WILL you sit next to me?” It’s not the sort of offer I get every week in the Pear Tree park-and-ride bus queue, and certainly not from a well-coiffured member of the ladies-who-lunch sorority.

Who was I to refuse?

She felt it necessary to explain why my help was sought, possibly fearing I might ‘get the wrong idea’, especially as we had been indulging in small talk while waiting for the bus. It transpired someone, who had joined the end of the queue seconds before, was a former friend – former being the operative word.

I glanced in the other’s direction: an equally attractive woman, probably of the same age.

“Upset you, has she?” I asked.

“There’s not long enough to tell you how much,” she said caustically. However, by the time her nemesis had climbed aboard, minutes later, I knew the lot.

To be honest, if one of my younger grandsons had come up with the same story I’d have told him to stop being daft and to make up.

I settled for an impartial nod.

The former friend walked down the bus, recognised my companion – who was pointedly peering out of the window – and went upstairs without a word.

The bus trundled down Woodstock Road, stopping at what is left of the old Radcliffe Infirmary.

Woman number two came downstairs, looked my companion fully in the face and, with a smile that would have done justice to a crocodile, said coldly: “Oh, hello. I hadn’t recognised you with your new hair colour.”

She departed without another glance. Ouch!

IT seemed discord was in the Oxford air. A group of 15 pensioners, on an outing from Didcot, were at the doors of Balliol College in Broad Street. There were divisions in the ranks.

“If we look around here and then the Sheldonian Theatre, we’ll spend less than if we go to the more expensive Christ Church. And they’re closer,” said the leader, a stout woman in vivid colours.

“Not again! We did that last time,” complained another.

“Anyhow, I want to go to Magdalen College. I told you that.”

A third said she was ready for her coffee and cake. She was ignored. Others joined in, prompting two of the few men in the party to slope off. They didn’t get far.

“Where are you going?” shouted madame leader.

“The pub,” replied the braver of the pair. “Fetch us when you’ve sorted it.”

I HAD intended to astound my family. I bought a new touch-screen, feather-light mobile phone to replace one so old the keypad could have had Roman numerals. They had taken years to persuade me to buy a basic model to leave in the car – just in case.

I lost it somewhere in Oxford, on its first outing. .

Now I must decide whether to admit carelessness, or to massage the truth. Either way I’m in for some unmerciful ragging.