THE Jubilee, the Olympics, the Paralympics and the birth of my seventh grandson apart, 2012 has so far been a terrible year.

Countless murder, needless deaths and inexplicable cruelty – all too often involving children - hog the headlines.

The death of a much-loved elderly relative – Eileen was 92 - was another tragic incident. As I made my way north for the funeral, we gathered outside the church, faces from the past arriving steadily.

Mine is a reliable memory, but it fell short of recognising the diminutive woman called Iris who claimed she had known me since infants school.

It would be nice to keep in touch. Could she have my address and phone number?

My notebook and pen were in the car, but I had ‘business’ cards acquired after buying a vintage card holder from a Helen and Douglas House shop. It seemed the thing to do.

The only down side was that the cards, designed with laughter in mind, had a picture of me at an amateur music hall dressed as an elderly cleric, spectacles on the end of nose, and hands clasped as in prayer.

She thought the card was a hoot and before I could stop her, it was handed around.

Several minutes later we were called into church. Waiting was a long-retired clergyman who had been recalled to conduct the service as the village was vicar-less.

He stood – grim-faced, glasses on end of nose, hands clasped in prayer. When he spoke, ill-fitting false teeth clattered, making it difficult to follow what was said.

Some of the mourners who had seen my card, looked over and smiled, while others stifled laughter. One had a bout of coughing.

When we spotted a mutual great aunt, constantly elegant, eternally ‘proper’, emerging from the lavatory, her calf-length skirt caught in her ‘passion killer’ bloomers.

Well, that’s my excuse when I’m called upon to explain to ‘a higher authority’.

Back in the relative safety of Oxford, St Giles’ Fair was heaving on sunny Tuesday morning. Children were enjoying their last day of school holidays. Cafés were doing excellent business as some grandparents relaxed while their grandchildren explored.

Sitting at the next table in Broad Street was a man who had given his two early teenage charges £5 to ‘go and enjoy themselves’.

They returned inside 10 minutes, the money spent on one ride each. “B***** h***!” he exclaimed.

So what’s new? I recall writing an article for the Oxford Mail in the late 1960s, complaining at the costs at Thame Fair and how quickly £1 could be squandered on 10 rides.