What Every Doggy Walker is Wearing This Season

On my doggy walks at Jesus-what-berluddy-time in the morning, I sometimes pop into my local shop. I'd like to say I pick up a copy of the Guardian/Telegraph/Mercury, or maybe some milk, or an energy bar to keep me going, but no, I buy cigarettes.

As I walk through the door the man at the counter automatically grabs my brand from the shelf - alarming (and a sad indication of our lifestyle) that the only people who know our habits well are the Indian takeaway, the outdoor (or 'offy' as Hubs calls it), and the cigarette man. Make of this what you will.

This morning, because I was in pre-shower mode, I'd tucked my hair into a cap. In fact, a word here about my doggy walking apparel because I don't think this phenomenon should go un-noted. Whilst I'd like to totter round the area in some designer dress, a big hat and heels, as per my image of dog walking

I look more like... well, its hard to describe really, I don't think there's a word that adequately illustrates my appearance, although louche would come close (but then, so would 'eccentric'... yeah, I'm just eccentric).

I haul on random items from the wardrobe-of-shame while my head is still resting back against my shoulder blades, sound asleep. Sometimes, after I've covered the 150 miles and fall back into the house, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and actually gasp out loud at my own reflection.

Jeans, of course. But not crisp, clean jeans, old ones covered in muddy paw prints of varying degrees of smudgedness and age. Sometimes I actually think to pull up the zip, but mostly I walk around south Birmingham like some sort of inadvertent flasher (don't you just hate it when that happens... you think the hordes rushing past you to work are double glancing because your dog is so well behaved or they can't believe someone can look so gorgeous so early and without makeup, but no, its because they're a bit surprised to have a clear view of what knickers you've fortunately had the foresight to put on).

T-shirt. Again, covered in paw prints and bird poo and of indeterminate colour and shape. Occasionally, if 'summer' has dropped to brass monkey temperatures, I'll pull on a freebie jacket with Wolves FC splattered all over it, usually inside out. Oh yeah, trend-setter me.

Trainers. About 173 years old, pretty sure they're supposed to be that colour, but months of walking across muddy fields has turned them into the kid of hue you only get when you mix 17 different coloured paints together. Worn with odd socks, because who can distinguish between multicoloured polka dots and black at 6.30am.

And a cap. I like my caps, I can hide under them, pull the peak over my face and just let the dog guide me without actually having to wake up. Worn with big sunglasses I'm convinced I'm the image of Victoria Beckham but closer, I suspect, to Stevie Wonder.

I also carry with me on my doggy walks a water bottle, dog treats, choke chain in case I'm suddenly and inexplicably unable to control my canine, 97 poo bags, door keys, cigarettes, lighter, a ball we never use, and some money for emergency purposes (like I have to catch the bus home or something). 'Bulging' is the word on the street.

So yes, I'm scruffy to the point of requiring charity (and possibly therapy).

So anyway, I go into my local shop and the bloke at the till beams at me, as he always does (because I'm daft enough to pay his extortionate prices). He peers at me, hiding underneath my hat, and says, "You know what you should do?"

Emigrate? I thought. Go on a diet that lasts longer than an hour and a half? Call Trinny & Susanna on an emergency helpline?

"You've got such lovely hair," he tells me, "You shouldn't hide it under a hat, you should let it down."

Three things occurred to me at this point:
1. What the fark is he going on about?
2. What the fark has it got to do with him what I do with my hairy bits?
3. He's not making a farking pass at me is he? (checked my fly wasn't open in case he thought I was being flirty).

Good mind to go in there tomorrow completely bald.

It's a bad sign when complete strangers feel obliged to give advice on my appearance.

Must try harder.