My bike has just been stolen for the third time in 10 months.
Not the same bike obviously, as that would mean that I’d managed to get the first two back. No, this was the second replacement which was taken.
The first two robberies were from the shed in my garden. Over locked gates and 6ft-high fences.
A couple of months back my insurers stated we have to keep our bikes in the house, or upgrade the shed with locked doors (fine) and locked windows (how do you lock plastic squares?) and essentially build Fort Knox at the end of the garden.
It’d need completely replacing as, let’s face it, anyone with a crowbar can strategically demolish the average garden building in three moves.
Into the house the new bikes came (my husband’s were taken too). The hall needed tidying, the dog’s cage was shoved under the stairs and the various bits of guff which used to live behind the dog’s cage were distributed to various skips, attics and other hoarding people.
And then in went a bike stand and a whole new set of challenges for the dog, as each extrication of a bike makes his cage rattle even more alarmingly than when the hall is vacuumed.
My newest bike, which I loved by the way for its speed and agility and wonderful mudguards which made it look Parisian, was chained up for the first time in public last week in Portsmouth.
First time I’d left it anywhere that was accessible to low-life creeps with less social standing than a slug heading towards a bowl of salt.
And it was gone, within the space of an hour, from a populated area, in view of a reception.
Whoever took it came prepared with bolt-cutters. It was a clean job.
I just hope that on the getaway ride, my beautiful bike got something trapped in a spoke and flipped them straight off.
I don’t care who you are, or what your excuse might be, I’ve had enough. It costs me money every time to pay my insurance, my excess and the increased premium which I will no doubt be stuck with next time around.
I am channelling my inner Liam Neeson. Your time will come.
I ADMIT THAT I’M FASCINATED BY DONALD TRUMP’S HANDSHAKE
Okay, I admit it, I’m absolutely fascinated by Donald Trump’s handshake.
If you haven’t seen it, then please do a quick Google search and have a look at the bizarre variations which he pulls out.
See what he’s doing with his hokey-cokey in/out manoeuvring while holding on for grim death.
There is never a dull moment in the world of handshaking.
I doubt very much that Mr Trump has ever been accused of being a limp fish.
Quite the opposite as he grips and pulls and gurns and tries to act all masterly.
I wonder how long it’ll be before he resorts to the old electric shock concealed in his hand that was all the rage in the 1970s/80s world of wild and wacky humour?
WHEN SOMEONE SAYS ‘FAKE NEWS’, REMIND THEM IT’S A LIE
I’ve really had enough of the expression ‘fake news’.
Why don’t we call it what it is – lies.
It’s as if using the term ‘fake news’ somehow excuses the writer lying.
With just a few days left until the election, we all need to be careful and think about what we are reading and hearing.
We need to be asking whether it’s lies or the truth.
We need to think about contexts and consider our own storytelling and how we create stories around what we have done in our own lives to make us feel better, which might not quite be a lie, but which might be a lot richer than the truth.
And then we need to apply that to the news around us.
And when someone says it’s ‘fake news’, remind them, it’s a lie.