Yeah, it's definitely mousse...

Just when I thought things couldn’t get much worse…

Last night, Sarah and I were enjoying a relaxing glass of Italian white wine on the terrace outside Riverside Studios. I sat with my back to the building and admired the epitome of tranquillity before me. The stark silhouette of Hammersmith Bridge was straight ahead, backlit by the setting sun whose reflection cast creamy white sparkles on the river’s glassy surface. Canada geese and ducks scavenged quietly on the muddy banks undisturbed by the occasional rowers that glided by. It was all rather magical.

Suddenly, we heard a noise of something hitting the canvas awning above our heads. On first listen, I thought it must have been the emissions of a bird overhead, but a few seconds later it happened again. Sarah jumped up and peered over the terrace railings. Thirty feet below us, standing on the riverbank, were three children, approximately eight years old, who were engaged in scooping up cupfuls of Thames sludge and catapulting them at those quaffing on the balcony above them.

Immediately I could envisage the hilarity of this situation for the three small perpetrators. Indeed, they thought it was possibly one of the funniest and most perfect ruses to have been discovered by humanity. That said, it was disgusting behaviour and Sarah, quite rightly, shouted down to reprimand them. It will come as no surprise to those readers familiar with unruly children that this admonishment was entirely ineffectual. In fact, it seemed to inspire them to attain more splendid goals: seconds later, three much larger dollops of greygreen slime shot over the railings and, with scientific accuracy, dipped under the awnings and thudded onto the wall and window, centimetres from my head.

I leapt up as if shot and examined my person. Fortunately, I had suffered no lasting damage although my coral red shawl looked as though it had been enjoying a day on the farm. Additionally, while on the bus home, I later discovered some crusty matter in my hair that I managed to persuade myself was mousse, a product I neither use nor possess.

If I was a good liberal I’d use this experience as the basis for a rant about the necessities of youth clubs and activity groups to distract potential mudslingers from this sort of antisocial behaviour which stems, undeniably, from boredom. But sometimes I don’t have the energy to be a good liberal. Sarah and I watched the tearaways work their way down the shoreline, all the while hurling clods of dark wet matter at unsuspecting pedestrians strolling along the path above their heads. Fortunately they didn’t return to our patch, perhaps swept away by a quickly rising tide. The bad liberal within me would not be devastated if this were the case.

Then this morning I found out I have to have an operation in November. Pah. A break up, a sludge attack and a dodgy cervix: I’m hoping that bad things really do come in threes and things are on the way up now. If not, I’m going to sue.