THERE comes a time when finding a New Year resolution to survive beyond Epiphany becomes impossible. But I had every hope that Philip and Jean’s scheme would be the exception.

On December 30 the young-at-heart grandparents (both reach their three score-years-and-10 this year) announced to a few of us in the Eastgate Hotel bar that they were to resist mid-week drinking to spend time researching family trees.

Learning more about one of Jean’s forebears, reputed to be a talented school teacher who had descended on Oxford from the North West while Queen Victoria still had more than a quarter of a century to live, and about Philip’s ancestors, for generations humble toilers on the land in the shadow of Uffington White Horse, would keep their minds lively and reduce spending during these days of austerity.

When last seen in early February they were still fired with enthusiasm.

Imagine my surprise to see them leaving the Old Tom Tavern, in St Aldate’s, mid-week.

We discussed this and that before turning to family tree research progress. Philip glanced at Jean – and waited.

“Will you tell him – or shall I?” he said, resisting a laugh. Jean mumbled something but fell silent.

The ‘teacher’ from the North West turned out to be a felon sent to Oxford Prison for sins committed in the north of the county.

After serving his time, and assured by his Nonconformist family that he would no longer be welcome at the Westmorland homestead, he remained in Oxford where he grafted an uncertain living for himself, his common-law wife and four children born out of wedlock. A family fable had grown around him – a fable that contained everything but accuracy.

“I wouldn’t say it turned Jean to drink, but it did make her worry about anything more she might learn about her family,” said Philip. “She always believed hers was superior to my farm-labouring lot. We decided to leave the past to itself.”

I gave Jean a friendly hug. As the saying goes, we can pick our friends, but… AS visits to restaurants go, this was a near-disaster. It was our first to this relatively new north Oxfordshire eating house.

A booking had been made for 8.30pm, but the person to whom I had spoken hadn’t bothered to record that fact. The receptionist apologised and promised to ‘fit us in’ as soon as possible.

The bar looked appetising. The wait lasted half an hour – hardly an imposition when the Italian wine was so inviting.

It took the waitress another 15 minutes to take our order, another 10 to deliver the starter and another 25 minutes (after the empty mussels bowl had been removed) to bring the main course.

My friend’s vegetables were cold and there was no sign of mine. The offending carrots, broccoli, mange tout and french beans were returned to the kitchen for attention, leaving our chosen salmon steaks stark and alone, the waitress suggesting we could get on with it while we waited.

With calmness that surprised even me, I spoke to the manager.

He listened and quietly but courteously put matters right. He did not fawn nor did he attempt to soothe my obvious disappointment with a free meal (after all, the veg was cool enough), although he insisted on giving us a bottle of wine to take home.

I will return to the restaurant – but not to see if things are improved. It was refreshing to come across someone willing to admit the place had fouled up big time, without trying to embarrass the complainer or shift the blame with lame excuses.

Yes, a near – but not a total – disaster.

THE postcard in a Cowley shop offering for sale Oxford United, and its forerunner Headington United, memorabilia had gone after less than a week. Had the ‘treasure’ been sold?

No, said the shopkeeper. It had been withdrawn. The would-be vendor’s wife had suddenly left home.