Coming out of Clapham South station yesterday evening, I turned down Balham Hill. Walking towards me I noticed a text book example of mutton dressed as lamb, exposing far too much dried out flesh on the top half of her body, so orange it would have put Donatella Versace to shame. Inevitably her bottom half was clad in one of those ubiquitous white gypsy skirts. Surely the only statement these things now make is 'my smug balding partner is cheating on me with the porcine hired help.'

Then she stepped on a dog, a small terrier innocently trotting along the pavement with his owner. The dog let out a shriek, which I initially took to be the opening note of a nearby siren, before shakily trying to hide himself in between his owner's legs. The owner turned to look at the old hag, waiting for an apology. None was forthcoming. The woman, who has clearly never taken responsibility for a thing in her life, simply looked disgusted with everyone in the world bar herself, before continuing to drag her carcass towards the nearest Yates's Wine Lodge (or wherever).

When I'm walking on the street and someone bumps into me or steps on my toe, I normally wait until they are a safe distance away and proffer up a small curse (e.g. 'I hope all your children have very small dicks...and that includes the girls'). Despite this, a part of me recognises that I'm not a helpless victim, being blessed with the ability to move (at least until I misjudge the appropriate volume of some post-collision insult). But this woman was about 5 times the height of the mutt, and, unlike him, not hindered by a lead. And yet somehow it was the dog's fault. To fall back on my extensive knowledge of canine terminology, what a bitch.

Further down the hill I passed the Duke of Devonshire. The pub, not the grandee. On the blackboard outside was written, in that spiky chalk lettering so beloved of aspirational boozers, 'As winter draws in, enjoy the fire in our saloon bar.'

It's 10 August, for fuck's sake! Don't take summer away from me just yet. I don't get to enjoy it much, being cooped up in a tall chunk of glass for the best part of the day. I'm stuck in an office, the window of which doesn't entice streams of sunlight to fall across my joyfully tapping fingers. Instead it looks even further into the tower, all artificial light and Sick Building Syndrome. So let summer stay, just for a while.