Enough To Make A Grown Man Cry

My work-time window on the world lets light stream in from the
North. Over the chimneys and high rises of Islington it flows, over the
turret-like rooftops of the Honourable Artillery Company, past the flag
of St George (hanging limp and forlorn this morning) and onto the
screen of my P.C. where it highlights a myriad of finger marks. The
buildings outside the window form a quadrangle around Bunhill Fields.
It is, apparently, the largest open space in the City, large enough for
a Chinook or two to land, ferrying the upper echelons of the military,
the occasional dignitary and once, Richard Branson and a gaggle of
blondes, into the city.

This week must have been examination time for recently recruited Police
Dog Handlers as, over two days, a procession of Alsations and their
crisply dressed and black-capped trainers run through a series of
tests: 'Sit And Stay', 'Walk In Time', 'Find The Bag Of Explosives',
'Rip The Padded Arm From A Pretend Bad Guy'. Some dogs are better than
others but they all seem to gain ferocious pleasure in attacking
'Pretend Bad Guy'. Anxiously watching the dogs do their stuff is the
groundsman who, judging by the manner in which he keeps looking over
his shoulder as he works, fully expects one of the dogs to mistake him
for 'Bad Guy Burying Drugs' and to come and chew on his head.

The groundsman's jobs appear to be a perfect lesson in futility; each
year he sows the field with seed and tends the delicate grass into a
luscious carpet of turf, just in time for the summer tents and
fairground to arrive and, along with them, thousands of feet on
corporate days-out. By late summer the tents have gone, leaving behind
strangely coloured, welt-like circles of grass. The ground is re-seeded
and, just as it begins to establish itself once again, the winter tents
appear ready for the endless Christmas bashes.

Yesterday his tasks, apart from appearing to be a little more dangerous
than normal, also seemed to be more frustrating. Whether it is his or
his superior's bright idea to keep the bird's hungry beaks from getting
to the seed, the ground is being covered in wide strips of what appears
to be white muslin. As each row is laid, the one laid three rows ago is
rifled by a breeze and the edges roll towards the centre like a
stretched bandage. The groundsman has to abandon his roll of
muslin-like cloth and rush to peg the rows back in place before they
furl completely. By the time I leave at five, the light has begun to
fail but the groundsman works diligently on. He's almost covered the
whole quadrangle and the ground seems to glow.

Sadly this morning, after a blustery night, the rows of cloth have been
ripped from their pegs and are scattered across the ground like huge
streamers of toilet paper. They have wrapped themselves around the
rugby posts and hug the trunks of the trees that edge the quadrangle as
if they'd been deposited by the receding waters of a flash flood. Along
the eastern edge, the walls and windows of one office block look like a
giant graffiti artist has been busy at work overnight with a can of
white spray paint. It's enough to make a grown man cry.

The groundsman is down there now, hands on hips, surveying the
decimation. He shakes his head then, suddenly, throws it back. His
hearty laugh just makes its way through the badly fitting windows.
Determinedly he walks over to the end of the nearest strand of cloth
and, arm over arm, begins to roll it into a huge bundle.

This guy has patience.