I’m wandering peacefully through an East London park on my way to photograph a football club. I note (with some surprise) that the wreaths are still in place round the War memorial and admire the general tidiness of the place. It’s a bitterly cold day, so there are only a couple of other people around. Suddenly a gang of youths erupts just in front of me, fighting amongst themselves. One is carrying a long piece of guttering. He whirls round and round with it, scattering the others into the bushes. There’s something medieval about the whole thing. I retreat a couple of steps. Then there’s a shout of ‘The dog! The dog!’ and they all jump over the railings in a panic. Out of the corner of my eye I see a brown streak. I walk backwards, as casually as possible (it can be done). The animal halts its rocket-like progress at the command of its laughing owner, runs round in a couple of circles (further retreat) and finally goes back to its master. I decide hopefully that it’s well under control. ( Amazing to be able to train a dog to stop instantly during such an interesting pursuit, but then I was told by a prison dog handler that he can place a piece of steak in front of his animal and it will not touch it until the command ‘Eat’. Not sure if the same applies when it has a prisoner in its jaws.)
Anyway, back to the park. Very soon two burly wardens armed with binoculars arrive and start giving the lads (now outside the park – actually they needn’t have jumped over the railings, the gate is right there) an earful. I catch a repeated accusation of ‘Carrying a stick’. (Presumably that is the category of offence that being in possession of three meters of guttering falls into.) To my astonishment they stand there and take the tellingoff as if they are little kids. It crosses my mind that the warden has probably known them since they were still nicking stuff from Woolies.
Dog and gang gone, I continue my walk and eventually catch up with the wardens. They turn out to be cheerful people who enjoy their work. I am baffled by their hours. They guard the park between 7.30am and 2.30pm. So it’s OK to have your breakfast and lunch on a park bench, but I wouldn’t be too keen on hanging around later in the day, though I’m told the vast amounts of money spent on the area have improved matters. One of the wardens waves a hand towards the Olympic site and says, without much conviction, ‘Perhaps that lot will help’.
