Walking the spaniel on Tooting Common, I was apprehended by a man on a bike. He was ashen-faced. His young daughter, pedalling behind him, had tears streaming down her face. ‘We’ve been attacked!’ he said. ‘My daughter…they set a dog on her…she’s been bitten.’
I looked ahead up the track…et voilà. Once a year, the caravans appear on Tooting Common. There were about seven this time. The usual kids and dogs were milling about. The child didn’t look injured and had probably just been nipped round the ankles. The dog the father was complaining about was a small yappy thing. All the same. They were shaken up. ‘Oh, dear,’ I told him. ‘They come every year. But they usually leave after a few days. They’ll be gone soon.’
‘But I’ve just moved to this area,’ said the man, who was wearing the latest regulation cycling helmet and hi-viz vest and was clearly the sort who did everything a father could be expected to do to ensure the safety and security of his family. ‘I don’t want to live here if this is the sort of chaos that goes on. It’s anarchy,’ he declared, as he pedalled off. ‘Anarchy!’
Thinking this a bit OTT, I wandered further on and as we got nearer the caravans a scrappy Jack Russell attempted to involve the spaniel in carnal relations. I had to beat it off with the dog lead I was carrying. Suddenly a crowd of kids approached, one riding a tiny pony.
‘Give us yer dog, Miss,’ said the pony boy.
‘Where d’ya get that whistle. I wanna whistle like that,’ said another.
‘Don’t you think that pony is a bit small for you?’ I asked, suddenly taken by the idea that I wanted to talk to them.
The children laughed, as if what I had said was quite witty.
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