My wife is in the middle of walking the length of the Thames, east to west, in 10-mile segments, every Wednesday. The group she walks with changes from week to week, but she never misses it.
“You can come if you want,” she says to me early one morning. “Henley to Reading.”
“I’m busy,” I say. “I’m a businessman.” I plan to stay in bed for at least another hour.
“But you do need to walk that,” she says, pointing to the little dog lying on the bed.
“Ugh,” I say. The dog opens one eye and its tail thumps twice on the duvet.
I never walk in the morning. The park at that hour is an extremely social environment, which suits neither me nor the little dog: it often gets lost taking long detours through the undergrowth in order to avoid other dogs. It’s a strategy I have some sympathy with, but not much patience.
When I get downstairs, I realise my wife has taken my coat. Never mind, I think, we won’t be out there long.
As we enter the park, a light rain begins to fall. The little dog decides to bark at a large alsatian. Its owners give me a disapproving look, and I put my dog back on the lead. I wait for a bit to let them get ahead of me on the path, but they’re very slow walkers.
At the far end of the park, I meet the mother of a friend of the middle one, and we stop to say hello. During our brief conversation, some dog walkers and their pack approach from behind, and I bend down to reattach the dog’s lead so it won’t run off. I see our friend Juliet approaching from the opposite direction with her dog, talking on her phone. She has it set on speaker and is holding it out flat in front of her, the way they do on The Apprentice.
“Why have you got the lead on?” Juliet asks.
“Because the dog is paranoid,” I say.
“The dog?” she says.
“Who are you talking to?” her phone says.
“You know,” I say. “About other dogs.” I unclip the lead. The dog runs over and starts playing with her dog.
“So paranoid,” she says, rolling her eyes and walking off.
The rain turns heavy. I continue clockwise, but I have to keep stopping to avoid overtaking the couple with the alsatian. Two-thirds of the way round, the little dog spots two whippets chasing a ball, whereupon it darts into the long grass and stays there. When I whistle, it raises its head like a meerkat, then disappears again. I have to wait until the coast is clear.
At the park gate, I meet Juliet again, coming the other way. She is no longer on her phone. “We don’t usually get you in the mornings,” she says.
“No,” I say. “She’s walking the river again.”
“She’s left you alone with your paranoid dog.”
“And no coat,” I say, looking at the sky.
“Where’s your coat?”
“She took my coat,” I say. “My coat’s on its way to Reading.”
“That’s terrible,” Juliet says. “But she’s doing this walk for you, you know?”
“What do you mean?” I say. “To raise awareness?”
“To find a cure,” she says. “A cure for Tim.” She tilts her head and makes sad eyes.
“OK, well,” I say. “I should probably be getting…”
“What is Tim?” Juliet says. “What causes Tim?”
“I might see you next Wednesday,” I say.
“Give now,” she says. “We may be able to eradicate Tim in our lifetimes.”
I hear barking to the left of me, laughter behind. Dogs and people, closing in from every direction.
