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...
Scribblings and jotterings unfit for public consumption, but mechanically recovered just in case.