Observations From Clissold Park

There's a beautiful girl who works in a cafe opposite Clissold Park, the sort of girl your builder or city worker or jetlagged traveler always hopes to find behind the cafe register. I ask if it would be possible to get a large latte to go. She smiles and says something softly, too softly. I say, "I'm sorry?" She says, "I couldn't hear you." I ask again, is it possible. She smiles, and there is a pause. "Of course." Is she pleased by the courtesy? Or was she busy translating? I think she's Polish. I'd like to think she's Polish.

I cross the street to Clissold Park and look for a place to sit, drink coffee, read Obama's Dreams From My Father, and ideally sneak the occasional peek over at a certain cafe. Then I spot it: the perfect bench, facing the perfect direction, with the sun at the perfect angle to illuminate my text. Problem is, there's a lady and a feller doing some rather interesting workout routines right next to the bench. It'd seem a little odd to just plop down right next to them in search of a quiet spot to read and reflect, what with about six other benches in plain view quite free from adjacent exercizers. I wish they would suddenly finish or move on, and I'm not sure what to do. But then comes a moment of miraculous, perhaps divine, intervention.

Approaching the workout pair from behind comes an enormous riding mower, twin turbine blades mulching the grass to a most proper British level. Its operator, a handsome Black fellow in sunglasses, has been making increasingly frustrated noises and gestures at the exercizers, the general point being they should get the hell out of the way. For a moment I stand there transfixed, wondering whether some higher power is about to grant my wish in a manner most gruesome. But no - the mower stops about two meters away, at which point the workout pair jump as one, look about, and (impossible as it may seem) move on! Just like that! Walk away!

I'm free to enjoy my bench, my coffee, my book and my view of the adorable probably-Polish blonde walking in and out of the cafe as she served the sidewalk tables. It occurs to me how hysterically stupid it was to sneak glances from the park as I read when I could just as easily drink the coffee I'd purchased from her at a table outside her establishment, where she might even come check up on me from time to time. It occurs to me that I'm kind of an idiot.

My self-degradation is interrupted by a tiny dog of the little bat-faced, potato-bodied type. As his owners walk past he staggers over and allows me to pat him before scampering to catch up. His owners turn and call; apparently he has a sibling over yonder investigating another dog. The other dog (let's call him Boutros-Boutros) starts to come, but is suddenly transfixed by a piece of tree bark on the ground, easily as big as him. No matter. Boutros-Boutros picks it up between his jaws somehow and manages, despite several drops, to carry it all the way back to his brother and parents. My vaudevillian split personality can't help but notice how sometimes the tiniest dogs really do get the biggest bark. It's a wonder that personality hasn't gotten me beaten up more.