Glorious Mud

Sunday being a day of sunshine and inspired by Mister Ronaldo's sublime backheel, Tiddler and I took to the park for some 1 on 1 action.

'That Boy Ronaldo...'

Anyway, I digress.

To say it was muddy after Saturday's downpour is an understatement. The magnitude of which is in the order of applauding politely and saying 'Nice Shot, Cristiano', when screaming with joy and being lifted bodily into the air and swung round by the fireman standing next to you is much more appropriate.

JP and Tiddler are incapable of playing outdoors without getting completely caked in mud, and occasionally, in Tiddler's case, dogshit. So I was resigned to stripping him off on the doorstep and commiting his entire ensemble to the washing machine with a big dose of ACE after the game, before we had even left the house.

I hadn't banked on him recruiting another Tiddler in the park for our game, nor on him slide-tackling, pushing and generally kicking him until he was as filthy as Tiddler.

I also hadn't banked on Second Tiddler's chainsmoking, rottweiler of a frizzy-permed grandmother suddenly spotting his state of cleanliness, or rather lack of it.

She marched over.

I braced myself to bring my Dimac skills to my defence. I think it's perfectly reasonable to get your own Little Ducks dirty, but in hindsight, making other people's kids look like a 'before' shot in a Daz advert isn't so clever.

'Will you be here next week?' she asked.

I nodded slowly, wondering if she was planning to return with reinforcements from the cast of Shameless.

'L's had a brilliant time playing football with you and Tiddler. Can he play with you again?'