It was the greyest of January days and the heavy rain had left deep, dark puddles in the playground which were awash with an unpleasant mixture of mud and leaves and debris from the recent storms. Whilst my son was happily scrambling over the climbing frame I noticed a young mother enter the playground. All heads turned.

She was an immaculately turned out platinum blonde of the sort who generally land Premiership footballers as husbands. However I don’t think this one was quite a footballer’s wife – perhaps a footballer’s wife’s nail technician. Yet she still wore the trappings of wealth and success - a expensive cream overcoat, some preposterously hairy yeti boots, a sunbed tan and a pair of designer sunglasses which were perched on her head holding back her luxuriant blonde hair. She couldn’t sit down – even if the benches had been spotless it still might put a crease in her precious cream coat so she loitered elegantly whilst her cute-as-a-button little daughter, dressed in a dinky pink overcoat, white hat and scarf and pale suede boots, raced off to the climbing frame - pit pat pit pat pit pat wheee. ‘Be careful Madison’ cried the Immaculate Mummy. At this there was a communal sigh and a raising of eyebrows amongst the more workaday, practically dressed mothers whose daughters had been given more prosaic names. The few men there were not quite so quick to condemn – what with her being a fit blonde bird and everything. Wouldn’t it be amusing, I sensed the communal thought patterns forming, if that golden haired little Madison, in an outfit that probably cost more than everyone other child’s put together, were to stumble in one of those filthy black puddles. People can be so cruel. Almost immediately their dream almost became reality as there was the unmistakeable smack of toddler on tarmac followed by that inevitable 3 seconds of silence before little Madison realised that it really really hurts. She only just missed that puddle said a disappointed voice nearby. Every dip in the playground’s surface had it’s own muddy wet patch but she had somehow avoided them all. Once comforted, little Madison, now a little soiled but fine, tottered off excitedly once more - pit pat pit pat pit pat then SPLAT - down she went again. Immaculate Mummy was now torn between the need to comfort her hurt and increasingly grimy child and the need to preserve the pristine appearance of her own precious designer wear. She removed her gloves and comforted the toddler at arms length before sending her on her way.

Little Madison then found a friend - a rosy-cheeked urchin in a bobbly hat and Wellingtons. They began to chase each other between the climbing frames and swings - pit pat pit pat, clomp clump clomp clump, ha ha hee hee. I lost sight of them for a while but could still hear the occasional pit pat pit pat pit pat as they pursued each other. Suddenly I heard a pit pat pit pat pit pat. Then silence. Then, from somewhere behind me, there arose a forlorn wail.

There had been no SPLAT nor even a SPLASH. But apparently I gathered there had been quite a significant SQUELCH - for poor perfect little Madison had gone head first into a pool of filthy accumulated sludge and was now coated from head to toe in a sticky goo of mud, leaves and empty crisp packets. The Golden Haired Moppet was now The Creature from the Black Lagoon and she wanted mummy desperately. She stood up to her knees in the deepest and blackest pool of mud, arms raised in appeal. ‘You’ll have to go in and get her luv’ muttered a lady nearby gleefully. So in Immaculate Mummy waded, ruining her hairy yeti boots, and her beautiful cream coat as poor muddy Madison gave her a grateful hug and clung to her in comfort. Her misery was complete when the fancy designer sunglasses slipped from her head and plopped into the muck.

Now the question of course is: What should one’s reaction be?

Personally, I was torn between a primitive manly instinct to sweep Immaculate Mummy off her feet and carry her and her mucky offspring out of there, offer them comfort, put the child straight to bed and, I dunno, maybe put mummy in a hot soapy bath or something. That was no more than an initial gut feeling of course. In actual fact I could do no more than snigger gleefully at her misfortune like everyone else what with the carrying away of ladies in parks being sadly frowned upon these days. I felt more sorry for poor little Madison who will probably never again visit a park, at least not until mummy gets a nanny.