Middle-class problems: Dog walks are the most excruciatingly embarrassing half-hours known to middle-class man

Darling, Jacinta and Toby can't get out today. They've asked if we'll take Oberon for a stroll."

"Must we?"

"Yes, we must."

"Really?..."

And so begins another episode in the most excruciatingly embarrassing half-hours known to middle-class man.

Naturally, Oberon is anything but the king of the fairies. He's a lumbering oaf with manners to match. Not his fault. He's actually sweet, once you get to know him.

Of course, most people we'll encounter on our jaunt through the park won't get to know him. Although they might get to know his gustatory preferences. Which is to say, what he likes to eat. Which is to say, what have you got? Because Oberon will snaffle anything he can get his nose near, be it a sandwich snatched from the hands of a toddler to an ice-cream snatched from…

Sorry, sorry, no, sorry, I know he shouldn't – no, well, he's not ours, you see, and… yes, I can see your child is crying, but… Yes, sorry. *Slinks away, slinking only slightly ruined by hulk of beast*

Then there's the aftermath. Because, as it happens, dogs aren't meant to eat sandwiches. Or ice-creams. Or that thing the mutt's just picked up. Oberon, put it down. Put. It. Down. Put it DOWN. PUT IT DOWN. NOW. Please. Thank you.

Now, then, do you have the poo-bags, dear? You don't. Well, I don't have any either. I suppose it shall have to be this wafer-thin tissue, then. Oh. My… Gah.

Naturally, none of this shall be mentioned to Cint and Tobes. Wouldn't do to moan, would it?