One never raises one's eyes when walking round the Little Scrubs. You can't, otherwise you fall into the pot holes in the track. Similarly, when crossing the grass, there's the added handicap of dog dirt and huge, cavernous pits that opened up mysteriously during the drought two years ago, and have never been filled in.
The dogs too are a hazard. There is the occasional poodle or pretty little bow-tied terrier, but the trend around these parts tends to be Staffordshire Bull Terriers and Mastiffs, with or without muzzles, but usually running free, smoking the odd roll-up. It's a walk on the wild side.
My companion Nel wasn't keen on walking tonight, but I dragged her as a prelude to inviting myself to supper after first promising not to fall into her flowerbeds again. It was deserted - always a worry, and in this case, surprising - not because of the lack of marauding dogs, clumps of local rude boys and tattooed thugs sitting with cans of special brew from which they let the let the Alsatians sip, or the chap in the electric wheelchair who zips round drinking lager, but because it was a lovely day.
There was one courting couple of about 13 smoking on a bench and one cross woman with a scruffy little terrier, jogging, but otherwise we didn't see another soul until half way through the first circuit when we ran into the inevitable drunk.
'Hello Mum,' he yelled - it's unclear to which one of us (I was hoping it was Nel - I mean, I'm old but not that ruddy old) as he then peered into my chest and said, 'You always look nice, don't you?' This from a drunk who I've never met before. It's the best compliment I've had in a while, but nevertheless the brisk walk became a trot to try and shake him off as we muttered something cheerily inoffensive and carried on our way.
'I don't get men,' Nel began as we started the second circuit after telling me about her cousin whose lover 'didn't want to waste her time' after he'd already wasted quite a lot of her time, most of it horizontal, saying there was 'no magic'. Who did he think he was going out with? Debbie McGee? A comment like that is always going to make you feel good about yourself after you've, literally, bared all. And now he sends her text messages telling her what he's doing with his new girlfriend. 'I mean who does they pursue you like you're a hare on a greyhound track and then when you think you might, just might go out with them, then suddenly they have a skin condition that doesn't let them go out in daylight, or after 400 text messages they tell you they are too gloomy to inflict their company on you, or when they do call you, they hang up to call their mother, like you're second last on the duty phone call.'
I nodded. I couldn't speak, we had picked up quite a pace and I was panting. And anyway it was Nel's turn - we do alternate days for our monologues by now and I knew that little beyond assent was required of me.
She was well into her stride, both on the despair and walking front, when half way through the second round we came across drunk man still standing where we left him, still holding his can of Red Stripe as though it were a microphone and he was going to give us a rendition of My Way.
Eyes down.
'Hello Mum,' he called again, the curls around his head sticking out like uneven bedsprings, smiling as if a blearily game show host, and seeming to have too many teeth in one side of his mouth, or several unchewed chicklets.
'Hmmo,' we said in unison, trying to make our feet move faster.
'I don't want a relationship,' he called after us, loudly.
'Good for you,' Nel said quietly.
'Nah, I don't want a commitment. I'm not into it, like. If I don't fancy a woman, then I don't fancy a woman, and that's that - end of story, man, I'm just not ready for a relationship.'
Deja bloody vu, I'm thinking.
'Righie oh,' Nel agreed.
'I mean, I've had women - I've had lots of women, but I've had enough at the moment. I don't want a relationship and that's that.'
No comment seemed necessary.
'I'm Moroccan. I love women, you know - I treasure a woman. When I'm into a woman I really take care of her, but this one - I just told her, look, I'm not into you, girl - I'm just not ready for a relationship - get over it right?'
'Right,' we say, our legs little cartoon blurs, but for an intoxicated nutter, he could sure walk fast.
'You're a nice girl, Mum. I know you're a mum. I can see you're a mum (how - he's drunk for God's sake - is it cos I's old?) I'm a dad. I got a 17 year old daughter, and I told her, I'm not into a relationship and I don't want to bloody marry her mum. Are you married, Mum?'
I'm confused with all these mums.
'Oh yes, definitely,' I agreed, hurriedly reinstating the ex, having to grudgingly allow that both Nel and I, merged into one large blurry, double visioned woman, did answer to the name Mum.
'Is he good to you. Does he love you. Does he hit you?'
'No!' I gasped, outraged. Darn it, he's got me sticking up for my imaginary husband.
'He's a wonderful man, very kind,' supplied Nel. I shot her a look. She's supposed to be on my side. She shrugged and mouthed 'humour him'.
'Nah, you should leave him, tell him to eff off, he's no good for you, Mum. You're better off on your own, love. I'm not married. Look at me. I'm not bothered.'
By now we were leaving the park and he was still trailing behind us, falling over his feet but managing somehow to keep upright, the can of Red Stripe hovering near his mouth like a wobbly puppet as though someone up above had his hand attached to a string.
'But I'm sorry, I'm just not into a relationship, not-into-it and don't bother trying to make me change my mind.'
We didn't.
'Have a nice night,' we said firmly, setting off for home and hoping desperately that he wouldn't follow us.
'I always do - I'm not married, see!' he said jubilantly.
Yep, I see. Even the ruddy drunks we meet in the park are commitment phobes.
