Queen of Melodrama
Picture the scene. A young(ish) woman steps resolutely into the gathering dawn. It’s so cold that her breath gathers in clouds around her head, and small droplets of moisture accumulate on the end of her nose. However, she does not care; a set of tools in one hand, and a newly repaired inner tube over one shoulder, she is Rachie: Bike Mechanic.
Half an hour later, her fingers raw with cold, and black with oil and road muck, she struggles bravely to lever the last bit of tyre into the wheel thingy. Panting with effort, she forces it into place, and sits back, smug, triumphant and complacent. Grabbing her pump, she begins jauntily to pump up the inner tube. But lo! What is this hissing sound? Why is the inner tube not filling with air?
As the truth dawns, she is filled with a terrible rage. Casting her tools from her in fury, she falls to her knees, and rents her clothes. Railing at the gods, she raises her hands to heaven and asks “Why? Why?†There is much wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and our heroine falls to weeping piteously amidst the debris of her failed endeavour. She notices her discarded spoons, one of which has a series of right-angled kinks in it that are so exact that she briefly considers a career in metalwork, before returning to the task in hand, and beating the ground with her fists. Such a scene has seldom been witnessed in the back yard of this terraced Victorian house. Even the birds are silenced.
In short, I had the mother of all tantrums. Then I took the Beast to the bike shop down the road, and had it fitted out with a Kevlar tyre. I’m bulletproof. Nothing’s getting through this baby.