Cold and windy Tuesday might have been, but it didn't stop visitors and local folk alike going about their lawful business.

Sarah Leach and Caroline Berry, late of the West End Regeneration Programme and now part of a team aimed at helping to regenerate a wider area, were seeking opinions on the new pedestrian wayfinding system (signposts to most of us) for the city. They were housed in a gazebo in Bonn Square, determined to take to the air like some irregular shaped hot air balloon. I did my bit for research and then persuaded a frozen-looking Sarah to descend the few steps to New Road Baptist Church where David Stevens and Linda Shelton were serving tea and coffee to saints and sinners alike.

David, the church’s warden, might wish there were official signs pointing out that the side doorway was not a lavatory, that the walls were not a canvass for the paint spray graffiti fraternity, and the stone pillars at the church doorway were not there to have chunks chipped away by those with nothing better to do.

While he lives in hope that offenders might see the error of their ways, Linda is more confident of success with the police decision to take DNA samples from stinking faeces that are left with almost daily regularity.

NOW for the unlawful. One minute Cornmarket Street buzzed its usual buzz. The next, chaps were waving banners and shouting: “Pretty girls for sale.”

Young women in make-do cages, wearing make-up and slinky black dresses, were looking pretty sad about it all.

Other people worked feverishly at a table, handing out literature, taking names and exchanging money. It was so realistic that I heard one woman giving organisers a dressing down for the stark manner in which they were presenting the problem of human trafficking.

I question if anything they attempt can be too stark.

A recent court case has shown our city is not free from such atrocities – if we ever thought it was. Oxcat, the group fighting the curse, was determined that no one should be left unaware of this problem on our doorstep. DI Simon Morton, who led the police investigation, was there to lend both verbal and moral support.

I left the scene for a few minutes. On my return the demonstration was over; everyone and everything had gone. The impact of this speedy departure was chilling – and darned effective.

LIFE can be confusing. That temporary shop in George Street, selling sweaters, T-shirts and other monogrammed goods, announces on a prominently placed poster that it is closing down – with up to 75 per cent off original prices.

Alongside it is another notice which read: “Latest season stock just arrived!!! (sic) See inside!!!” (further sic).