Taxi? Not for me. No thanks. We’ve all gotta make a living, but I’m not being fleeced for 3.5 miles of fossil fuel. Back to my steed. Tried. Trusted. True.
It gleams in the gloom. Layers of grit and grime are rendered invisible. Bias? Of course, but you can’t tell me it is not a feast for the aesthete. Is there a more civilised sight than a jumble of steel and wheels? Two of course. Not four.
The band stopped playing 15 minutes ago, but my ears still ring under the sodium glow. The words still rattle around my head;
It’s just a rumour that was spread around town
A telegram or a picture postcard
Within weeks they’ll be re-opening the shipyards
And notifying the next of kin
Its all were skilled in
We will be shipbuilding
Lyrics still topical, still relevant, still meaningful 31 years later. Under the Shepherd’s tutelage, punk and protest have matured into folk and legend. I’ve got something to hum now, something to mull over and contemplate while I spin these cranks, duck down lanes, cut through hospitals and ease along the asphalt. All in good company of course. Always in good company. A night out without my trusted steed and mates and banter and the mesmerising click, click, click of the freewheel, is barely a night out at all.