Charles Dodgson, I think I understand!

Our friendly neighbour, the one who'd moved his coat so we could sit down, was at the bar right behind me. "I'd get the ESB," he suggested to me, and once I'd checked with him that it wasn't a bitter, I got two pints and headed back to the table.

His companion was explaining to M. about the ties on the walls, something I hadn't thought to do when we first walked in. Within a few minutes, we were all chatting merrily, helped by M.'s comment that "we're not exactly shy", together with a reference to CouchSurfing, which we quickly explained. Within a couple of minutes, the conversation had turned to the question of where M. and I were from. M.'s revelation that she was from Norway drew gasps of surprise from our new friends.

"You're not Norwegian!" said the woman. M. and I exchanged glances and laughed - not half an hour before, we'd been talking about how M. gets told that all the time.

"That's not her natural hair colour," I pointed out.

We digressed with a discussion of what "natural" hair colour means, for "a given definition of natural" - hey, I'm not a lawyer with a working knowledge of maths for nothing!

"But no, you can't be from Norway!" Yes, indeed, M. is from Norway. As, it turned out, was the woman. We introduced ourselves. M. and E. exchanged some words in Norwegian, and M. demonstrated her ability to adopt any accent. They were from the same area, but didn't immediately establish any social connections in common.

Meanwhile, I explained that I was Australian, and a student here, that the pub is my local, but that I don't come all that often any more (to bolster my credibility, I did need to tell them which pub I more usually go to, and what ale I order - oh, so very English!). In return, I got a good local tip: I'm going to get a pass for Wytham Woods and head out there to check out the bluebells.

Also, the table in the corner (where our friends were sitting) is the only table in the pub that doesn't wobble.

I headed back to the bar to order our food, and as I got back, G. was returning from the gents.

"Oh, he's done it!" E. exclaimed. M. and I looked at each other.

G. sat down. "Have you told them?"

M. and I shrugged at each other.

They explained to us that the door to the gents had been squeaky for 10 years. G. had just oiled the hinges. It no longer squeaks.

By this stage of the conversation, we were not terribly surprised when they told us that, in fact, they are on a mission to oil the hinges of all the squeaky doors in Oxford. The only one left in the pub is the door from the bar into the kitchen - the hinges are on the public side, but they feel it would be a bit public to simply oil the hinges without some sort of cover, especially since there is a camera directly above the hinges.

I offered to supply them with a room full of students, including someone tall to stand with their head between the camera and the hinges.

I have no doubt I'll see them at the pub again in the future (unless, of course, they were figments of M.'s and my joint imaginations - a possibility, I suppose, but unlikely). So if we do end up joining forces in the great guerilla greasing of Oxford, I'll let you know.

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Yes, it's worthy of Lewis Carroll. No, I'm not making it up. However, I think I understand where good old Charles Dodgson got his inspiration!