In the line of my desk’s vision is a florist’s shop. Run by a mother and her daughter. Both as round as apples. Sweet and lovely. Wish I could give them more business. Can’t, currently, afford to buy myself flowers.
They have a dog. It’s not small. Neither is it big. It’s ugly. The street has – most painfully and as slowly as only the English can – been pedestrianized in the last many months. So whilst the big wigs who give a shit over a parking fine which makes no dent in their restaurant bill will park where they shouldn’t the dog is now out there. Not that we have much sun but whenever I see that dog outside the florist’s shop, on the freshly laid pavement, that saying about “Mad dogs and Englishmen in the midday sun” springs to mind. Kittens chase their own tail. But then cats make do with whatever moving comes their way. That dog runs around in circles. Incessantly. If he were a human they’d carted him off to a lunatic asylum a long time ago.