Have you ever felt there was an accident just waiting to happen? Nothing specific, just an accident?

The feeling manifested itself shortly after 11am on Tuesday morning when a man, late 30s or early 40s and clad in running kit, would appear to have believed his recordable time between the Martyrs’ Memorial and Carfax was more important than avoiding a moving double-decker heading from Broad Street and bound for George Street.

Mercifully the driver was not out to break any speed records and he missed the runner by inches – and I mean inches.

“Idiot!” an off-duty bus driver commented.

“Lucky idiot!” I added.

In New Inn Hall Street a scruffy cyclist felt it unnecessary to hold his handlebars as he rode between an elderly couple inadvisedly walking down the centre of the road.

His rude gesture in reply to their protest and an arrogant glance over his shoulder were nearly his downfall as a car emerged from Shoe Lane.

The motorist was on the ball – as well as on the mark with his string of fruity epithets delivered through a speedily opened window.

The disturbing feeling lingered and I was warily surprised nothing had happened as I did a spot of mid-evening shopping in a sparsely populated Morrison’s Banbury store.

Indeed I was musing on this matter when the woman on a mobility scooter rounded into the foreign foods aisle at surprising speed and delivered a blow to my lower abdomen with a well-filled, front-mounted basket.

Her apology was sincere and my acceptance equally so. But, oh, the injustice of it!

YOU’D think that with money being tight, charity shops would be raking it in. But it doesn’t appear to be the case.

When you stop to think, it’s hardly surprising.

Donations are down.

As a result charities are having to turn to new goods suppliers to stock their shelves and these cost money, their selling price often matching that demanded by ‘normal’ retailers.

How come I’m so full of all this fiscal info? I had the grace to blush for my ignorance when put right by a city centre charity shop manager after asking why she was selling ‘rather expensive stuff’.

Now I’m sorting out those clothes kept in the forlorn hope that one day they might again adorn my once sylph-like figure.

Care to join in?