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Please Curb Your Child

Iím running along the north edge of Hyde Park. Itís a cool morning and my lungs are full of fresh air and the smell of cut grass. Ahead of me is a woman and a helmet-wearing toddler. There's a tiny bicycle leaning against a park bench.

The woman and her kid are standing on the grass, and as I approach, mom reaches down and pulls the kid's pants down. Arenít babyís butts just the cutest? I figure natureís calling and the kid needs a quick pee on the grass. No biggie.

As soon as the pants come down, mom lifts the kid up, one arm wrapped under the kidís arms, the other holding up both legs. Toddler is now v-shaped, with its not-as-cute-as-it-was-a-second-ago butt poised over the lawn.

ďYouíve got to be kidding me,Ē I thought as I quickened my pace, desperately trying to envisage a scenario that didnít involve baby scat.

I don't look back.

I realize that The Royal Parks are tagged as ďLondonís Personal SpaceĒ, but thatís just a little too personal.