Each day, at precisely 3:30, a rather peculiar looking gentleman parks his slightly tawdry sports car outside my house, opens the back door and lets his dog out for a bit of a run around.
I don’t live in a particularly green and pleasant part of SW8, and I most certainly don’t live opposite Battersea Dogs Home. The pavement outside is part of the public highway, but unless the rather peculiar looking gentleman actually lives inside his car, then I presume so is the pavement outside of his property.
The pooch probably doesn’t get through more than half a tin of Pedigree Chum per day, and so we’re not talking a Turner and Hooch size mutt. But the tail wagger still squats and defecates in the great outdoors, which according to the rather peculiar looking gentleman, is deemed to be right outside my front door.
Each day at precisely 5:45, a rather lard arse lady parks her old banger outside my house, pauses to eat the final doughnut out of her daily pack of five Krispy Kreme’s, and then waddles away for the evening, leaving her old banger looking a bit of an eyesore outside my property until the morning.
I don’t live in a particularly green and pleasant part of SW8, and I most certainly don’t live inside an NCP car park. The road outside is part of the public highway, but unless the lard arse lady actually lives inside a Krispy Kreme doughnut factory, then I presume so is the public highway outside her house.
The lard arse lady has a parking permit for the local area, even though her actual home is a ten minute waddle away (I once followed her to find out where she was heading with her oversized shopping bag stuffed full of junk food. It was the slowest walk I have undertaken since I mistook the sandpaper for toilet paper following a midnight trip to the toilet.)
It’s true that I’m sounding like a Sunny Stockwell version of Victor Meldrew, but I can’t see why the rather peculiar looking dog walker, or the lard arse lady, can’t go about their business somewhere slightly closer to home. Their home.
How would they like it if I carried out advanced Moulton mechanics outside their front gate? Or maybe if I harvested the compost from my wormery whilst sitting on their front doorstep? Or perhaps even parking up my deckchair to top up my tan on the public pavement within direct view of their front window?
There are enough nutters around here as it is. We don’t need a rather peculiar looking gentleman, or a lard arse lady lowering the tone of the area. That’s what the weirdo with his bike mechanics and sun tan obsession is here for.
For the time being, anyway.