'Who d'ya think's gonna clean that lot up, eh?' came ringing from the street in the broad western suburbs accent so detested by the local gentry. 'Who's job d'ya think it is!'
The harangue continued and I couldn't resist opening the door to have a look. There was a guy bearing the marks of rough trade berating a leggy blonde attached to an ornamental white dog. She had just popped out of the rear garage entrance of her block of million-dollar Brougham Street apartments on a Saturday morning to let her pet relieve itself steamingly on the pavement. Her head was down, eyes averted in that sheepish manner typical of such litterers as she scurried back into the garage which was sprinkled with Porsches and a Rolls Royce.
He followed her towards the slowly closing rolladoor, emphasising his point with a few expletives.
I couldn't help laughing at this reversal of the usual social hierarchy and congratulated the guy as he walked past, telling him that I didn't have a dog because I didn't want to spend half my life picking up warm dog-poop.
'The trouble is, neither do they,' he rejoined.
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