It has been on my conscience for more than half a century - the day I caused a row between a couple celebrating their golden wedding.

This young reporter innocently asked where and how they met.

Both agreed it was at a local music hall, but he claimed she had touched his backside as he made his way to the gents, while she maintained he had been playing footsie throughout the first half. He lost his temper; she burst into tears and my interview was a disaster.

Whatever the truth, it was clear they had spent 50 years never discussing who made the first move.

History didn't quite repeat itself, but I was the catalyst of an argument between another couple of ripe years at the weekend - simply by saying this year's magnificent display of hawthorn, May blossom, whitethorn, bread and cheese, Beltane tree, ladies' meat (call it what you will; it has many names) was the best for years.

We were in the vaults restaurant at St Mary the Virgin Church in High Street, a fitting place bearing in mind the tree's association with the Crucifixion, Joseph of Arimathea and Glastonbury.

They were a knowledgeable couple and both were determined to pass on their knowledge.

It was more like a lecture in tandem.

He favoured the darker associations - with the Great Plague, the stench of decaying flesh and the perils of taking the blossom indoors; she referred to its use in the making of wines and jellies and its medicinal properties for easing blood pressure, throwing in the line that our Queen traditionally has a sprig taken from the legendary Glastonbury tree on her Christmas Day breakfast table. It hadn't done her much harm, bearing in mind she is 82.

He dismissed this argument.

The discussion became more personal, particularly when the wife introduced Celtic fable and fairies and pointed out the tree was sacred to witchcraft and wicca. She had learned much from her sister who had made an extensive study of such matters.

"I rest my case," he said with unrestrained smugness.

What followed had little to do with the hawthorn or any other tree.

My belated but nevertheless sincere congratulations to Susanna Pressel on her election as Oxford's Lord Mayor and her determination to project a greener image for the city with her ground-breaking motor-free parade on Monday.

But how easily does the title Lord Mayor rests on her shoulders? Does that not have tones of male domination?

I recall an argument between us a few years ago, when declaring somewhat pompously that the word chair' was no substitute for chairman', while chairwoman' and chairperson' were non-words. Universities had chairs; committees, no matter what their gender make-up happened to be, had chairmen.

A chair, I added, was something to be sat on and was usually made of wood. Was it anybody's desire - male or female - to be described thus?

We agreed to differ, but I have no doubt the good councillor considered me the worst of unreconstituted males.

But that is history. I hope her year is a happy and successful one and that her greener image crusade is successful. Choking on vehicle fumes on Tuesday morning while walking along Botley Road, the heart of her West Oxford fiefdom, I was only too aware of the need.

Three-year-old grandson Eddie was on holiday in the Scilly Isles with his parents and elder brother Charlie and decided it would be a pleasant surprise to ring grandad on the mobile phone to tell of their latest adventure "Grandad - we're on a boat!" he announced excitedly, assuming, quite rightly, that I would recognise his voice.

"Where?" I asked, excited and delighted by the call.

The line went quiet. Then a serious-voiced Eddie resumed.

"On the sea - of course," the last two words added with feeling.

The tone was clear. How come, with all the grandads in the world, he had to have such a dim one?