Dogging

Summer comes to Brussels, after a fashion.

As I emerged from Schuman metro (a confection of 1970s brown mosaic tiles, concrete, and smears of unidentifiable greasy black stuff) it was properly hot and disgusting yet with a seaside-like wet, cool breeze.  Ambiorix Square was in the middle of a haircut, and had sprouted some lurid beds of flowers overnight.  Overwhelmingly, the park smelled of dog shit.  Wherever there is green space, you will not be able to inhale very deeply.  Sun-warmed dogshit.  An enterprising person would set up a tannery.  Or sell canine nappies.  Did you know that in the days when people collected dog shit to tan leather, the working name for the shit was pure.

Around Rondpoint Schuman the razor-wire barriers are casually stacked again, which leads me to think something is happening this week.  It's quite a trick to manoeuvre an unwieldy pushchair past the razor-wire into the road, especially as large round lumps have recently been cemented to the edges of the pavement.  Good thinking there, chaps.

This evening my bus arrived as due, but then there was inexplicably constipated traffic.  Seatless, I was in danger of dying in the bus, like those dogs left locked in cars outside supermarkets.  I escaped at Blyckaerts and walked, overtaking the number 60 bus in front of the one I was on.  Despite stopping in Cocks Fresh for some wine (only working a half day tomorrow) and walking a good couple of miles, I arrived home at the same time as usual.

Perhaps in future I'll just walk home.  If my hips can take it.  The hips go first on big old dogs, you know.