My beaten-to-fuck car failed the MOT. It wasn’t even close. It wasn’t that the wipers didn’t wipe properly, or the screen wash didn’t squirt with sufficient vigour – it was structurally unsound.
The only way it could have failed more spectacularly is if it had spontaneously burst into flames during the test.
Independent transport is a luxury I don’t want to lose, but I can’t face any more car bullshit so I went to a bike shop with with the intention of buying a folding bike. I don’t have room for a proper bike in my flat, so it seemed like a good idea. I couldn’t bring myself to get one.
Everything about the bike shop seemed wrong to me. The smell of the tyres, the polished spokes, the ruddy-cheeked salesmen and the fluorescent jackets compelled me to pirouette my way straight outta there.
Plus there’s something sinister about big blokes riding small things, but that’s for a different blog post.
My new plan is to get a real piece-of-shit road bike at minimal expense from Gumtree that I can leave outside without the remotest chance of it being stolen. Something hideously green. Or maybe purple. Then the only thing left to worry about is being scraped off the pavement after my first confrontation with the side of a truck turns out to be my last.