GOLDEN PARK EVENING

It’s a golden evening out here in the park . I’ve just been strolling in the warm sun, feeling very much in need of a Friday.  

Now I’m sitting on a bench, sun behind me, green trees blustering in front.

A man with a Saint Bernard stopped for a chat with another dog walker. The two dogs played while they talked.

“Yeah we’ve got a bigger one at home actually. He’s an old English mastiff; weighs 120 kilos and he’s basically a donkey.”

I was trying to imagine what kind of house he had that accommodated two enormous dogs. I can’t imagine what would happen if a dog that size leapt up for a cuddle, or jumped on the bed. Thunder up the staircase, howling like a megaphone, back-breaking to walk, and almost impossible to squeeze into your car. Like packing a gigantic sleeping bag that constantly wants to jump up and lick you.

At least there’d be brandy, I suppose.

Another guy goes by. He’s clutching a carrier bag and chatting loudly on the phone.

“Yeah but me knowing what I know now; it’d be far worse in seven years’ time, you know what I’m saying. Far worse. FAR far worse.”

Who knows what that’s about. There might not be anyone on the other end I guess, he might just be using his wireless headphones to talk to himself. Seems he has one of those voices that carries anyway; I can still hear him from five hundred metres away.

A couple with a border collie are next. He wears shorts, a light blue t-shirt and white trainers. She’s in dark leggings and a flowing white cardigan. The dog bounds over to me, a red tennis ball in its mouth.

That’s more like it. I could see myself throwing a ball around for a collie. The collie can see that too. She drops the ball and it rolls over to nudge into my trainers. I’ve played this game before. Not today though. Her owners call her across the park. I look at the dog then make a bemused face at them as though I don’t know what to do.

Eventually of course, the dog gets bored and bolts across the grass with impressive speed.

I’m kind of glad I don’t know anything about seven years from now. A dad and two boys push their bikes up the hill. They all look quite exhausted. Seven years from now I expect they’d all like to be back here in moments like these. That’s how nostalgia works I suppose; you don’t know you’re in the good times until you see them in the rear view mirror.

Anyway. Sammy’s coming out to walk with me in a minute. She’s back from work and ready for fresh air. The shadows are a bit longer now, but it’s still warm. I’m going to switch off and listen to the trees for a bit.