The wait of responsibility

My mother-in-law has a folding walking stick that snaps together like a sniper's rifle. I'm sure she practices assembling it in the dark because the movement is fluid, swift and unerringly accurate. Either that or one of her previous jobs was covered by the Official Secrets Act. Sadly there's little more I can tell you about my in-laws because I enjoy having them around, which rules out the opportunity for too much comic exaggeration.

Yes, I've been on my best behaviour this week. There's been something of a family reunion with my wife's relatives and her children all variously meeting up here in Ringmer. It was a bit of a step-family reunion for me because - as I've mentioned before - my wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met. This meant I didn't need to trouble myself with the unpleasantness of toilet training for any of the aforementioned creatures. It meant I avoided that supposedly heart-warming stage when babies morph from Winston Churchill clones into real human beings. And it meant I've never changed a nappy.

Yet responsibility has been thrust upon me in the past few days. No, it's not the step-children. They have no need for a fake father figure and I have no desire to be called anything other than my given name. It's not the rest of my wife's family; in fact it's not a relation in any sense. We've volunteered for a spot of dog walking while a couple of friends in the village are away. I say 'we' but really mean 'me'. Anyway, I've been strolling around with a little chap who was supplied with an extending lead and a handful of small black bags. It's surprising how much friendlier Ringmer is if you have a dog. Barely a person passes me without a smile or a 'hello'. It could be my four-legged friend that's attracting all the attention but I'm basking in it regardless. We walk through the village engaged in non-stop conversation with each other. Admittedly it's fairly basic stuff - I'm all "who's a good boy?" and he's simply smiling back at me - but it's great fun.

And at some point during our evening constitutional, he'll strike a pose and I'll prepare one of those black bags to clear up his doggy gift. As I walk home with a dog lead in one hand and a disconcertingly warm bag in the other, I feel surprisingly happy. Maybe all this responsibility is good for me. Or perhaps I'm just relieved that dogs don't wear nappies.

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-wait-of-responsibility/