I see him every morning in the park, watching intently as his pedigree Beagle shits in the flowerbed.
Dogs? Pet fucking dogs.
He stands upright and moans to other dog walkers about the state of the country, young people and insolence.
He wants to move on but the animal wants to stay and sniff, so they both block the path with their ridiculous retractable lead as he shouts the dogs name over and over and over again.
The voice of the old fashioned East End gent is inches from my hangover and fear. I tell him to get out of the way. He asks me who I’m talking to and I say you, and fucking that, jabbing my finger at the animal.
He spits with fury, the white hair and the brown winter coat. He’s foul mouthed, like me. The pet fucking dog has a go at me as the East End gent flicks the switch to let out yet more retractable lead.
So now I can’t walk through the park anymore through fear, it’s my own fault. I’m bored of it anyway, Lincoln’s inn fields. The ‘pleasant’ urban space for smug lawyers, personal trainers, tennis, tabloid newspapers, the middle classes and dog shit.