âWonderful, isnât it?â says Sid. We have just come out of The Highwayman and he is gazing across the rolling expanse of couples trying to have it off in the middle of Clapham Common.
âThe first bit of sun always brings them out,â I say.
âWhat are you on about?â says Sid, irritably. âI was referring to spring unfurling her mantle of green, not that bloke tucking his shirt down the front of that birdâs skirt. I donât know how they have the gall to carry on like that in front of everyone. That geezer with the brown demob suit and a pork pie hat ought to get amongst them with his sharpened stick.â
âThe game warden?â I say. âHeâs too busy stopping people stoning the crocuses. Anyway, whatâs got into you, Sid? They used to have to send a bloke round after you with a bucket of sand to fill in the dents. Youâre the last person to start casting asparagus.â
But Sid is not listening to me. He is still under the spell of spring and four pints of mild and bitter. âJust grab a niff of that breeze,â he drools. âYouâd never think that had to blow over Clapham Junction to get here, would you?â
âTo say nothing of ducking round Battersea Power Station,â I agree with him. âYes, Sid, itâs a rare treat for the hooter, even after what youâve just done.â
Sid takes a few brisk steps towards the pond where the middle-aged wankers crash their model boats into each other, and throws his arms wide. âNot just the hooter,â he says. âAll the senses rejoice. Look at the little buds on that chestnut tree. Each one glistening under its coating of sooty smog. Thatâs nature in blooming riot. Will our children ever see anything like this? Thatâs what I ask myself.â
âI hope not,â I say, ripping my eyes away from the bloke who is clearly connected by more than mental ties to his lady love. âThey donât care, some of them, do they?â
âAll over the grass,â says Sid in disgust. âI donât know how they can bring themselves to do it. Youâd think theyâd just want to lie back and clock nature weaving her magic spell, wouldnât you?â
âSurely thatâs what gets them going,â I say. âI mean, look at that pigeon up there. Heâs not playing leapfrog with the other one. Thatâs nature saying âget at it!ââ
âPigeons are always like that,â says Sid distastefully. âYou remember what they did to the seat of my bike? I only left it outside Reg Perkinsâ loft for a couple of minutes, too.â
âYes, very embarrassing,â I say. âIncidentally, the loose cover has just come back from the cleaners. I think Mum was hoping you might cough up a bit towards the bill.â
âWhat about my trousers?â says Sid. âItâs not my fault Reg Perkins canât house-train his bleeding pigeons. She ought to get on to him about it!â
âJust a thought, Sid,â I say, deciding quickly that there is little chance of making headway in that direction. âCertainly is a lovely day.â
âDefinitely!â Sid takes a deep breath and winces. âWhen itâs like this you couldnât consider living anywhere else, could you?â
âEr â yes,â I say. Sidâs words sound a bit strange coming from a bloke who was quite happy bumming round the Mediterranean on SS Tern until an American admiral tried to run him down with his ship â he was unhappy because he had just seen Sid boarding another vessel with his wife and a couple of camels. (See Confessions from a Luxury Liner for surprising details.)
âFinest country in the world,â waxes Sid. âDonât ever let anyone else tell you different. We may have our problems but when the sun is shining â shit! Canât people control their animals? Bleeding notices everywhere and nobody takes a dicky bird. The only way theyâd do any good is if you put them low enough to scrape your foot on. Iâd like to see some geezerâs horrible hound doing his business on the public thoroughfare. Iâd follow him home and drop one in his front garden.â
âHighly sophisticated, Sid,â I venture. âI hate to think what kind of aggro that could spark off. What do you fancy doing now? We could mosey down and collect our sausage.â (Sausage roll: dole = National Assistance).
âNah,â says Sid, finishing scraping his shoe and dropping the stick into the bin reserved for icecream wrappers. âItâs always a bit crowded after the boozers have shut. Letâs leave it to thin out. I hate to look as if I need the money.â