I wonder what is the fate of the little duck pond? Not one in particular, but every duck pond? When as young man I did arrive in this country I was struck upon my walking in parks etc about how there was often pond, child who throw bread into water, duck, occasionally swan, and so on. But I wonder where will go this water feature. I ask this because of incident Sunday afternoon when I stroll through park in London with my good friend Zaza, former magician, now lady of leisure following enormous lottery win, and her dog Russell, name after Russell Brand, who is jack russell. I have with me memory of many of my own dog, but not Anna V, or Donald (cat) who occasionally follow me down street like bandit, and we chat about old time etc. Zaza is no spring chicken  although younger than myself; and from time to time we pause, look about, so I catch my breath.
As we sit on bench Russell run away after another dog, little thin thing look like weasel and both dog did jump into pond. They roll, play and thrash about and Zaza go and get Russell eventually, all cover in weed, and Zaza say as she dry him with special hanky.
‘Few year ago we’d have just copped it from Parkie.’
‘Parkie?’ I say.
And she remind me of man who, in years perhaps 1960s to 80s was often partly psychotic war veteran or similar who have job look after park as useful and safe way for gainful employment of him. He usually like flower, take pride in everything and attack without mercy those who play ball on grass, climb wrong way up slide (child – this was bad, I know). Where is he now, this parkie?
I think Zaza have point. There is nobody of note who look after these places of life: park, pond, cricket pitch, and who look to love something, even in rage.