On the death of a bike

Its time had come. It was clear that someone had tried to steal it on Saturday, failed, and instead jumped up and down on it until the saddle was looser than Peaches Geldof (insert current tabloid scratching post, but not, oh dear me, not St Jade).

So, I cycled it home, tipping up every time I took a corner. And I thought "well, goodness, maybe its time has come." After all, it was a cheap bike and had lasted three years.

The next day, I awoke to find it gone. Someone had sawn through the lock in the night. "Oh well," I thought, feeling a little sad but also a little excited by the prospect of shopping for a new bike with perhaps all of its gears and both of its brakes working.

And then I walked down a street and a tramp cycled past on my bike. "Ah," he said, "Found it at the bottome of the street. Lucky for you, eh?". So, like a haunted doll in a Victorian ghost story, the bike is back with me.