A parade of strangeness lined up for inspection this morning as – in no particular order â€“ I was confusingly confronted by a pink folder, a coat hanger and a set of weighing scales.
Last year about this time a whirling dervish, defined by big hair and powerful limbs, speeded a crinkly facsimile of a proper bicycle leaving me worsted at the end of Â a three mile race through the centre of London. So imagine my delight when, earlier today, Â the pink persecutor flexed its way into Hyde park, travelling slowly on silly wheels and making the same kind of pointless fashion statement as puff ball skirts.
Eagerly I chased down my nemesis ready for another battle of the sexes, only this time with even less fitness but even more cheating. But the only person cheated was me since â€“ amazingly â€“ some other asylum escapee had purchased the pointless pivoter in a garish shade of pink. Nevertheless, this was too good an opportunity for revenge and in barely an irregular heartbeat, she was consigned to the bin of the bested.
Iâ€™m pretty sure she was impressed, I know I was.
Still whistling a happy tune, my mood was further enhanced by someone having else having a crap day. An angry post-it note traded as a modern day thrown gauntlet â€“ hung as it was to a damp towel â€“ and promising any philanderer making wet and merry with said drying garment a set of broken legs.
I love this kind of machismo nonsense and, finding myself alone in the shower room, sorted myself out with a vigorous rub down using Â his non consensual communal towel, making sure it was properly damp even at the corners. Donâ€™t look at me like that; after suffering the heinous theft of two shower gels and a underarm smelly, the gloves (or possibly gauntlets) are well and truly off.
And because everyone knows good things come in threes, I approached â€“ still with some trepidation â€“ the weighing scales of fearful truth. However, having already passed the qualifying â€˜third hole in the trouser beltâ€™, I was insanely confident that the fat burning combination of a bit of cycling and a lot of beer would reap the benefits of reduced poundage.
Although Iâ€™ve yet to fully research the weight loss properties of a daily dose of half a tube of Pringles and a man sized Yorkie. Thatâ€™s the chocolate bar not the small dog in case you were confused.
But that research has been canned in a celebrity lager as â€“ and Iâ€™ve absolutely no idea how this could have happened â€“ half a stone of AL has left the building since Christmas.
Being an eternal optimist, I can only assume that I have contracted some wasting disease.