SHE was a dead ringer for Queen Victoria, circa 1900, small and stout, dressed in black, her white hair swept back, ballooning jowls and not a smile in sight. But what she lacked in modern dress and a sense of humour, her 14-year-old twin granddaughters made up for in trendiness and genuine affection.

Nan – as the girls addressed her – was clearly adored by the two and being seen with her around Cowley’s Templars Square was neither embarrassing nor a hardship.

The girls, although not identical, wore similar clothes – short skirts and even shorter crop tops, showing a liberal amount of midriff – and were displaying not only stone-studded navels but optimism the improving weather of the past few days would return fairly soon.

Nan decided it was time for mid-morning refreshments and they settled for the café in the centre of the piazza.

The girls did the honours and between them carried a cup of tea, two frothy chocolate drinks and three cakes. (No prizes for guessing who had the tea.) Nan was wearing a pained expression similar to that reserved for the tiresome Mr Gladstone.

“I’m cold,” she said with an exaggerated shiver, her tone suggesting that the low temperature was the work of man and had nothing to do with any whim on the part of the Almighty.

The girls looked at each other and, as if resorting to that mysterious telepathy twins seem to have, chimed in unison: “You should wear a vest.” They then dissolved into laughter.

Like the old Queen, Nan was not amused and seemed to be on the point of metering out some admonishment.

But memory kicked in and the frozen expression broke into a broad smile.

“I’ve been waiting for that reply,” she said turning to me on the next table where I had been trying to stifle a laugh. “That is usually my line to the girls when they turn up looking half naked.”

She leaned a little closer and in a voice that was too loud to be described as a stage whisper confessed: “In case you’re wondering, I am wearing one, but if I were still their age, well…”

THE three elderly men, all wearing military campaign medals and suitably turned out in black (any of them would not have looked out of place squiring Nan around the city) were waiting for buses at Gloucester Green Station. Their black ties betrayed what their mission had been – to pay their final respect to an old comrade. One of the three, a barrel-chested chap, carried a case which I suspect contained a bugle on which had been blown The Last Post.

The banter was far from sad. A few drinks had helped to brighten the occasion and to recall some long ago adventures, especially those of their late chum, Danny.

It was plain that he had been ‘a bit of a lad’, the life and soul of every occasion and he was likely to face a few questions from St Peter before being allowed through those pearly gates.

Eventually a bus arrived and two of the men prepared to climb aboard.

“See you again soon, said the taller of the pair to the bugler who was left behind.

“Well, two of us will,” said the third man. “We are running a bit short of mess mates.”

The three exchanged glances. The words had introduced a sobering thought.

WE are both called Peter The last time we met we each had two small children. Now we’re grandparents and had got together through a mutual friend. The three of us were enjoying a reunion pint in a Wheatley pub.

Working through down the names from children to grandchildren, we came to those of his second son. Jean Valjean, Cosette, Javert and Epernine, he said with some embarrassment.

“What’s wrong with Mary and Bill?” he said.

“The trouble is he and his wife are mad on the musical Les Miserables and these are characters from the show.”

I said they were nice if unusual names and that it could be worse if the star-struck parents had been hooked on Jungle Book.

Consolation was marginal.