All three confessed it had become a ritual. The women would meet once every three months for lunch, at a location chosen by one of their number, when family news and gossip about friends old and new were exchanged.

They had been at school together in Oxford, had gone their separate ways, and now, in their early 50s, found themselves living within easy travelling distance of each other.

They trained as teachers, although only one was still in that profession - the others had left when starting families, and had never returned to the trials of the classroom.

Today, they had dined at a famous Oxford riverside hostelry, a pub that revived memories of daring under-age drinking and youthful romances of nearly 40 years ago.

The time came to settle the bill. Going Dutch' was the rule, with the organising hostess in charge. She waved her plastic, intending to pay by this means.

"Split three ways?" she said brightly (let's call her A) as if expecting no dissent. She had already worked out this basic short-division sum on her small notepad.

"That's not fair on you," replied B. "You didn't have a pudding."

"You didn't have a starter, while I had the fillet steak," said C to B.

"But I had two glasses of wine. After all, I haven't to drive," protested A.

"I had a large G&T before lunch. You two only had fruit juice," said B.

Each time a new element was brought into the equation, the hostess changed her sums. This went on for several minutes, until she decided to take a firm hand. That seemed fair enough - she was the one still teaching.

She tore up the figure-covered page, muttered a most un-teacher-like oath and declared she was heading for the till to pay up. Meanwhile, they could decide their individual contributions.

I feared for the auld alliance' as they silently exchanged glances, until B burst out laughing. C caught my anxious expression.

"Don't look so worried," she explained. "This always happens. It was the same when we were buying Babycham and Cherry B under age."

Were you to have asked me what I considered one of the greatest threats to life and limb, a super-charged 4x4 with one pre-school child in the back, driven by a youngish mum, a mobile phone clamped to her ear, would have been high on the list.

But this paled into insignificance last week.

Yes, the young mum was there, so was the child, as was the mobile phone, seemingly glued to the ear.

However, the child was in a pushchair, being propelled down Cornmarket Street - speedily and none too steadily - by mum's free hand as she frantically sought confirmation from the person on the other end as to where they had arranged to meet.

Shoppers, tourists and innocent townsfolk leapt for safety.

Even the earnest-faced street missionary, Gospel in one hand and relevant quotations at the tip of his tongue, judged it inappropriate to ask if she had been saved. Personal salvation was his more immediate concern.

It arrived in a plastic bag like so many unwanted catalogues and promotional material. Even the enclosed booklet was eye-catching, with a smiling grandad carrying a little chap on his shoulders.

Yes, the taxman is getting cute as well as sneaky.

Inside was a rainforest of paper telling me how to complete the ever-intrusive tax return, how to give any rebate (ha!) to charity, and an introduction to a new style tax return - online.

There are advantages for the last mentioned - a paper' return has to be in by October 31, while the computer literate have until January 31 next year to do the business and pay up.

Well, I read the instructions, turned on the computer and spent the next couple of hours getting hot and bothered.

I estimated it would have taken me until January 31, 2009 to master it.

Ah well, back to paper . . .