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.