After I finished going to an event in London, at about about 8pm, I went back to pick up my bike. It was parked at the back of the Ritz, on some post. (Why aren’t there any cycle racks around there?).
Tense conversation went as follows:
Me: I know I parked by a Stop Sign. Is this the road by the Ritz?
J: Yes
Me: You sure?
J: Yes, ‘corse
(we walk up and down craning our necks for bicycles and walking up every little street)
Me: (God, all these bloody roads look the same)
20 minutes later
J: (trying to be helpful, what shops did you walk past?)
Me: I can’t remember, all I remember is that it was at a Stop sign, in the corner and on the road by The Ritz
J: Did you lock your bike.. properly?
Me: YES! Some scumbag has probably cut it.
walking back up:
Me: (feeling acceptance) ’Well, at least it’s insured. Maybe I can get a replacement ladies bike.
Walking back down again:
J: Is it that bike? (looking at a tatty black one with ‘sticky uppy’ handlebars bike parked at a Stop sign)
Me: Ewww, that’s not mine!
J: Maybe it’s has been ‘compounded’ by the police because you parked it at a Stop sign? It’s probably illegal.
Me: Bloody hope not, anyway, why can’t they leave a note?
J: Hang on
Me: Hang on?
J: This isn’t the road near the Ritz!
Me: well, it better be there!
we walked up anxiously
And sure enough it was..
