RE-charging points for electric cars at park-and-ride sites is a good idea. What could be better for drivers of eco-friendly cars than to park up and hook up before heading into the city?

There is such a point at the Pear Tree site but I’ve never seen it used nor had anyone I asked.

This is possibly because (a) there is no notice explaining the point’s existence, and (b) no designated bays, marked to be kept clear. The point is only yards from the bus stop so adjacent spaces are a favourite spot.

To date it might seem these power points (I assume there are similar ones at other park-and-ride sites) are a waste of taxpayers’ money.

County Hall can have ‘green’ brownie points for installing them, but ‘nil points’ as they say on the Eurovision Song Contest, for communication.

IT was hardly The Ivy, that West End restaurant for the great and not always good, but an unoccupied market stall in Gloucester Green and a folding seat offered by the smiling Nepalese man in the momo van was a perfect place to tuck into a generous portion of fried rice and meat and watch the world go by.

The rain was torrential, but I was sheltered, as were the young German woman, the doll-like girl from Japan and the tall South Korean man, in Oxford to improve their English.

They were eating oriental momos – the nearest thing to what we call dumplings. We chatted happily as we ate and talked about our favourite dishes.

Eventually we finished, binned the polystyrene boxes and parted.

“What did you talk about?” asked a market regular whom I have met several times and who had been watching us. He scoffed at the answer. Surely food was a boring subject.

I asked him to consider what we usually discussed.

He thought for a few seconds before conceding that weather was invariably our sole subject and as the lashing rain told its own story, momos seemed a fair topic.

IT was a ridiculous question; all I did was ask the obvious and succeeded in feeding the perfect line for his joke of the moment.

“I see you’ve got a bag for life,” I said to the corpulent former Cowley worker, pointing to the jute bag he was holding. We were considering leaving the Clarendon Centre for the wind and rain in Cornmarket Street. His face lit up.

“Yes, and we’ve been married 51 years,” he replied, gesturing theatrically to the small woman with the long-suffering expression.

I apologised to her, but she held up the hand that wasn’t holding a matching jute bag.

“Not as sorry as he’ll be if he comes out with that line just once more,” she said, giving him a glare before pushing him through the door and into the street.

She opened her umbrella and – strange as it may seem – there was no room for him beneath it.