She has gone too far this time.
Having finally persuaded (I imagine there was much begging and wailing involved) Him to put a ring on Her hammy little mitts (that sadly taste nothing like actual ham – scandalous misrepresentation) and having harumpfed Herself off to India to offend the locals and fry herself on a beach (hands now taste nothing like bacon… most disappointing) She has returned with a pathetically earnest resolution to meditate every day, a disastrous collection of ethnic trousers and dropsy.
The meditation I shall thoroughly enjoy. While she sits cross legged on the floor I shall find my squeakiest toy and do a rendition of Orff’s Carmina Burana followed by some Tinchy Strider (because I hate to be a slave to a genre.) If that doesn’t put her off her ‘Om’ I shall sit by the front door with sad watery needy eyes (something I learned from Her when She is desperately trying to impress the other women in the park) and do my best ‘I need a poo’ whine (which is something I learned from Him).
The dropsy I made up but is a rumour I shall continue to spread.
But the trousers.
… The trousers.
Tie dye, ethnically embroidered, saggy assed, drop crotched goddamn hippy trousers.
Fine. Fine fine fine.
Fine - IF She only wore them in the house.
She has, however, been proudly parading them around the Parsons Green dog park, probably in the desperate hope that someone will ask Her where She got them and She can go ‘oh yah I got them in Goa actually’ (instead of ‘I spend my Saturday nights bidding on sad little bobbly sweat-stained second hand items on ebay’) and then all the Parsons Green-ites will go ‘Wow!’ and want to be her bezzie mates. They might even stop mocking her ham hands behind her back.
Now I have no problem with people and pooches mocking Her. None at all. Should be encouraged. Go on the National Curriculum or something. But… when we arrive at the dog park I am attached to Her by a lead. There is no disassociating myself from Her. There is no ‘no, no I’ve never met her, don’t know who she is mate… yeah, I know, trousers are bloody awful.’ She also refuses to let me off the lead around the corner so I can trot into the dog park independently. So, by association, it is me that is wearing the ethnic pants, it is me that is revelling in tie dye and it is me that has a trouser crotch that is swinging around my knees.
There is only one thing to do - create a diversion. Create a diversion of such epic proportion that no one will notice the hippy pants.
Fenton, I thank you.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmpONxJ7JSw
On our trip to Richmond Park today I am going to take a good run at some easily spooked particularly frisky looking deer. I am going to yap and yowl and speed after them and in the commotion everyone will forget about Her ill-advised clothing.
And if I become an internet sensation with a legion of adoring fans, an interview with that cheeky little Graham Norton and my own line in hair products… so be it.
I shall use a few quid of my earnings to buy her some new trousers.
And maybe some gloves.
