I fell off my bike yesterday. God, I feel like I’m
11 years old after saying that. I got so fed up with waiting for it to stop
being windy that I stubbornly decided to go out anyway. The first couple of
miles were okay – mainly because the roads all had high hedges, so I was
sheltered from the blustery gusts. But then I went past a couple of open fields
and it was like being in a sodding wind tunnel. The head-on blasts were
knackering me, so I decided to change direction and swung round in a tight turn
in the road. My front wheel caught the soft, gravelly verge and skidded, and
the bike threw me off sideways. I landed heavily on my arm and grazed my
shoulder on the road, so today I am feeling stiff and sore and generally quite
sorry for myself. Philippa laughed and called me a clumsy twat, when I came in
seeking some kind of marital sympathy.
I hate it when things like that happen. I mean –
what did anyone gain by me tumbling off my Velociped? How is this part of
Almighty’s God Grand Plan? If I actually believed in Him I’d be pretty pissed
off. I mean – I am pretty pissed off anyway, but not at some omnipotent being,
just in general. Every time I lift something up my shoulder hurts and my knee
is sore where I grazed it, because my work trousers have a thick seam down the side
and it’s rubbing on the gravel rash on the side of my knee. Yeah, that’s
another thing – I’m at work on a Bank Holiday, on the hottest day of the year,
on the first day in a week where it’s sunny and warm without being windy so I
could have been sitting in the garden with a book and a glass of wine. Instead,
I get to bake to death in a filling station, watching various lockdown-shunning
bastards coming-and-going armed with barbecue food, alcohol, and snacks.
Anyway – Happy Bank Holiday Monday, everyone!
RC 25-5-20
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