Poo in the Wood

There is a dainty nature reserve, positioned discreetly near Crystal Palace. It's a tiny remnant of the Great North Wood, with oaks and limes, birches and yews and tall wild cherry trees. Dog Mercury grows there, indicating ancient forest; it has a guardian, a spry Entling with a passionate expertise in mycology. The forest rewards him after every rainfall with baffling numbers of strangely named fungi. My favourites so far are Trooping Crumblecaps though Destroying Angel comes a close second. I help out at this place and it is very charming. There's old money around here and no lack of it, a genteel quiet end of town, where people walk their dogs, or themselves.

Some of the dog walkers puzzle me. This being a wood, there are no bins in it. But this being a tiny wood, one is never more than fifty yards away from a bin on the pavements opposite the entrances. So, our dutiful dog-walkers often scoop their dogs poo and stick it in little plastic bags, and one might be forgiven for assuming they would then take said poo out of the wood and leave it in one of the bins available. Some do. But others hang the full little bags from the railings around the compound, or on surrounding branches. It's as though they cannot quite work out how poo goes away, or even that it is no-one else's job to remove their dog poo for them. One wonders how long they would enjoy their walks if everyone followed suit. A windy day under the trees would turn into an unforgettable experience.

The thing I find enigmatic is where the reasoning stops; Yes, I see my dog has pooed. Yes, I have come prepared with scoop and plastic bags and gloves. Yes, I scoop up my dog's poo, yes, I place it in the bag, yes, I tie the bag up. But carry the bag to a bin? What kind of madness is this? Where will it all end?

All part of my return to planet Earth...