In the book I joke about renaming our marvellous Winchmore meadows from: GROVELANDS PARK to: DOGSHIT PARK. Where our bourgeoisie go on parade openly exhibiting superior position. ‘Do you know how much my house is worth? and what about my pension!’ With their stupid bloody dogs. To reinforce Pete Bloxham’s line on the imperious English: ‘Address their dogs like people and people like dogs.’ Rimbaud called them, les assayers – the sitters – for their smug, fat-arsed, flatulent fawnings. In ranks of retired insurance salesmen, real estate agents, accountants, bankers, hedge fund managers. I once watched one such balance his cigar on a ‘NO GOLFING’ sign as he shuffled his loafers and drove a golf ball over a playground into the lake, his snarling rottweiler slavering, gambolling after the divot.

  One day passing a Spanish or something merrily mob – laughing children clambering close on a sunlit bench – I said to the mother, “Be very careful around that seat.”
And she sniffed, Brexity, “Mind your own business.”
So, I said, “Lady, I’ve seen thirty dogs pissing on the place where your kids are eating their salami sandwiches. I wouldn’t let my grandchildren go within a metre of any public furniture in this park.”
She pretended to ignore me but when I strolled by half an hour later they were sitting on the grass, centre middle.

  Last October noon all blue and gold through shady paths as a falling Autumn acorn bounced upon my head. Made me feel a bit like Chicken Licken with his petticoat panic while I’d rather be labelled a Foxy Loxy, or Mr Toad, or Gladstone Gander... one of those craftier cartoon critters... always gets away with every misdeed.

  Another time meandering lazily lakeside saw a family of chattering Polish people gleefully throwing bread to the ducks. I stopped and enquired, “Can you read English?”
One woman replied, all stiff resenting this xenophobic racist all in her face, “YES I can.”
And I responded, “Well read that then.” And pointed to the notice stood in their midst that said in bold headline: PLEASE DO NOT FEED BREAD TO THE BIRDS. And went on my way.

  Approaching a twitcher, binoculars aimed at a snoozing kingfisher, matey whispered, all informal, “I saw a grebe around the corner.”
He replied, “Was it a Great Crested Grebe?”
And I said, “Sorry, didn’t ask his Christian names.”

  Watching a bossy black-headed gull daring to bully a dozing heron. The heron all snug and tucked in cosy as the gull wheeled round to renew his attack. At which point the heron, now pissed right off, stands up straight with wings outstretched and huge sharp bill open slashing lets out a screech like a Beowulf banshee has the seagull squawking tumbling awry scrambles back. Slinks off stunned to sit with his buddies who look over nodding, as if to say: Well… we tried to tell you… but you just wouldn’t listen… Mr Cleverdick…

  Seems the more conceited the title bestowed the louder an owner calls his dog. Yesterday I heard ZOLA and REUBENS intoned across the park. Whatever happened to ROVER and SPOT? Names that suit a stupid mutt.

  What have our middle classes got against plants? Every time I leave the house in any direction there's another lot gone – from a full flowered garden to a concrete covered, grill-gated yard callously crammed with angry SUVs. They've stuck metal tabs on every tree down the local park. Some arsehole with a ginger beard, pink rimmed glasses and purple skinny jeans in a high-viz vest and safety helmet (I swear the one I saw had an erection) filming on his iPhone while loading hard stats into a beeping laptop CAD program. The council came and felled a third a few weeks later. I’m not so bothered about costs or corruption – you know they’re all at it – it's the libertarian hip spin-doctors bollocking on about pissing PROGRESS. That gets my goat!

   Constitutional taken. Crocuses peeking, daffodils peering, cherry blossoms popping, blue tits peeping. Will soon be Spring. Recently saw a cult-followed movie entitled, 'Stevie' – had Glenda Jackson exiting Southgate station then walking around my personal park – the very same one – there to depict your suburban doldrums. Looked pretty good in the leisurely seventies – open, unruly, bristling bushy, left to itself. The fields now covered in dogshit and piss; copses cleared; thickets trimmed; rustic rambling tracks renovated with faux bois fencing, plastic signage and barbed-wired walks. Just like our globalised, corporate world.