IT WAS a morning on which to buy a chicken-and-salad baguette from Morton's in Broad Street, before walking the city and munching with a happy heart.

The slight breeze made conditions pleasant. Smiles that had drained away in the heat of recent days, were returning.

"New shoes!" said the excited tot in the pushchair, pointing to her bright-red sandals.

I told her how smart she looked. She beamed, adding more sunshine to the day.

Grandma couldn't dissuade the eight-year-old lad from buying a white plastic German-shaped helmet bearing the red cross of St George, from a Westgate sports shop.

"It's a great Father's Day present," he said convincingly.

Grandma gave up the argument - albeit with a smile - before telling me her son disliked football - and was Welsh into the bargain.

But dark clouds loomed.

A young woman, down on her luck for whatever reason, was asking for help from Market Street shoppers. Some obliged, and she thanked them warmly.

A middle-aged, reverse-collared clergyman - I don't know from which denomination - shimmered by.

"I'll pray for you," he said earnestly, moving on quickly while keeping his cash in his pocket.

I have no doubt he would pray, but I reckon a few pence to help see her through the day would have been more practical.

The first spots of rain began to fall . . .

THE magazines in the Churchill Hospital waiting room were either from a bygone age or were health-related, belatedly advising patients what they should have done to avoid being there.

Thank heavens for the literature-covered walls. At least they offered something fresh, if not easy to understand.

Take this passage from one large colourful poster.

Currently the medical staff are involved in the prescribing and consenting of the treatment, but with the advent of the crown report (sic) and other nursing initiatives, we aim to work towards protocols to enable us to consent and prescribe this treatment, thus allowing then (sic) to become a truly autonomous nurse-led clinic.' WITH only one counter clerk on duty, Saturday morning was busy in the village post office.

The young man at the head of the seven-long queue didn't help by having half a dozen parcels, all for different parts of the world and all needing proof-of-postage.

The woman behind him, who had muttered loudly, was just as bad; she had two vehicles to tax.

At the rear was the village's older resident - he's a sprightly 92.

"We seem to be in for a long wait," he observed to his nearest fellow customer.

"Yes," she replied. "By the time you get to the counter, you'll be just in time to collect your telegram from the Queen."

Everyone laughed - except the harassed clerk.

A ST George's shield-shaped car sticker was attached to the erect tail of a wire-haired terrier walking with his owner along Botley Road.

The dog didn't seem to mind the indignity. After all, his companion's hair was cropped short, revealing a red cross - forehead to rear and ear to ear.