A few days ago I was planning to write an open letter to the council about cycling, cyclists, cycle paths and other things of the same etymological root due to the fact that I had two punctures inside a week of the student population returning to Cardiff and because the roads are so rough that the frame on which my child seat sits actually shakes so much when cycling that the child seat is perilously close to falling off – much tightening of bolts is required daily to the point that my hex key has removed even the idea of a hexagonal-shaped indent in the head of said bolts. We pay enough Council Tax and Road Tax that the least they could do is clear the glass and shrapnel from the cycle paths unless they just physically can’t, in which case an admission of ineptitude and a reduction in charges is in order. I sensibly decided against such a rant when, thanks to the fact that I have probably risen to the level of my own incompetence when it comes to all things manly and DIY-ish, I managed to blow up my inner tube whilst blowing it up by not making sure it was sat inside the rim after fixing the second puncture. School boy error. Luckily, the tyre was salvageable with only minor damage to the rim in a few places.
Today, as if being punished by some cruel or indifferent conspiracy to do me harm, I fell off, for the first time in 20 years, since I broke my collar bone when I was 13 or so. It was a bit wet and I was going a little fast, but that’s no excuse for not managing a controlled skid to stop short of the lady in the black VW Polo, instead of fishtailing, spinning 180 degrees and going over backwards. Luckily I spared the unfortunate contraption further damage by creating a nice soft cushion for it, narrowly missing my iPod and face. Still, I took a whack on the head, and couldn’t see from a small area of my right eye for nearly half an hour. It somewhat spoiled my now habitual couscous luncheon.
I don’t really remember posting this either.
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