I generally avoid buses. I find there are too many variables in time, place and bus and am worried that I’ll end up in some far-flung suburb next to a deserted factory with the bus disappearing in the distance and night coming on (yup, that’s exactly what happened). Safer to go by train, taxi or walk.

 Sally however has no such fears, so when we decided to go to Cherwell for a spot of punting she strode off toward a bus stop with me flapping in her wake. Jumping on a red double-decker bus she asked the driver if he was going there – he said he wasn’t – but another lady said he was, and another passenger said it could be done if we got off at the right stop (see what I mean).

 In the end a committee was formed as we drove to discuss our proposed trip, the two passengers, us with the bus driver interjecting from the front. Finally discussion was settled by the bus driver who halted off one stop too early saying we’d have a nice walk through the park to the boathouse. The other committee members agreed it might work, and anyway he’d stopped the bus, so we had to go – perhaps to the driver’s relief.

 As we drove up Banbury road the committee discussed the weather (it was Britain after all). We all decided that the present generation of Brits are basically weather wimps, and the recent freeze all over Europe was nothing compared to the winter of 1962.

All this mightily entertained of the rest of the passengers, who, being British, never look at each other on a bus let alone speak unless it’s in whispers about life-or-death matters.

 The Brits are a funny bunch.