunches of flowers?

A poster promising an in-house – or rather in-chapel – memorial service once the nation had done its bit?

There was none of these. The only people appearing to be interested was an elderly couple, standing across Woodstock Road and gazing at the college’s drooping, half-mast flag.

Mike and Helen were from Northumberland, with Geordie accents you could cut with a knife. They were on a five-day tour of the south of England and had set aside three hours to learn all about Oxford. Such optimism!

“So this is where Maggie Thatcher learned her stuff, is it?” said Mike, adding immediately that he had been a miner until his pit near Morpeth was closed down.

“And he’s been under my feet ever since,” laughed Helen.

Being on a bus, they hadn’t heard the latest news bulletins. Where and when was the funeral service to be held and where would she be buried? I was able to report that St Paul’s would stage the event next Wednesday and this would be followed by a private cremation.

“So I won’t get the chance to dance on her grave then?” said Mike.

Ouch!

“YOU’LL be going to the Playhouse next week then?” probed my old chum Brian when we met in our favourite Covered Market café.

I asked why he assumed this. “It’s about an old chap – even older than you – who’s been in love with the Queen for more than 60 years,” he said.

“I reckon they’ve pinched your story. Maybe you can claim some royalties – get it? Queen, royalties!”

“Don’t encourage him,” said Victor, another friend. “The play’s called Maurice’s Jubilee, Julian Glover is in it and it’s had good reviews.”

A call to Playhouse press officer Bethan James confirmed Victor’s words, and yes, the plot had also reminded her of my well-documented royal leanings. It would be disloyal to miss the play, don’t you think?

IS someone trying to tell me something? First, a delightful brown-eyed young woman in the Westgate Centre offered to remove the wrinkles from under my eyes. I wasn’t aware there were any, but she insisted on giving me the treatment.

Minutes later, a young man in the Clarendon Centre promised, with the help of magical cream, to restore youth and beauty to my hands.

I repeat, is someone trying to tell me something?