Was trying to hold intelligent conversation with editor for which I was supposed to be writing piece about self-defence for women travellers.

Had spent the preceding day practising shouting expletives, at top of voice, in north London community centre; the theory being would-be attackers will try to unnerve you by shouting abusively and it will take them aback (and possibly make them forget about attacking you altogether) if you can be equally abusive.

It was quite fun until the door of the crche, in the adjoining community centre, opened and an irate looking nursery nurse came out and used a few expletives of her own.

Anyway, was being constantly interrupted in attempted conversation by Rugrats, who are now on holiday, in the way and have generally not got the hang of the big "let's do nothing for the next six weeks" idea and were coming to me every five minutes wondering what they could do next.

"Just go and think of something yourself," I said, in a voice midway between a stern command and a yell.

This response, it turned out, was not only a response to the plaintive "We're bored of playing Frisbee, what can we do now?" but also to my editor's "Can you think of anything we could add, to make it appeal to women travelling with children as well?"

"Sorry, what were you saying?" I said, giving her my full attention again, only to discover her mood had changed somewhat over the last 30 seconds.

"I was wondering if there was anything we could add to include women travelling with children," she said, testily. "But if it's too much trouble for you, I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who would be happy to do the work instead."

As it dawned on me that my remarks to the Rugrats were open to misinterpretation by anyone thinking they may have been spoken to them, I embarked on an explanation of, and apology for, earlier tone and content of sentence and was just beginning to re-establish self in editor's good books when the doorbell rang and the Rugrats, who were looking out of the window, began chanting: "The Woofs are here ... the woofs are here."

I told editor I had to go but would call back later.

Opened the door to find Tim, my friend the urban dogwalker, and his new-ish partner Gareth, a good-looking sports physiotherapist who had not yet had the pleasure of meeting, standing on the doorstep, with a handful of dogs in tow.

"Hello," I said, cheerily, adding: "Nice to meet you," for the benefit of Gareth, who looked displeased, especially when Rugrats got down from window and raced round to the door with exclamations of: "Woofs, woofs, we love woofs."

"There are lot of woofs in Brighton, aren't there?" said the youngest, deciding to make conversation with Gareth, whose displeasure seemed to deepen further, causing me to worry that he might be having second thoughts about he and Tim playing surrogate parents for the day and taking the lovely ones out, so I could get on with my work.

"What are you up to?" asked Tim, to which I replied that I was just writing a transcript of the abuse I'd learnt to shout the day before.

"A lesson you seem to have passed onto you children," said Gareth, stony faced, until Tim realised that in the brief two minutes that had passed since they rang the door bell and now, a great misunderstanding had taken place.

"You mean the woofs?" he enquired gently of his beloved, who nodded. "That's what they call the dogs ..."