How 2 wheels and me don't get on
A moderately eventful few days has spurred me back into writing, and for a change it's *actual* things going on that I want to write about.

Tuesday saw my (pedal) bicycle break. It had been making a funny thunky noise as the pedals idled when I rode back from Richmond Park the previous day, but it seemed fine when going forward. So, on balance, I thought I'd risk it. I t might go away if you ignore it! Unsurprisingly, I made it half way around the park - about 4 miles from home - before the derailleur (I think) gave out completely. Honestly, there were ball bearings everywhere! The only thing to do (and I was lucky in the, by and large, I'd been going mainly uphill up to this point) was to wheel the bloody thing all the way home. Or get a taxi, but my pride and quest for fitness had me decided. So I did the stand on pedal and push with other foot thing, and managed to get home in about 40 minutes. 40 minutes of literally back-buggering work, but anyway. I felt quite proud, if bikeless.

So the next day I decide to walk all the way round Richmond Park. 7 miles! As soon as I get there, I realise it'll be much more fun to walk through the middle of the park, where it actually feels rather rural and medieval (Henry VIII and other monarchs used to hunt there). It was amazing - the beautiful weather continues (even as I write this), and all felt well in the world.

That afternoon, a friend came round and we didn't fancy staying in, so I set out on my aching feet for another walk, this time round Barnes Common. Except it ended up being *literally* around the common, as a jovial young policeman stopped us heading off into the interior (is that a tautology?) because "we're blowing up a bomb in there". Blimey!!! So, naturally, we slunk off, wandering around nearby so that we could see the full majesty of the bomb squad at work. Thirty minutes later, a dull thud, followed by the nee-naw of a fire engine (who, we thought, should probably have been on standby when the bomb actually exploded), and that was it. No massed ranks of coppers, nothing. We couldn't even find where the blast had taken place. What a con!

Then Thursday. Belle and Sebastian played a gig on Wednesday night, and much to my excitement, Struan announced that there'd be a meet-up the following day for footie at the Albert memorial! Wow! I had a work-related meeting (which *may* lead to me getting a job, Christ on a bike), which I headed to on my scooter, before taking a quick coffee and heading off west to kensington Gardens.

Except I didn't. After 30 seconds, my bike conks out. I wheel it back to the bike parking place in Holborn and set off forlornly on foot. The footie is good fun, if exhausting - the last thing my legs need today is a thirty minute walk in the sun lugging a 200-pound moped, but hell, they're getting it! I'm having to take it along to a reasonably local bike repair shop, where, if it's a simple problem, it'll be sorted out. If it's not - fuck, I don't even want to think about it. Grrr.

Also last night I saw my lovely ex-girlfriend of 5 weeks. It was really good to see her, though after a while (and a couple of drinks) the melancholy started seeping back, so I went home.

And that's it! My most prosaic journal entry yet, but hell, at least it tells stuff.