It is with some trepidation that one steps out of one’s front door each morning. Not because I am an agoraphobe. Quite the opposite; I love angora, although I will admit to a small degree of worry at the difficulty of escaping one’s favourite polo neck after a particularly voluminous blow dry. But that’s not what I’m talking about today my darlings.
No, I am talking about the risk that one takes with every step trodden through my delightful village of Millthwaite. I am talking of course of the plight of the dog poo.
When did it become socially acceptable for dog owners to allow their creatures to poo freely and frequently (at intervals of 2 metres so you’re never far from a deposit) along the pavements and roads of my beautiful village? I must have missed the soiree at which that popular vote was decided; though I do sometimes suspect that my name may be missed off the invitation list for a social occasion.
Am I alone in wanting to swoon at the sight of so hideous a thing? Although of course, a swoon would be quite a calamity in itself! Why, I would just recover from my swoon, find the hideous thing had transferred itself to my fur coat and swoon all over again. Truly, I would be incapacitated for hours and not in the lovely warm way that one is after a couple of cheeky sherries.
Only recently, I was faced with a terrible dilemma when walking on the black ice that plagued us briefly, but hazardously, this winter. The dangers posed by the ice meant I was rather inclined to cling on to the wall for dear life on the downhill stretches so as not to end up on one’s behind with tears in one’s eyes and quite unattractive bruising. But I was faced with a difficult choice between slipping on the ice and slipping on the poo. I chose the ice, incidentally, and the bruising lasted several weeks.
And the challenge one faces when walking on the playing fields, alone, at night, has to be seen to be believed. (I was meeting a friend my darlings, we play this jolly game where we … well never mind that now you’re trying to deter me from my point you naughties). Are we to expect our children, the future of our dear village, to frolic spiritedly and safely in these environs? No wonder they grow to be such Sweary Marys, they may well have a point when they declare everything to be “shit”.
I own wellies*, of course I do, but, quite frankly, one doesn’t pay £90 for Hunter wellies to get them dirty and it is a horrid task for Henry to rinse the poo off when I return to the homestead; poor old chap. (*Fun fact: auto correct changes wellies to willies! Oh the mirth that caused me! I don’t own willies, you sillies, not anymore).
I suppose the question must be: what can be done to stop this plague of poo. There are dedicated poo bins located at convenient points and little signs depicting how to put the poo in the bin in case written instructions, or common sense, vex you. There are villagers like me who are putting the reprimand “tut tut” to great use and pointing at the aforementioned signs in a helpful manner. But the poo remains un-binned and I’ve heard tell that you cannot polish it. So we are stuck with it, it seems.
I shall continue to ponder solutions ahead of the next village soiree. Perhaps larger signs are needed, or some form of taser … All suggestions shall be gratefully received my darlings, answers on a postcard and all that!