2002-08-21 - 3:38 p.m.

This morning I went book shopping in the sun and stepped on a dog. In my defence, it was a very small dog, around two or three inches high I�d say, and it had stepped out from behind a lamppost, no doubt fresh from doing its business. Plus, it sent me sprawling, so the physical discourtesy wasn�t all one way traffic. The dog didn�t seem too bothered after the initial shock, but the owner felt moved to complain on its behalf and yelled at me to �watch where I was going�. I wanted to tell her that she should watch where her �dog� was �going�, in every sense of the word, but the canine-loving whingestress actually looked quite scary, so I limited myself to a sullen �Sorry, I didn�t see it.� Well, this certainly seemed to put a vindictively vigorous cat amongst the unusually excitable pigeons. �IT is a HE, for YOUR information,� she shrieked. Of course! How ashamed I should be! Don�t I feel suitably admonished for not having examined the microscopic animal�s genital status as my face plunged ever downwards towards the cold, unforgiving concrete? Vocally, the woman was noticeably posh � the kind of posh person that treats their pets like their children, usually because their own offspring have grown up to equal Joseph Goebbels in the charisma stakes. The thing was, she looked like she�d spent the morning digging for scraps in industrial refuse. I mean, I know the gypsy look is in this summer, but I�d imagined that to mean buxom, olive-skinned Romany types, gadding about poppy fields in frilly white off-the-shoulder smocks, not haggard old crones who look like they�re going to hex your family for generations for not knowing the gender of their dog.

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