I found myself walking the Boo on my own the other night as the mister had a rendezvous in a pub (he wasn't sure which one exactly but that didn't seem to worry him) with one of his oldest (as in from school days) friends who was visiting from San Francisco.
We took the usual winter route, with no-one else in sight until a chap and his young (I'd guess 5 ish) son appeared in front of us on the path. They'd clearly been to the garage for essential provisions if the over-full carrier bag, which one of them was struggling to carry, was anything to go by.
I'm a quick walker, especially in soggy conditions (and compared to the mister who positively dawdles), so we soon overtook them, though the little boy tried his hardest to keep up with us (Boo was undoubtedly the attraction).
As we stopped for a comfort break (the dog's comfort, not mine), the other two walked past, with the little boy taking great interest in what was happening on the grass in the vicinity of Boo's rear end.
'Oh, look, ' he shouted, 'the girl's picking up the dog poo.'
Hang on a minute, what was that?
No, not the bit about the poo. A girl? He called me a girl. Me, who could give Methuselah a run for his money.
Alrighty, yes, I know he was very little and yes, it was very dark, but I'm at the stage where birthdays mean more candles than cake and, unless they introduce an upper age limit, I'm never going to be asked for ID when buying booze.
Compliments of any sort are a bit thin on the ground here so I have to take them where I can get them. And I'm grabbing that inadvertent one from a titchy person with both hands, thank you very much.
I'm telling you, that boy will go far.
And I skipped home.