Today is a bright but unnaturally cold day. For various reasons I’ve been unable to do some of the things that I need to get done this morning so I decided to go for a stroll. Parks become alien places on a Sunday morning. Androgynous, lantern jawed joggers hurtle past like orbiting comets sponsored by the Nike corporation. Dog owners watch as their animals willfully molest, sniff and bark at each other. Woozy clubbers wearing beanie hats squint at you as they stumble home clutching badly rolled joints in their shaky hands.
I’d estimate that on average about 60% of the British public is in bed, suffering some sort of hangover on any given Sunday morning. That takes a lot of the ‘normal’ people out of the park equation, leaving me with my own private zoo of freaks and weirdos to people-watch. You have to be careful though. A solitary male strolling though a park on his own on a morning could himself be mistaken for a paedophile, drug dealer or mugger waiting for a victim (in the minds of the Daily Mail reading proletariat at least). Thats the problem with Sunday mornings – they turn everyone into an oddball.