There was something splendidly English about this morning’s jaunt to work.
The first meeting of the day was at one of the grand old museums in Kensington. So, with a bit of time and clear blue skies, I could fulfil an ambition.
It’s something I’ve always wanted to do; imagined it to be terribly romantic: riding through Hyde Park in the sunshine. As if I owned the place. Or, at least lived close enough to own a place that was fabulously expensive. Of course, if I really wanted to impress, I’d have been on horseback. But they won’t let me bring Neddy on the train. At least not after the incidence with that woman’s sugar lumps and the extended visit to Accident and Emergency.
Nevertheless, after negotiating various subways and some of the Upper Reaches of Hell just to avoid the traffic at Marble Arch, I emerged onto the surreal idyll of a speaker-less Speakers’ Corner. But I was not alone. I joined a legion of riders of fold-up bicycles. It felt like the Rio carnival, albeit without the music, the dancers and the costumes. Instead of those gaudy elements, this parade consisted cyclists, often of indeterminate gender, sporting florescent jackets and perched on circus-style miniature bikes all puffing cheerfully through the cold. And I was one of them.
I like to think that I’m always pushing the boundaries of what’s considered cool.
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