Moment of glory

The Oxfordshire village to which Mrs Oakley and I have moved is possibly the friendliest place in the world. But even harmonious communities can have their little tensions. Last week we learnt of a local lady who was affronted by the number of dog poos deposited on her front lawn by a neighbour’s terrier. She collected a number of examples, wrapped each carefully in foil and took a trayload of the packages round to the offending owner, thrusting it into her hands when she opened her door with the insistence: ‘ These are yours.’ You would certainly have to call that direct action. I did feel, however, that she pushed her luck somewhat in going back two days later and asking for her tray back.

Pushing his luck, too, was a young bloodstock agent at the sales. Spotting a leading industrialist there buying horses with his trainer he went up to him and said, ‘Sir Peter.