…you’d better watch out.
(the guys that do the Christmas deccoes for Carnaby Street cross the line from outsize adorable to Godzillaesque scary. And I should note that the photo does not do justice to the way the darn things loom at you).
Somewhere, some merciless little shit is building himself a bike, using bits he can scavenge from other cycles. Mine, mostly. So far, he’s taken my front wheel (and had the cheek to leave his battered old wheel in part exchange) and, on Friday, my saddle. I haven’t cycled home standing up since I was about ten and let me tell you, readership, it’s great for the thighs but Nether Gods, can you feel it afterwards.
Now, it’s entirely likely that I’ve just been unlucky and I’m not being targeted at all. But that’s not the way I feel at the moment, and I’m completely paranoid about leaving the bike anywhere, regardless of how well secured I’ve made it. I can’t afford a new saddle until payday anyway, which means I’m stuck with a bus trip in, or walking to the station. Neither option appeals especially.
I just feel a bit hopeless and a bit silly. And a lot angry.