I was going to get around to moaning about the absence of my
bike from the College bikeshed after some scrote kicked in
the door on Sunday night, but I didn't get around to it.
I was going to get around to telling you about the salesman
type who rear-ended my bike at a T-junction last October
and, having sat and stared at me as I picked myself up out
of the path of crossing traffic drove off when I went to
enquire politely after his motivation and parentage. It
took the police about a month to trace him and decide there
wasn't the evidence for a "failure to stop" prosecution but
I was waiting for the cheque from his insurance company
before I told you. (He's insured with "privilege", which is
apparently Direct Line's brand for high-risk customers.)
They offered me twice the cost of the damage -- ok, only
mudguards and a spoke, but it ought to damage his no-
claims. Maybe.
Anyway, the cheque still hasn't arrived, so I phoned them
today and they said they'd closed the file after sending a
cheque for my claim -- but on inspection it emerged that
they had issued a cheque to the insured driver! (Note to
self: "privilege" may be incompetent insurers, but they
might still be a lucrative company to insure with. They're
stopping his cheque, and sending me another. I won't hold
my breath.
So the new mudguards had already been stolen on Sunday,
which was probably what prompted me to call "privilege"
about it today. I had written the bike off and replaced it
on Monday. Nice new bike, slightly higher spec, all that,
but with the old lock that my wife found in the road (with
two keys...). I was cruising back into College this evening
when I caught sight of a half-naked teenager riding a familiar-
looking bike (on the pavement). Damn me, if he wasn't less
than fifty yards from where he pinched it. He legged it, but
I now have the bike, minus one of the light brackets and the
lock. Sadly I don't have the half-naked scrote.
It was a surreal experience. This being Oxford I had
consciously written off the stolen bike immediately, but it
took me about half a day to stop looking at every bike I
passed to see whether it was familiar. I really wasn't
looking for the old bike any more, it just caught my eye.
You know those sub-conscious things that alert your
conscious mind, and feel unheimlich -- like when you
"notice" someone is looking at you even though you know you
weren't looking in their direction? It was like that. But
with half-naked scrote.
So now as a family we have more bikes than locks. And one of
those may be a carefully planted trap for which there are
really three keys. Hm.
This is not a good situation to be in, and needs to be
remedied.