He blamed his misfortune on the council. Had the garden waste wheelie bin been emptied weekly instead of once a fortnight, it would never have happened.

His wife disagreed, attributing the incident to galloping senility.

They waited for a prescription at Sainsbury's in Kidlington, he with his right arm in a sling, two black eyes and a nasty graze down his right cheek; she stone-faced, but prepared to tell the story to all whoever might listen.

It seems the bin was two-thirds full with a week-and-a-half's grass cuttings and leaves, when, spurred by the sunshine, he decided to blitz the garden - trimming, pruning and mowing.

The bin was quickly full to overflowing. But he was on a roll. He took a stepladder from his garage, and set it alongside the bin, climbing and stepping in, with the intention of compressing the contents.

There is probably some law of physics stating it is folly for a 62-year-old man of medium height, weighing 12 stones, to step into a container of loose garden waste, when its wheelbase is less than that of a doll's pushchair. Clearly, he didn't know of such a law.

The bin tipped; he fell heavily against a low wall, sustaining the injuries previously mentioned. Now, with her husband nursing a broken shoulder blade, she was left to finish off the work.

He should have known better, she declared, canvassing support.

But remembering some of the daft things I've done - and continue to do - it was hypocritical to comment.

The three middle-aged couples from Merseyside were Bournemouth-bound, but broke their journey at Oxford. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and there seemed no fun in glumly sitting in a seafront shelter when a little culture could be acquired in this city of learning.

But it was economy-rate culture, and at the gallop. They were in a Broad Street café, the three women studying a guidebook with the intention of spending an hour at a college. After all, when in Oxford...

"The book says it is £3.90 to go around Christ Church," said one, in a broad Liverpool accent. "That's a bit steep."

The other two agreed.

"It's £3 at Magdalen College, but only £1.50 at Trinity," said the second. "I wonder why Trinity's so cheap."

"It's probably not as good as the other colleges," divined the third.

Meanwhile, the waiter, a student on holiday work, was serving their coffee.

"I would advise against saying that to a Trinity man," he said, eyes smiling, but with undisguised menace in his voice.

It was bound to happen. If Las Iguanas, a new bar in Park End Street, chooses to invite the public to eat Latin and drink Latin', some smart Alec is sure to try to take matters further.

In Rosie O'Grady's across the road, a couple of 30-something wags were plotting.

"How do you say two tequila sunrises, heavy on the tequila, but easy with the grenadine' - in Latin. That would make 'em sit up," said one.

"Don't ask me. But I could ask the wife to ask our priest at confession," said the other, before draining his Guinness.