THERE’S no-one else to blame. I’d known Winston long enough to guess he was up to something. A week or so ago, leaving sisters Sarah and Gita at Inner Peace, the Broad Street arm of the Brahma Kumaris, and a spot sure to provide sunshine even on the dullest of days, I heard Winston’s thunderous voice.

This permanently joyful father-of-five had inherited his West Indian grandad’s skill of raising the dead with just one syllable. And there’s no doubt the words ‘bald, old sinner’ were aimed at me.

After a predictable rib-cracking hug, he went on to talk books, something new for him. He wanted to acquire something special for an uncle whom he described as a ‘fine, cultured gentleman’. Where could he find a tome to fit the bill.

“You’re in Broad Street. Good Lord, if you can’t find something here, you’ve got problems,” I said. “What about Blackwell’s?” “Where’s that?” he asked with convincing innocence.

It was across the road, where designer wrap, depicting book-crammed shelves, was covering scaffolding, I replied, amazed he was unaware of this world-famous shop.

His face lit up before delivering his punch line. “You should never judge a bookshop by its covers,” he said, roaring with laughter and subjecting me to another hug. Yes, I walked into that one.

THE pavement outside the village newsagents is normally a zone free from premium-grade canvassing by national companies. After all, the footfall – as statisticians describe it – is considerably less than say Cornmarket Street, Oxford, or Castle Quay, Banbury.

So to find four cheerful young women, in their late teens or early 20s, lined up and ready to pounce was a surprise. Who was my current internet provider, asked the small blonde? “BT.” said I.

Heads shook and the brunette with lashes long enough to paint a garden fence, cast her eyes heavenwards.

Had I considered a change? “No,” said I.

This was the signal to turn on four-cylinder power-selling, nothing sinister, but designed to bring results.

I resisted the siren calls, although I did succumb into allowing someone to phone me in the near future. It seemed the least I could do.

'MANAGER WANTED’ announced a notice at the Bubble Feet stand in the Clarendon Centre. This is where tiny fish nibble at less attractive parts of customers’ feet that dangle sock-less in glass tanks.

“I wonder what happened to the last manager,” mused a parcel-heavy woman shopper.

“The fish ate her,” said a straight-faced tattoo-covered youth.