ON YER BIKE
The other half reckons he's a keen cyclist. This is because twenty five years ago, as a lovelorn young man, he cycled to the south of France with a girl he was running away with. After some sad and awkward sexual rummaging in an even sadder two-man tent, the girl told him she was actually a lesbian. Now, as if to prove that the cycling gene still throbs like a strong throbbing thing within his soul, the other half has got his bike fixed. 'I put new tyres on,' he says. 'It's ready to go.' 'That's super cool sweetie,' I say. 'But don't overdo it. If you factor in that you cycled at least two hundred and fifty miles about twenty five years ago, you're already averaging ten miles a year.' 'God. You're such a bitch sometimes,' he laughs, darkly. 'Aaaw. I thought you said I was a cunt,' I say, disappointed. Needless to say, the cycling gene is not present in anybody else in the family. One of my children was the