So there we were. Me, Mrs P, a couple of little kids on bikes and a smattering of our neighbours, some with dogs, trying hard not to stare at the scene unfolding before us on the grass in our little suburban park.

It wasn't easy.

The teenage Romeo and Juliet obviously only had eyes for each other and had it not been for the intervention of clothing fabric the censor may well have had to slap an X-rating on the scene unfolding among the dandelions and paspalum.

As it was, Juliet's mum and dad should be proud of the flexibility of their little cherub. Sending her to all those gymnastic classes was obviously money well spent.

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But young love is young love. And for a while we all smiled one of those "in-the-know" smiles and left them to it, thinking they'd soon realise they had an audience and move on.

But they didn't.

The kids on the bikes obviously worked out there was nothing juicy going to happen, well nothing they probably hadn't seen on the telly anyway, so they rode off.

Leaving us oldies to deal with the writhing mass of hormones before us on the grass.

In such embarrassing instances it is useful to have a cute-looking dog on hand to break the ice (or in this case, cool the heat). I hatched a plan.

I would release George, he would obviously trot up and sniff their private parts (why not? He does it to everyone else) and that would be it. The spell would be broken, I'd offer a token apology and they'd go. Thus leaving George to run around his park and wee where he wanted.

So I unleashed the beast and ... nothing. He just stood there, looking at them. Then he walked away in embarrassment.

The neighbours decided they'd no stomach for shifting the loved-up duo either and opted for a stroll in the other direction.

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But Mrs P, bless her, was having none of it. She'd been looking forward to a walk all day and this was her park too. This was where she was going to go, she announced defiantly.

At that moment she appeared to me like Joan of Arc, a shining beacon of strength, willpower and control, charging into battle ... with a plastic bag hanging out her back pocket in case we needed to pick up George's poo.

Anyway, she was off, striding past Romeo and Juliet, who by this stage appeared to be folding arms and legs over and under each other like some form of human origami.

We'd put in a good 20m past the pair when I hit on an idea.

"I reckon I could do that," I said, as we looked back. "Besides, if they see a couple of silly old sods like us taking the mickey they might bugger off."

With a smile and a laugh my beloved agreed the plan was foolproof and she was up for it. Besides, she'd been a high hurdler at school so she knew she could just about get her leg up to her shoulder if she needed too.

"Right. We're doing this," I said as I sat on the ground, mimicking Romeo's positioning as best I could, while Mrs P started laughing.

It would be fair to say the position would have been easy to achieve some years back but time is not kind to journalists who sit in front of a computer all day.

I got cramp in my hamstring.

Then as I rolled while trying to straighten my leg, a sharp pain shot up into my hip.

In an attempt to get away from the hurt, as you do, I quickly searched for a more comfortable position and found myself on all fours.

By this stage Mrs P was in hysterics and George, who hadn't been the slightest bit interested in Romeo and Juliet, thought it was all a great game and promptly charged over from the fencepost he'd been inspecting and jumped on my back, pinning me to the ground.

Mrs P didn't escape unscathed either. She laughed so hard she tweaked an old back injury. At this point we gave up and left, supporting each other like retreating soldiers as we limped away.

We left Romeo and Juliet to it. Why not, we thought, we were young once. They're not really hurting anyone. In fact they looked like they were quite enjoying it. Besides, it had given us a good giggle and once we could get back home to the anti-inflammatories and a hot bath we'd be fine.

But we're not going to let their inappropriate contortions put us off returning to our favourite park either.

I've told Mrs P if I see them at it there again I'm going to march right over and have a word.

I mean, how else would I find out if there are gymnastic classes for over-50s?

Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.