On a bright and breezy morning, Paul Parker, Clive
Ward, John Greenland, Stanley Slaughter and I were strolling along Vicarage
Road on our way to school when a leaf rustled by. Somebody stamped on it. When the
next rustling leaf got the same treatment we all joined, stamping on leaves as schoolboys do. The jolly jape ended when Paul stamped on
something golden brown yet far from crisp. Dog shit, no less. Soft and squishy,
it spattered his and everyone else’s trousers.
Urgh!
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