I’m at home frittering away time on the internet when I remember that the play starts at 2pm and it’s now 1.30pm and Covent Garden could be 30 minutes away if there’s heavy traffic. The show is Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I bought the tickets over a year ago and my blood runs cold at the thought of missing it after all this time. I dash into my helmet and pedal northwards with panic, quad muscles burning. I lock up my bike clumsily, and as I sprint up the theatre staircase to the top of the upper circle, the bar bell rings poetically. “What happened?” asks my friend Simon as I fall into my seat sweatily. “I had a flat tyre.” I lie, too ashamed to admit that I had foolishly mistaken the time. As the curtain rises, I have a sinking feeling about my fictional puncture.
I love cycling up Charing Cross Road in the morning because it smells of dumplings, sesame, and bak kwa. Waterloo Road south smells of barbecued sausages and caramelised onions, even at eight in the morning. There’s a warm, fresh bread aroma on a corner of Camberwell New Road, and Windmill Street smells of galangal and lemongrass. Chinatown is full of the scent of crispy roasted ducks and oh, too many other delicious things to think of all at once. On Greek Street there’s buttery garlic and the promise of a good aperitif. Belgravia is perfumed with cigars, woodsmoke, and expensive Diptyque candles. Brixton smells of fresh grass. And recently I came across a unexpected and deliciously comforting scent of soffrito - the homely onion, carrot, and celery base without which it is not worth attempting anything much in the way of a good ragù.
As I cycle around Parliament Square heading north, a pushy motorbike cuts me off so I’m not able to reach the cycle lane before the other motorised traffic catches me up. I’m now stuck in the wrong lane at a red traffic light, but it doesn’t matter too much as it takes me round to the correct exit anyway. As I wait for the lights to change, another motorcyclist immediately behind me starts shouting, seemingly without the need to take a breath. “Get in the bike lane woman why aren’t you in the bloody bike lane the bike lane over there woman get in the bloody bike lane why aren’t you in the bike lane woman the bike lane!” I turn around to look at him and through his tirade I try to explain that I hadn’t been able to reach the bike lane because one of his lot had cut me off, and that I had, in fact, heard him the first time. He doesn’t pause for breath but keeps shouting and I’m getting stressed out because the lights are about to change and he’s still yelling and this is a dangerous square at the best of times. I put my foot flat on the ground, stabilising myself and my bike, and, turning right around to look into his face, I bellow fiercely, “Stop fucking shouting at me!”. To my astonishment, he stops. The lights change and I pedal away, breathing hard.
I’m freewheeling down Charing Cross Road past the National Portrait Gallery when I hear a voice behind me that sounds like Bugs Bunny on amphetamine. The owner of the voice is clearly shouting at someone and I think it may be me. I turn and see a small Indian man on a scooter, a phone clamped to his ear into which he is talking very quickly. He emits a high-pitched “Wheeeeee!” and I catch the eye of a man on a bicycle next to me. We both erupt into laughter and grin our way down Whitehall with the scooter following at high volume. Every time the traffic lights change, the cartoon soundtrack rises, and the other cyclist and I look at each other and shake with wordless giggles. I’m having so much fun that when we get to Westminster and my fellow cyclist turns away over the bridge, I feel a little sad, as if I’d almost made a friend.
On the way home I find myself taking all the same turns just behind another cyclist. He knows I'm following him, because he checks the road behind him after every turn. After about ten minutes I start worrying that he thinks I must be stalking him. Two streets from home he takes my shortcut through a park. I decide to take a longcut to avoid any further awkwardness, and let him go on whilst I circle the streets for a bit. When I get to my road, he's turned into it just ahead of me. He looks back and sees me. I decide to overtake him and sprint for home, because I realise if he stops at my building I'll have to cycle past it and pretend I don't live there, and I want to go home sooner rather than later because I have carbonara tagliatelle plans and I’m hungry. I screech to a stop at my building, and he pedals forlornly on down the road. I suspect he's followed exactly the same thought process as me and he lives here too. I hope he gets home eventually, and that we never meet again.
There’s a pigeon in the middle of the road outside the local primary school. It’s lying down with its face ground into the tarmac, and a red stickiness gluing the feathers together. My first thought, inexplicably, is, “What if the children see it and get upset?” Then I remember that when my brother and I were very small, we used to go over the road to our neighbours’ farm where, amidst our gales of laughter, they showed us how to stick our fingers into the open wound of an amputated foot or neck of a chicken destined for dinner, and tug on the slippery tendon to make the claws and beak constrict ghostily. Later that evening when I return home, the pigeon is still there but now the body is flat and dry like a pressed flower. I wonder where all the blood has gone.
As I cycle past Westminster I see another small but mighty group of protesters. Inside, Parliament is voting on the Brexit bill. “No Trump! No Brexit! No Trump! No Brexit!” they chant at the unhearing walls. As I pass them I pump my fist and roar “YES!". The chanting falters momentarily, and by the time I reach the other side of Parliament Square I worry that my affirmation seemed like a challenge to their protests, and that I should have said, no, definitely no Trump, nor Brexit, or yes, I agree with you. I find them online later in a Facebook protest march group and clarify my position. They remember me and understand perfectly.
On a drizzly winter's morning at the Horseferry-Millbank roundabout, the cyclist just ahead of me takes the exit too sharply and starts aquaplaning. Both of his wheels lock on the water and he spins quickly around once - twice - a third time. He keeps his balance splendidly, like a bronc rider on a nasty steed, and finally pulls out of the spin with magnificent triumph, and facing the right way too. A group of pedestrians burst into spontaneous applause, and the cyclists around him cheer with delight. "Did anyone manage to record that?" he asks us hopefully. I think to myself, I'm sorry I didn't, my friend, but your actions shall be forever recorded in my blog.
I’ve arranged to meet Simon again after work, this time to see the new film Moonlight at the ICA. I pack carefully that morning, with breakfast, lunch, gymwear, and snacks in my small backpack. It’s a dull day and I put on all my gear: raincoat, reflective tags, scarf, high vis jacket and gloves, waterproof rucksack cover, helmet. I feel like the Michelin Man on the way to a disco. I step outside my front door, exactly on schedule for work, and unchain both bike locks.
The front tyre is completely flat.
 |
| Bak Kwa by Chaerani via wiki commons |
As I cycle around Parliament Square heading north, a pushy motorbike cuts me off so I’m not able to reach the cycle lane before the other motorised traffic catches me up. I’m now stuck in the wrong lane at a red traffic light, but it doesn’t matter too much as it takes me round to the correct exit anyway. As I wait for the lights to change, another motorcyclist immediately behind me starts shouting, seemingly without the need to take a breath. “Get in the bike lane woman why aren’t you in the bloody bike lane the bike lane over there woman get in the bloody bike lane why aren’t you in the bike lane woman the bike lane!” I turn around to look at him and through his tirade I try to explain that I hadn’t been able to reach the bike lane because one of his lot had cut me off, and that I had, in fact, heard him the first time. He doesn’t pause for breath but keeps shouting and I’m getting stressed out because the lights are about to change and he’s still yelling and this is a dangerous square at the best of times. I put my foot flat on the ground, stabilising myself and my bike, and, turning right around to look into his face, I bellow fiercely, “Stop fucking shouting at me!”. To my astonishment, he stops. The lights change and I pedal away, breathing hard.
I’m freewheeling down Charing Cross Road past the National Portrait Gallery when I hear a voice behind me that sounds like Bugs Bunny on amphetamine. The owner of the voice is clearly shouting at someone and I think it may be me. I turn and see a small Indian man on a scooter, a phone clamped to his ear into which he is talking very quickly. He emits a high-pitched “Wheeeeee!” and I catch the eye of a man on a bicycle next to me. We both erupt into laughter and grin our way down Whitehall with the scooter following at high volume. Every time the traffic lights change, the cartoon soundtrack rises, and the other cyclist and I look at each other and shake with wordless giggles. I’m having so much fun that when we get to Westminster and my fellow cyclist turns away over the bridge, I feel a little sad, as if I’d almost made a friend.
On the way home I find myself taking all the same turns just behind another cyclist. He knows I'm following him, because he checks the road behind him after every turn. After about ten minutes I start worrying that he thinks I must be stalking him. Two streets from home he takes my shortcut through a park. I decide to take a longcut to avoid any further awkwardness, and let him go on whilst I circle the streets for a bit. When I get to my road, he's turned into it just ahead of me. He looks back and sees me. I decide to overtake him and sprint for home, because I realise if he stops at my building I'll have to cycle past it and pretend I don't live there, and I want to go home sooner rather than later because I have carbonara tagliatelle plans and I’m hungry. I screech to a stop at my building, and he pedals forlornly on down the road. I suspect he's followed exactly the same thought process as me and he lives here too. I hope he gets home eventually, and that we never meet again.
There’s a pigeon in the middle of the road outside the local primary school. It’s lying down with its face ground into the tarmac, and a red stickiness gluing the feathers together. My first thought, inexplicably, is, “What if the children see it and get upset?” Then I remember that when my brother and I were very small, we used to go over the road to our neighbours’ farm where, amidst our gales of laughter, they showed us how to stick our fingers into the open wound of an amputated foot or neck of a chicken destined for dinner, and tug on the slippery tendon to make the claws and beak constrict ghostily. Later that evening when I return home, the pigeon is still there but now the body is flat and dry like a pressed flower. I wonder where all the blood has gone.
As I cycle past Westminster I see another small but mighty group of protesters. Inside, Parliament is voting on the Brexit bill. “No Trump! No Brexit! No Trump! No Brexit!” they chant at the unhearing walls. As I pass them I pump my fist and roar “YES!". The chanting falters momentarily, and by the time I reach the other side of Parliament Square I worry that my affirmation seemed like a challenge to their protests, and that I should have said, no, definitely no Trump, nor Brexit, or yes, I agree with you. I find them online later in a Facebook protest march group and clarify my position. They remember me and understand perfectly.
On a drizzly winter's morning at the Horseferry-Millbank roundabout, the cyclist just ahead of me takes the exit too sharply and starts aquaplaning. Both of his wheels lock on the water and he spins quickly around once - twice - a third time. He keeps his balance splendidly, like a bronc rider on a nasty steed, and finally pulls out of the spin with magnificent triumph, and facing the right way too. A group of pedestrians burst into spontaneous applause, and the cyclists around him cheer with delight. "Did anyone manage to record that?" he asks us hopefully. I think to myself, I'm sorry I didn't, my friend, but your actions shall be forever recorded in my blog.
I’ve arranged to meet Simon again after work, this time to see the new film Moonlight at the ICA. I pack carefully that morning, with breakfast, lunch, gymwear, and snacks in my small backpack. It’s a dull day and I put on all my gear: raincoat, reflective tags, scarf, high vis jacket and gloves, waterproof rucksack cover, helmet. I feel like the Michelin Man on the way to a disco. I step outside my front door, exactly on schedule for work, and unchain both bike locks.
The front tyre is completely flat.
______
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