"You're from the sticks — you must know.” This observation was made by Marjorie who, until a decade ago, was a school ma'am of the old school, instilling into sixth formers, and in equal measure, knowledge of the Classics and fear of failure.

I protested that living a few thousand yards north of the Cutteslowe roundabout didn't make me Wurzel Gummidge. She countered by recalling that as I had once admired the spectacle of a hunt, I should know the laws controlling horses' droppings.

True, I had once — unwisely — affirmed I had no desire to stop hunt followers breaking their silly necks as they chased — but rarely caught — a particularly cold-hearted quadruped, whose endearing characteristic was a bushy tail, a comment that earned hostility from abolitionists. But as far as horses and laws appertaining to, there was a blank page.

“What are the punishments for letting them defecate on pavements?” she pressed, prompting passersby in Queen Street to cock an ear.

“One did in Cumnor and my daughter and grandchildren returned home, shoes and the wheels of the pushchair covered in the mess.”

“But didn't they spot the stuff? Couldn't they walk round it?” I asked.

“How the hell should I know,” she retorted — no wonder she was known as Miss Tongue Lash by boys in the lower sixth. “If I let my dog mess across the pavement, the council would be down like a ton of bricks.”

My point that she didn't have a dog was judged irrelevant. However, the encounter made me look closer at pavements in rural and semi-rural areas, and, by golly, she was right. There was heaps of the stuff — enough to fertilise a score of rhubarb fields.

Hoping to rescue Brownie points, I phoned the Vale of White Horse District Council in whose area the offending item was deposited. The helpful young woman seemed to have horse-orientated sympathies, referring to thoughtless car drivers forcing them on to pavements. As far as she knew, there were no prohibiting laws. I should speak to the county council. It was a highways matter. I did, and was told horse droppings — like dog mess — were a matter for district councils.

A case of 'passing the muck'?

The reaction of the masses in Cornmarket Street made me wonder if I too had stepped into something unpleasant. Several people were conducting a survey, a film crew was interviewing, and a pious couple offered eternal life.

Try as I might to attract their attention and include me in their labours where I might glean some anecdote, the only morsel of social intercourse came from a girl outside Starbuck's café who offered a frothy sample of coffee. How was she to know I never touch the stuff?

He was looking for a bolo — one of those things cowboys wear around their necks as a substitute for a tie. It resembles a stout bootlace, the ends held together by a metal brooch. You must have seen them in John Wayne films.

He was smartly dressed in suit (and well-knotted tie), was about 70 and had an accent that was pure Dublin, although, as he put it, he had 'been over here' for 50 years. The shop manager apologised for being unable to help, but she suggested another store. He withdrew with thanks and a hearty 'top 'o the morning'.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the novelty shop in Market Street. He had found a bolo and took it from a bag to show me. (There was also a cowboy hat. I didn't ask.) However, curiosity triumphed. Why a bolo? Line dancing, he said, and for the next few minutes enthused about weekly sessions in a Cowley club.

As they say, never judge a book by its cover — or for that matter — a broth of a boy by his bolo.

Finally, a notice in the men's washroom at Banbury's Tesco store: 'Out of use. Sorry for the inconvenience.'