HRH

As I sauntered out of the posh Italian deli, clutching my pizza slice and wallet against my chest, I struggled to thumb my change into that mini jeans pocket, above the regular one, on the right hand side.

It was then that I heard the clink. It was a heavy clink, too (think Frodo dropping the Ring). This was no measly 10p, this emergency was ten times worse...

My spond hit the pavement and started to roll neatly away from me, wobbling occasionally over the cracks, but always regaining her composure.

I daren't move.

I stood and calculated its trajectory and then followed the imaginary line across the pavement. No, it can't be, I thought. On the horizon of my sight I noticed a partially trampled, hardening mound of dog dejecta.

Yet I stood still and watched and did nothing. It trundled on gently. No way...! But yes, way. It drew closer and closer before coming to a halt, nestling itself in the cushioned roundel of turd. It had really happened.

At this point an older women and her husband walked out of the newsagents behind me. The wife, having witnessed my traumatic ordeal, proceeded to enthusiastically recount the tale to her husband, whose only response was to crumple his nose and grumble "that's disgusting".

It wasn't disgusting, it was spectacular...

What was disgusting was that I was half way down to picking it up before Fiona asked me what I was doing...