You guys may remember the woman with the ducks? Jesus Christ. The one I had a run in with the other day? Well, it means I have to avoid that park, The Dog Park, for the foreseeable but the dog still has to be walked. So today I took him downtown, to the other park, which is in a very well-to-do part of the island.
Luckily I’d just finished my shift at the Radisson and was still wearing my uniform so I didn’t feel too out of place. I just take my name badge off and I can blend in pretty much anywhere. So I’m walking Banjo around and I encounter a woman wearing pearls and shit. A scarf made of a… I don’t even know. A furry animal about four feet long. Her dog comes and sniffs Banjo’s bum-bum.
“Rufus!” she shouts, relentlessly rolling her Rs, horrified at her dog’s uncouth behaviour, “Come hither at once!” The dog does as it’s told and I smile to the woman and she smiles back. There’s mutual respect in the smile because she hasn’t heard my common voice.
I continue. Then moments later another dog comes up to my dog and then its owner appears. “Henry Smyth IV! What ist thou doing!?” shouts the very posh man. Henry Smyth IV looked like it wanted to mount Banjo even though Banjo is a dude dog. He wanders over to us and, this guy does, you know, because we’re dog walkers we exchange pleasantries, it’s an unwritten rule, even though our social backgrounds couldn’t be more different. This gut is an Earl or Duke and my mother and father were both coal miners, yeah, so much for that – thanks Thatcher you cunt! So I’m chatting to this guy. I’m doing my work voice and he says my dog is “absolutely delightful!” and I thank him and I compliment his canine companion which seemed to me to be just a standard issue dog. Nothing special at all. I still bigged it up.
“Tell me,” said the man, “what is thou dog’s nameth?”
“Sebastian.” I replied without even thinking. And in that split second I knew exactly how Judas Iscariot felt when he betrayed Jesus. I’d betrayed my roots, my upbringing and my parents were no doubt spinning like waltzers in their unmarked graves.
“Sebastian? Marvellous!” Screamed the man. And then he insisted I accompany his 12 year old daughter to her debutant’s ball which is on this very evening. Banjo, fearful of getting bummed by Henry Smyth ran off and I started shouting “Sebastian!” and of course Banjo didn’t respond – he wouldn’t’ve if I’d shouted Banjo – Banjo’s a twat, see – and so I said he was deaf and the old fucker bought it. I should have ended the whole sorry charade there and then. I didn’t because I don’t like confrontation.
So I’m sitting here waiting for his driver to come and pick me up. He said I won’t be able to miss him because, and I quote, “He’s an brown fellow driving a vintage Mercedes Benz!!” He laughed long and hard after that one and I’m ashamed to say I did too. So, there you go, I’m a fraud but I’m up to my balls in this shit now and there’s no way out.