Of course, now I’m obsessed with Harriet, the pretty youth worker with the broken bicycle that Audrey and I met the other day.
We spied her again yesterday evening. Once more, she was in the park (I went that way with the hopeful intent of bumping into her) with a small group of teenage girls.
This time she was sitting on one of the children’s swings over by the daffodil beds and was laughing uncontrollably – probably at some outrageous or obtuse comment that one of her young charges had made. She looked beautiful.
‘Why don’t we wander over that way, Audrey? Towards the swings.’ I suggested to my little companion.
She pulled on her lead and looked at me with her big, knowing brown eyes as if to say: ‘Don’t you think you are making it a little obvious, father?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I whispered. ‘What do you know? You’re only a dog.’
We began to stroll over as nonchalantly as Audrey would allow. I had resolved to say hello to Harriet and to mention to her the inclement weather, and to then ask her out on a date.
However, as we drew near, a man dressed only in Nike shorts and a white singlet appeared from the direction of the car park on Portland Street and jogged breezily towards her. He was covered in tattoos, had lovely thick blond hair and a gloriously low forehead. ‘Oh, I say, I rather fancy that fellow could knock me down just by looking at me, Audrey,’ I sighed. We took a sudden and acute right-angled turn and headed for the bowling green on the other side of the park.
Why, oh why, are exquisitely beautiful and intelligent women attracted to rough northern types of men?
Well, I’m one of those!
So, come all ye posh birds, come and get a piece of rough stuff. (Hairy dog included.)
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