I seem to be one of the few people in London who still uses Hampstead Heath for its original purpose – working off bacon baps.
A perfect Sunday:
- Go to Crick’s Corner and get an unskimped bacon & egg bap or a capital U Unskimped pure bacon bap. I choose between ketchup and brown sauce on impulse in the 3 metres between entering the cafe and landing at the counter, my current K/B ratio is 4:1. Then, inhale bap, scald tongue.
- Pause to do some hip circles and assess if I need to nip back to my flat before heading to the Heath or if I can survive a direct assault.
- Hot foot it round the park as much as a man with 5 ACL tears can.
Perfect on paper, but number 3 has become troublesome (as has number 2…).
The paths in Hampstead Heath are a healthy width, yet still a growing minority can’t cope – Sunday Walkers. They come in many shapes and sizes, each with a unique way of hogging the road and blocking the bapper. Below I explore the following varieties:
- Prammers
- Chatters
- Ramblers
- Toddlers
- Dawdlers
- People who walk dogs
Prammers
The oil tankers of the walking world. They can’t really help it, so I don’t give them a dirty side look as I drop into third and zip on by.
Chatters – phone
Headphones + talking with XL voice (because headphones) means their eyes are all they have. And their eyes are generally facing forward which is not where I am. My headphones don’t work, but if they did I like to think I’d check my blind spots every twelve steps. On this twelfth step I’d also keep an eye out for other chatters I could help become more aware.
Chatters – i2i (eye-to-eye)
There is not a single group of people in the park who are not talking absolute shite, my internal dialogue included. Which means their conversations are not more important than my burgeoning belly. Therefore, I have no sympathy for this clear-eared cohort. However, I concede my scorn is part-fuelled by envy they have someone real to talk to.
Ramblers
The penguins of problem walkers, they congregate in large groups and huddle tightly. Almost identical to the physical chatters except they’re of a more mature vintage. They stoke my jealousy for the same reasons, especially after they rub the salt of having a lower social life age than me into my gaping wound.
Toddlers
They’re like wasps – constantly on the move and carrying real threat. But the key part of the last sentence was the first part, being constantly on the move they create gaps a skilled beekeeper like me is able to exploit (tip: they rarely take the racing line on corners).
Dawdlers
The blocker I identify with the most, they’re essentially me if I pull a hammy. Same nonsense going through our minds whatever our pace. Regardless, they’re irritating and I usually deliver vigilante justice – a Maverick-esque fly-by of their unoccupied control tower which thrusts them onto the hard shoulder.
People who walk dogs
I actually don’t mind them. At least the dogs on leads provide a challenge when they go to the other side of the path and you have to hurdle over the lead to get past.
I’m nearing the bench where I once saw Matt Hancock tying his shoelaces when I reach my conclusion (incidentally, this is an anecdote I’ve tried to shape in countless different ways over the years with no success. I’m always met with the same reaction – a pair of raised, expectant eyebrows waiting for a punchline that never comes).
Concluding thoughts
This publication doesn’t use Class A swear words, especially not targeted ones. And it still doesn’t. But this is the first time The Broken Oven has felt the need to make a statement like this.
Afterword
Something’s nagging at me. Over my career as a bapper, I’ve had many conversations with colleagues who, to a man and to a woman, have enthusiastically shared my detest. In fact, bapper or not, I’ve never met anyone who didn’t leave our conversation frothing at the mouth.
But if everyone hates blockers, and presumably blockers can’t hate blockers, then it follows that there are no blockers.
But there are blockers, so it then follows – do blockers know they’re blockers?
I quickly realise the next “so it follows”, so before I can consider it further, I channel my inner dawdler and return to the safe haven of rephrasing Hancock’s shoelaces.