Thecamera crew seemed bent on self-destruction, standing as it did in the middle of High Street, while buses, vans and cars passed inches from the tripod.

Following the line of focus I saw the reason for this apparent devil-may-care behaviour. Approaching were the helmet-clutching, leather-clad, bearded figures of Dave Myers and Simon King, collectively known as the Hairy Bikers.

Theirs is the amusing and extremely palatable dish-of-the-day programme on BBC2, which shows the less culinary-skilled how to stave off starvation, as opposed to the oft-pretentious range of other over-seasoned helpings offered a la carte across the channels.

It is not my habit to step in the path of celebrities whether at work or at play, especially when they are built on similar lines to Messrs Myers and King, but for once I did. It was to thank them for their entertaining approach to showing the cooker-shy among us that you don’t have to have the latest all singing-and-dancing kitchen and be related to Delia Smith to produce something more adventurous than beans on toast.

From a filming point of view, my action ruined a ‘take’ as the cameraman - now safely on the pavement – pointed out. But the bikers were quick to spring to my defence and we talked for a short while. Clearly fame has not made them immune to enjoying a compliment.

It was a peaceful, if full-voiced protest outside the county council offices in New Road. Men, women and one child, armed with placards and boards, were making their feelings felt about plans to site a waste incinerator in south Oxfordshire.

A well-rehearsed chant rang out for some while – the six-year-old girl’s voice pleasantly distinguishable among the tenors, baritones and sopranos - until it was time to down placards and enter the offices to attend a meeting.

“Aren’t you going to take the girl? ” I suggested. “They could hardly throw her out without inviting criticism for themselves.”

“We couldn’t do that. We wouldn’t exploit a child,” said one serious-faced woman.

Exploit? By the expression on the little girl’s face, she would have loved it. But, of course, I was being rather naughty when suggesting it.

“I've got a king-size quilt on my little bed,” announced the 30-ish woman as she left the city centre shop that was selling off household linen at knockdown prices prior to its permanent closure.

Her two female companions of a similar age made no comment after this revelation. The fact that she must have weighed nearly 20 stone and was tucking into a well-filled baguette probably made them feel such a large covering was inevitable. Anyonein Oxfordshire with the remotest link to the Royal Tank Regiment Association knows Bert Dowler. White haired and immaculate at all times, and usually wearing the distinctive red, brown and green striped tie of the Tankies, he is a familiar figure in his hometown of Banbury, or anywhere that old comrades need help.

He looks about 60, acts about 40, while his birth certificate confirms he is more than 80.

At this time of year he is to be found selling poppies for the Royal British Legion appeal. As he rattles his tin, he is always good for an anecdote, a laugh – and a little teasing.

Take the woman who last weekend admired the simple poppy Bert wore on his lapel. It looked neat, not crumpled like so many quickly do.

“It is 10 years old,” he told her straight faced. “After the Armistice parade I stick it in water, changing it every week or so. It never fails.”

She accepted the story and was determined to try the same treatment on her poppy. Even his tallest of tales can be quite convincing.