THE ginger-haired girl leapt from the bus as if shot from a cannon. I say ‘ginger-haired’ so not to confuse the colour with the latest craze of red-with-a-vengeance.

She sailed through the air, missing by inches pedestrians making their lawful way up and down Oxford’s High Street. Any protests were drowned out by the Wimbledon-like shrieks of the airborne girl and the small gaggle of friends awaiting her arrival.

I assumed they were all about 16 years old and were there to celebrate, but this couldn’t begin until all air-kisses were exchanged. They had met for the birthday of one of their number who was already festooned with paper banners and clutching several gifts and cards.

As one of the banners bore the number 16, there was nothing scientific out my assumption.

‘Ginger-hair’ handed over a card and a sparkling gift bag containing heaven knows what and more air kisses followed.

Feeling it was now safe to proceed (no more flying females had emerged from the bus) I passed the group, wishing the centre of all attention a happy birthday.

She looked surprised and thanked me warmly.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” she asked wide-eyed. The group fell silent for what seemed an age.

Eventually a tall girl spoke up. “Please excuse her,” she said. “She’s a blonde.”

Now I couldn’t possibly have said that...

A COUPLE of days earlier I was in another High Street – the one in Banbury. It was Armed Forces Day. Old servicemen and women were sporting their medals while Territorials and cadets of all three services mustered for the march past.

Various services charities had stalls and were competing for every available penny for their cause.

Help for Heroes, the newest of the charities, one that has raised many millions in its first couple of years, was there and represented by two stalls, one larger than the other.

The smaller was being run by an elderly white-haired woman while her husband looked on.

She was Dorothy Westcott from Little Bourton, a village that scrapes into Oxfordshire by the narrowest of margins.

How had she become involved?

Her grandson Ross was in the Grenadier Guards and 18 months ago he was sent to Afghanistan.

“I was worried, I shed some tears but thought this was pointless. It would make more sense to put effort into fund raising. Keith, my husband, agreed,” she said.

How much had she raised?

“About £19,000,” she replied.

“And before you ask, I’m 80, and Keith is 83.”

Super Gran, or what?