Several old and blighted horse chestnuts trees – providers of conkers for generations of local schoolboys – have been felled on the park recently, and some delightful teenagers were sitting on one of the big trunks yesterday when Audrey and I passed during our evening promenade.

‘Is your dog a bitch?’ This was a question I had been asked before.

I knew, of course, that the regular reader would assume I was using heavy irony when I referred to the filthy working-class peasant children of the village who look like urchin extras from Les Miserables as delightful. They are anything but. ‘Excuse me?’ I sighed.

‘Is your dog a likkle bitch? Do you ‘ave anal wiv her?’ This made them all laugh riotously.

I considered my reply carefully. ‘There are five thousand comedians on the dole in the United Kingdom and you’re making a joke? Shame on you, young fellow.’

‘Eh?’

I delivered next a compliment of questionable sincerity. ‘Personally, I think you are hilarious – a comedy genius. But many would think you callous, that you are doing honest and hard-working comics of this country out of a job with your amusing remarks.’

‘Are you gay?’ Again, much laughter.

I gave up.

We headed home via the footpath that circles the old colliery swimming baths. ‘I fancy a big cup of Earl Grey and one of those lovely scones from the Co-op when we get back to the house. Come on, girl, hurry up.’

Looking at me sadly with her big brown eyes, she seemed to say: ‘I am a bitch, you know.’

‘Only words,’ I reassured her. ‘Only words.’

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