WITH begging letters outnumbering other mail by nine missives to one, the appearance of two communications – one interested in my health, the other my wealth – were a welcome surprise.

The first didn’t mince words. Plaque build-up in arteries could lead to a stroke, an aneurysm and cardiovascular disease. Simple ultrasound screening could spot any problems. A screening had been reserved for me.

The second was from a company that rattles the cage of the Revenue to extract income tax relief on investments that “didn’t perform”. I do have some near-worthless shares, but had put this down to experience.

Returning to the offer of screening, it wasn’t until I turned over the letter that I realised this came at a price. One screening, lasting about 10 minutes, would cost £60. If I chose a ‘full house’ – four screenings to detect the above list of killer conditions – it would be £139.

Hadn’t I paid national insurance contributions for half a century, entitling me to such investigations? Was this creeping privatisation?

Turning to the second letter, I saw my surname had been incorrectly spelt throughout – this by a firm that claimed to have researched Companies House records to find little old me.

My attention returned to the mountain of begging letters.

I KNEW it wouldn’t take long, but even so, this week seemed a bit early to wish Christmas was over.

Waiting to hear the first cuckoo in spring is a ritual for some people. Listening for pre-Yuletide moaners is mine.

Wishing her time away was Carole, a Cowley wife, mother and grandmother. She was armed with a notebook bearing names of her brood and beyond. It was her first Christmas shopping day of the year and she was already “perplexed” (her word).

“It’s finding something for my lot that they haven’t got,” she said. “They never tell me what they’d like.”

She sighed a big sigh before uttering the fateful words: “I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.”

This was at 9.48am on Monday, November 14. Is it a record?

EARLIER in the day I had died and gone to heaven.

This isn’t the first time I’ve warbled on about the Old Schools Quad and the wonder of an atmosphere that is all too often shattered by heavy feet, clicking cameras and conversation – in spite of notices calling for silence.

That morning I was alone in the Quad, eyes closed enjoying its special peace, until...

“Isn’t this something?” bawled Mirella, a well-upholstered, middle-aged bottle blonde from Pittsburg. She handed over her camera, “ Take my picture, please,” she said.

It was then I knew I was still alive.