The shame

So anyway, I went to work today and felt much better after a roast dinner (did I mention I get a hot meal for free every day? Woo!). Since the Other Half gave me a lift in this morning, and Fun Colleague (not Rupert-Bear-lady - I've found another one!) gave me a lift home, I decided to cycle to Tesco. For some exercise. And some wine. Ahem.

On the way home I cycled along a bit of pavement that technically isn't a cycle path. Where we live, there are miles and miles of cycle paths but since I am inept to the point of collapse at the art of navigation, I've never managed to find the bit that goes to the little supermarket just up the road. I prefer to, rather than risk the enormous buses and chavved up Saxos that populate the local roads, run the gauntlet of disapproving pedestrians. Which is all fine*, generally.

Pedalling along a particularly narrow stretch of pavement, I noticed a teenage couple up ahead. They were all tracksuits and disdain, and I suffer from low self-esteem around teenagers, so I was rather hoping they would hear my approach over the sound of their snogging-in-public-with-tongues and let me past.

It was all going rather well, so far.

As I neared them, the sulky hooligans young people heard me approach. They moved to one side. Excellent.

And as I passed them, the plastic packet of mince in the carrier bag dangling from my right handlebar swung up against the spokes of my front wheel and emitted a large farting noise, of the sort that cannot easily be ignored. Exacerbating my humiliation by blurting an inadvertent, rather campy cry of "ooh, hello!", I cycled frantically homewards, feigning ignorance of the raucous adolescent laughter trailing in my wake.

Bastards.

* I know. Whatever. Write to your MP. I'm over it.