Look, somebody do us a favour and check that my bike hasn’t been stolen. My doctor says I worry too much, and would I please stop making that smell in his surgery.
Last Tuesday, due to a bizarre set of circumstances involving Thames Trains, a rubber plimsoll and a cheese and chutney sandwich, I was forced to leave my bike at Reading railway station and seek alternative transport back home to my luxury beachfront villa in sunny Weymouth (it’s always sunny here – we sacrifice virgins every winter just to be on the safe side). This involves a mighty “big up” to the much-maligned South West Trains for providing me with a taxi home from Bournemouth in the middle of the night, costing them forty quid over and above the face value of my ticket.
The long and the short of it is that my bike has been sitting in the racks between the station entrance and the RailAir parking at Reading – otherwise known as bike theft capital of the world - for the last eight days while I’ve been otherwise taking a holiday that keeps we away from the armpit of Southern England until next Monday. So, if there’s anyone who lives or works in Reading who would be kind enough to look out for a black Raleigh Record with a 24-inch frame and a dodgy back rack, I’d be more than grateful.
“More than grateful” in this context does not extend to any financial reward, however.
Still, it’s insured for over five hundred pounds and worth no more than ten, so take your bolt-cutters.
Normal Scaryduckage will return as soon as possible.