My humiliation of riding the thing I was leant by Triumph forced me to take a longer route into work. I simply didn’t want to go the way I normally do because of my reputation, the one I’ve manufactured in my head, the fast but smooth dude on the Triple who rides alone. He’ll give way once, a second time, you die.
Yesterday afternoon I set off to the Festival Hall to meet a client for a meeting. As in the previous few days the weather was stunning, I even found reading on the train distracting because my head kept turning to see the golden-lit world pass in a seamless streak of colour. I drank the atmosphere at Waterloo as I passed through to the South Bank and arrived at the base of the London Eye in blazing sunshine. I turned east and wandered down the path by the river where all the living statues, magicians and stunt performers draw small crowds of families and tourists. Shortly I arrived at the café, bought a bottle of Ginger Beer in lieu of the real thing, and sat down. The meeting was swift, pleasant and very productive and by 4.30 pm I was home.
Last night I saw a place, a two bedroom flat that I’d like to buy. As is the case there are problems, the lease it too short and somebody else has already put in an offer. I’ll leave it to fate; I’m not going to allow this crap to stress me out. Instead of taking that bike-thing I decided to drive to the property, leaving myself plenty of time in order to park. On the way whilst waiting in a queue on Tooting High St something hit the back of my van and scraped up the side. I looked down to see a bloke in a Japanese car all bedecked in gold chains and wotnot looking up at me, I indicated that he and I must park up and discuss this matter, he U-turned, as did I and we arrived side by side in a convenient car park.
As soon as we got out of our respective vehicles I was greeted with a ‘What? What?’ as if it was I that had scraped down the side of his poxy little fuck-bucket and he began to re-attach his dangling nearside mirror. I then informed him that he’d scratched my van (he had but I’m driving a battered white transit which isn’t exactly dent/scratch free) and I tried it on. ‘Give me some money’ I said coolly. The little shit went nuts and squared up to me, yelling his head off and posturing all gangsta-like. I told him not to raise his voice to me, which incensed him further. Not being remotely bothered about the virtually invisible scratch he’d caused, nor concerned that I was in any sort of physical danger I hasten to add, I decided to wind him up. Firstly I took his vehicle number, dead casual like, which didn’t go down well at all, I demanded money again then scolded him for his dreadful language. After more yelling I then told him that I was going to call The Police ‘because he was being all cross and acting like a big baby’, at which point he leapt in his car, still yelling, but now looking frankly terrified, and flew off. Satisfied that I’d ruined his evening I got back in the van and carried on my journey.
It’s Valentine’s Day, I’m off out for dinner tonight with Myfwt. Despite being overpriced the restaurant in question has an excellent reputation and I’m very much looking forward to it. But there is someone else I’m seeing first, someone very special. At lunchtime today after buying her new tyres, brake pads and a full service I will ride my Black Bitch hard and whisper words of love as we hurtle back to office, together again, and long may it last.
Oh, to the regulars, they may well not be a post until Monday as tomorrow I’m taking the day off to sort the flat out for its valuation on Saturday. Down come the erotic Bellmer drawings, the cartoon Christs, the heavy metal ephemera. I doubt they’ll go back up again, not until we’ve moved at least.
Swineshead provided the spark for todays youtube feature, he keeps pestering me for intercourse but I’ve told him time and time again that until he wipes his bottom properly I’m not interested.
Happy Valentines Day.