THE shopping trolley, at some time in the past liberated from Staples, the office suppliers, was filled to overflowing – but not with anything that appeared to be of value.

It seemed to be a load of rubbish destined for the city dump.

But as is often the case, appearances can be deceptive and one man’s rubbish is another man’s rubies.

The trolley’s ‘pilot’, was José, a cheerful, woollen-capped, bushy-bearded Spaniard.

He was expertly rummaging among the plastic cups, boxes and clutter.

I noticed one of the cups contained minute, impossible-to-recycle fag ends. He was clearly doing his bit for street tidiness in Frideswide Square.

He turned as I wished him good morning.

“Are you a barrister?” he asked.

Putting him straight, I asked why he thought I might be a luminary of the legal profession.

“You are wearing a very nice tie,” he said.

So I was. It was decorated with small purple elephants and golden anchors on a dark blue background. Not a universal choice but I like it – and so did José.

For one fleeting moment I considered taking it off and giving it to him – but this passed.

It might be better to give than to receive, but he was not wearing a tie, or the style of shirt that would accommodate one.

Using the reporter’s tried-and-trusted device of changing the subject, I asked Jose about himself.

He had travelled quite a bit; born in Madrid, brought up in Barcelona, his mother had married an Englishman and they had gone to the Middle East where he was sent to schools that demanded its boys wore ties (here we go again, I thought).

But he was a rebel and would wear them as bandanas or attachment to other parts of his uniform – just to annoy the authorities.

“So why would you like this tie?” I asked.

“It would look wonderful holding up my trousers,” he replied, while hitching up that part of his clothing that clearly needed support.

Passers-by wondered why we were convulsed with laughter.

They probably suspected the worst, but we were as sober as judges (or barristers) – and Frideswide’s is an alcohol-free zone.

****

NEITHER the girl nor the boy wanted to be seen with their respective sets of parents on a shopping expedition to Oxford, let alone in the less-than-cool M&S cafe.

Not good for ‘street cred’ when you’re about 15.

To give the lad his due, he was trying to make the best of it and engage the girl in what passed as polite conversation.

But if this meant taking her eyes from her mobile phone screen and being unprepared for the latest text message, it was no contest.

Her replies were distinctly monosyllabic.

“Will you be watching the rugby later?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you like rugby?”

“S’a’right.”

“Have you seen ‘Slumdog’?”

“Nope.”

“Will you go see it?”

“P’r’aps.”

…And so it continued.

Finally the boy reverted to the British standby of weather and the seasons.

“There seems to be more snowdrops around this year.”

“Dunno – I haven’t counted ’em.”

He accepted defeat and resorted to reading the menu.

****

GEORGE said he was nearly four. Not for the first time I was to listen to a sad story.

The previous day he and his big brother Peter had been going to a party.

But he never got there.

After a dramatic pause that would have done justice to a Shakespearean actor, he announced, with gravity beyond his years: “I was sick.”

There followed a graphic description of what emerged from his volcanic stomach, details that did little to help the digestion of those in the Castle Street park-and-ride bus queue.

But how do you tell a nearly four-year-old he is giving too much information?