I ate my lunchtime sandwich in the park on a sunny October day. As I finished and prepared to go back to work, a young man appeared, accompanied by a slatterny girl. He led two Staffordshire bull terriers on leads, their bodies encased in elaborate leather and brass harnesses. The girl had another, smaller beast with her. This part of London seems to lead the capital in fierce dogs: see Andy Beckett in the Guardian a few weeks ago: Andy Beckett investigates the rise in rough-looking mutts on Britain's streets
The young man hailed me. His eyes were wide and his pupils wildly dilated. I had not seen such pupils since the night Colin, Nigel and I took acid outside the Cambridge Corn Exchange in 1972 or 1973. He waved at the clear sky. Did I know what those are, he demanded, pointing at some fluffy vapour trails? They're condensation, left by aeroplanes, I replied. He shook his head. The girl was expressionless.
'They're chemicals, man, look it up on the Internet', he said.
'I certainly shall,' I said, as I moved towards the park gate, watching the dogs closely.
'It's on the Internet, man, chemicals'.