Hello world

Well, this is just what the doctor ordered, isn’t it? Another shrieking twit filling the blogosphere with unsolicited, inconsequential tripe.
Ah, well.‘Tis a mere drop in a groaning, vast online ocean of similarly moronic outpourings, and so I shall proceed.
To remain in keeping with that fine British tradition of breaking the ice with a good old moan about subjects of universal repugnance, I’m going to start with one of my very own pet hates. Literally.
I’m talking shit here (and not for the first time, many might be tempted to interject, ho ho). Specifically, dog shit.
And so with metaphorical ice pick at the ready, and only a sleepy spaniel, a warm mug of tea, the nihilistic drawl of Thurston Moore, and the plate-glass clatter of a million kamikaze raindrops for company, here goes nothin’…

Shit happens. Neither you or I need the tenets of Scientology, or any other major religion to point this out, we just knows it. But a strange thing happens at this time of the year, and, as a result, those of us in the business of dog walking for pleasure or profit invariably end up in the business of a dog, as it were. The strange thing in question is the advent of autumn.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not attempting to blame that most ephemeral and, arguably, most beautiful of the four seasons itself for any aforementioned scatological mishaps. No way. I am easily autumn’s number one fan, and as a long-suffering victim of my immune system’s martyrdom to pollen, I begin to keenly anticipate its arrival any time after April. You couldn’t begin to imagine the sheer joyous relief I feel as autumn cuts its first swathe of crisp freshness through the oppressive, sweaty fug of summer’s protracted death throes. It might as well come wearing tights and a cape, as it puts paid to the heady excesses and indulgences of the previous season’s tyranny: the sticky sweltering days and nights; the crippling self-consciousness of feeling simultaneously under and over-dressed at any given moment; wasps; televised sport; beer gardens and T.V adverts full of people loudly declaring their love of cider; the temporary suspension of civilisation as those self-same types labour under the misapprehension that I might actually want to see them half dressed and singing; the photo-reactive-chemical laden air that hangs motionless, like a stillroom suspension, and laced with the stench of zealously applied BBQ lighter fluid, the inevitable asthma which ensues… I could go on. I won’t.
Thank goodness then, for autumn. Sweeping through the city’s parks and tree-lined streets, bringing with it a friendly melancholy, a warm nostalgia, and dignity to the death of chlorophyll’s monochromatic monopoly.
As far as I’m concerned summer officially sucks. But that’s not to say that autumn is a hazard-free seasonal utopia, and I feel duty bound to warn you, my dear fellow pedestrian, of the perils that lie beneath its picture postcard edifice.
You may, like me, be inclined to succumb to the irresistible allure of cavorting gaily through the drifts of unfeasibly massive leaves that envelop the urban landscape at this time of year; shovelling toe-fuls of the amber piles into the air with infantile abandon, or crunching a path through dry, ochre hued windfalls. But proceed with caution, I urge you, as, inviting as these tracts of fallen leaf litter are, they conceal a multitude of ills and minor civil infractions. Chief among which being poo. (Hopefully) Dog poo, to be precise. Apparently, the atmospheric clarity, and overwhelming instinct to gather and harvest that runs deep in the psyche of cultures founded in these cool temperate zones, doesn’t extend to the very many dog owning citizens, who are quite at ease using the earth-toned groundcover as an effective camouflage for their canine cohorts colonic output, thereby saving themselves all the unnecessary hassle and effort that scooping the poop requires. And you’d be amazed at how rapidly those child-like feelings of nature inspired awe will drain away, to be replaced with soul-chilling horror the second your foot finds and flings up one of these aromatic enemies of joy. Consider yourselves warned.
Staying on the subject of autumnal assaults on one’s ambulatory health and safety for a moment, given the number of municipal and private fruit trees that overhang the city’s thoroughfares, heavy with an abundance of produce, it’s not unusual at this time of year to be the unfortunate subject of Newtonian Law, and find yourself directly in the path of un-harvested fruit’s inevitable descent, as happened to me not so long back (Alas, no revolutionary new scientific paradigm was born, it was only a crab apple after all). But, I ask you, in these times of increased awareness over food security, and the implications of waste, could we not find a better use for this bounteous by-product of the Town and Country Planning Act’s aesthetic sensibilities? Rather than hurriedly avoiding a cranial confrontation with one of our plummeting five-a-day provisions every time we take a stroll, could we honestly not collectively think of a more appropriate destination for these free-falling comestibles? Food for thought indeed. Peace out, catz.