Pass the hummus, Colin.

She has ruined me.

My reputation is in more tatters than that mid-80s suede fringed jacket that haunts Her wardrobe (and my dreams).

In the park on Saturday the Pekingese twins squealed and hid behind their owner’s legs when I flounced past, Dave the Pug’s asthmatic breathing rasped from the bush he was hiding in and even the slack-jawed Boxer Jax who spends most of his days air humping and lonely tried to hide behind the tree he was ‘befriending’.

I, bien sur, trotted through with my perfectly formed head held high, enjoying the jaunty way my ears were bouncing. I was convinced that Her new day-glow self-tan made the pooches think that Donatella Versace had been released from wherever it was they kept her and was running amok in SW London looking for pelts, vodka or friends or something.

It wasn’t until we got home that I realised what the issue was.

I was happily admiring the reflection of my visage in the fridge door, turning my head this way and that while congratulating myself on the way I had seamlessly been dropping French words into conversation when She swung the door open and reached for the almond milk.

Pardon?

Where is my Organic Dutchy Waitrose-bought semi skimmed?

Where is my imported Greek yogurt with honey?

WHERE IS MY FARMERS MARKET BOUGHT RIPENED BRIE??!

...Apparently word had gotten about the park that our family had turned vegan.

Now, She & He had been toying with vegetarianism for some time. The house is full of Linda McCartney sausages and quinoa and my ‘Beefy Chunk’ dinner was changed to ‘Fish for Dog’s because, in Her addled mind, fish didn’t ‘feel’ as much cows (I’d have pointed out that she’s never actually asked a fish about this but was worried I’d be eating hummus for the next decade.)

Vegetarian … fine. I mean, practically EVERYONE lives on quinoa these days but… vegan?!?

I poured out my troubles to my old confidante Charlie Spaniel on my next river stroll and he pointed out that A. It’s probably just a fad and B. Like Russell & Bromley loafers, something like this only highlights someone’s middle-classedness.

Magnifique! Charlie was right! How more Fulham could one get than fad like veganism? Daddy I want to play tennis - daddy I hate tennis I want a pony - daddy I hate the stupid pony I want to go to Verbier to ski - daddy I HATE Verbier I want to be a vegan…

I will merely look at it as a sign that we are an upwardly mobile family and I will finally get my PA Joanna and my butler called Colin.

“Colin darling, pass the hummus… While pottering around the terrace I think I’ve just discovered a new source of plant-based nutrition – wunderbar!”

(I am tri-lingual.)

Fenton, my man, I thank you!

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.

¿dónde está la playa

It is the Easter holidays.

During this period I will not come when I am called.

I will sit on the other side of the park and stare at Her.

She can make her voice as high pitched and exciting as She wants.

I will not buckle. I will not bend. I will not come.

Stuff Her.

Stuff Her and Her low grade supermarket treats.

Stuff Her and Her embarrassing footwear choices.

Stuff Her and Her sports sunglasses on a Thursday morning stroll… are you doing sport right now? Are you?!

And most importantly STUFF HER for taking me to the banks of the Thames and claiming it as my holiday.

Bailey the Poodle with digestive problems has gone to France where digestive problems are celebrated with Gauloises and brie (I’ve heard everything is celebrated with Gauloises and brie – possibly accounting for the digestive problems.)

Chocolate Lab Coco is off to Australia for a whole year with her family to ‘travel.’ Apparently she’s finally going to have time to write her novel. (I put money on her coming home in 6 months with an ethnic tattoo and puppies.)

And finally, Charlie Spaniel is going to Lanzarote.

 I snorted when I he told me and asked if he had packed his Union Jack collar but apparently Lanzarote is where David Cameron and Sam Cam are going this Easter and it’s actually visually stunning and culturally rich…

BUGGER

‘Wow you must be excited’! I chirped sweetly

‘Ya, ya, actually we’re having dinner with Big Dave and Sammy on the Friday.’

‘Oh… Oh wow… ah… you know The Cams don’t have a dog, right?’

‘Ya, they have a cat, um, Larry I think he is, not coming though, not a good flier.’

‘Yeah yeah I’d heard that. … But, um, you know why they don’t have a dog?’

‘Because of Larry yeah? Ole Lazza.’

‘Yeeeeaaaahhhhh…’

‘What?.... ‘

‘Nothing…’

‘WHAT?’

‘Well you know they eat dogs yeah?’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, the Camerons. Dog munchers. Both of them.’

‘What… seriously?’

‘S’why the Obamas never bring Bo to visit. Can’t trust Dave with him’

‘Seriously!?’

‘Yeeeah. Sam Cam is big into puppy ears too. Good for dipping’

‘Oh my… I have…. But I have huge lovely spaniel ears’

‘Yup, yup you do…. ‘

‘Oh oh oh wow… I should buy a hat or or or something’

…‘Yeah, that’ll help….’

And off I trotted.

OK so I could have just said ‘bon voyage’ and styled out my holiday on the Thames riverbed as a ‘staycation’ but firstly staycationing is so 2012 and secondly, well hey, it wouldn’t have been as much fun.