I've noticed that lot of americans begin sentences with the word, "So..." In this sceptred isle, we usually say "Anyway."
Anyway, my plans vis a vis Kevin, my hog didn't go quite according to plan. Every year over here we have something called an MOT. Another stupid expression since it doesn't mean anything other than Ministry of transport. But what it translates to is that every vehicle over three years old has to be checked annually to ensure such boring details as brakes and lights work.
Anyway, Kevin failed - oh the embarrassment. Some stupid little mechanism that makes the brake lights come on when I use the front brake is broken.
'How come you didn't realise?' The man said, outraged, as if I ought to ride my bike, leaning backwards over the rear mudguard to make sure the brake lights work, while such minor annoyances as forty ton trucks follow less than a millimetre from my bum.
It was as if the bike was pleading with me: Don't leeeeeeeeeave me! So I decided there and then that I couldn't and as if reading my mind, Kevin vented his displeasure, or spite by detonating it's front headlight bulb all over the MOT inspector - not a happy bunny.
'Sixty Quid for the bulb, and fifty for the light switch.' he said with relish while scraping bits of glass from his face. 'And we haven't got them in stock so we'll have to order them. Come back in five days.' I could almost feel the smugness radiating from Kevin's disfigured front end.
Anyway, now I've got to go to work for a week on the tube knowing that my malicious lump of steel is waiting, grinning to itself.
What it doesn't know is that after a good polish I'm going to bung it in the garage and leave it there until the daffodils appear. I'll show it who's boss.