From The Centrifuge

I noticed something today, something that I had previously ignored, on locking up my practical (in every sense except cost-effective) bicycle this morning in the bike shed provided by my place of work. When I entered the enclosure (see diagram 1 below), I realised that nearly every other bike hoop had been taken, so I started thinking about which space it would be most proper to appropriate for myself. Normally, at 8.15am this is a mere formality, as I park in a nearly empty bike shed at the far end, directly underneath the security camera. Today, I'd dropped off le petit monstre at his nursery (that is not an euphemism for anything before you begin) and so was a few minutes later than is usual, hence the rather replete shed.  What am I doing? I thought to myself, this is not a toilet, just take the first space available. Diagram 1. Our shed has a nifty half-pipe style roof.  Great for  nearly keeping the weather out, bad for  bashing  helmets...

Write what you know. What do I know? I made a list as follows: 1)       Cycling (only the actual moving part, not the mechanical aspects like repairing, or health and fitness and nutrition) 2)       Dogs (but again, only the experiential aspects of owning one – obligation, responsibility, tidying up etc) 3)       Babies (again with the tidying up and also general pulling-of-faces-to-entertain – although have just become proficient at swing-pushing) 4)       Pub football talk (no real understanding, just amassing huge amounts of random trivia and statistics to bedazzle other pundits with similar goals) 5)       Reading (often without understanding – inhabiting a role as a consumer of books) 6)       There is no number 6. Number 6 submerged beneath the rising tide of bleakness. As exercises go I have had more success losing weight w...

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 manage...