Sulking is a competitive sport in the hedgehog household. The young pretenders think the old man is way past his prime with his stock grump being just so 1980s. Nobody – well nobody hip and slick – lays down a tool throwing, sweary shouting rail at the wrongness of the world with a quivering bottom lip, noseful of beer finish as their signature move.

Not when this totally fails to embrace the newskool emo moves: tossing of full manes*, screaming that the object of their angst (be it toy, homework, sister, sister, sister, mother, father or sister) is the worst/stupidest/most unskilled/useless thing/task/parent/sister on this whole damn planet. And that’s just the ignition sequence for the explosion of inflammable rage- short but burning white hot – before subsiding into ground shaking sobs and inconsolable silences.

And you know what, they still don’t get an ice cream before dinner. It’s tough being a kid around here.

We expected much more of this once the long talked of separation from familiar friends, places and school became a physical distance. Good news is that is hasn’t, bad news is that karmic shock has transferred itself onto anything mechanical with the meta-tag “owned by Al”.

First the much stroked Cove decided to its’ revenge for my crime of latent singlespeeding by offering up only about three gears, each separated by a pedal stroke. The shifter was nothing more than a bar ornament as progress was enacted by a hop, skip and a chain jump. And some sulking. The Voodoo struck a brothers-in-arm solidarity pact, choosing to orchestrate its’ slidy ensemble of sprocket music some one mile into the Rough Ride.

Not a huge problem to be honest. The only gear I needed was Granny-Granny** and a great bit fat one filled with recreational pharmaceuticals to chill out the boredom vibe. Man. That’s the last electrons I’m toasting on the matter except to say Roadies and Mountain Bikes go together about as well as Cheese and Steak*** Until the carbon sheathed, laser sighted Gattling Gun is available as an after market accessory, enduros and me shall be separated by an ironic glance and a raised middle finger.

Right, briefly to the point. Remember this rant when Honda basically legally mugged me for – amongst other nebulous services – about a hundred smackeroons for a tyre? Well it seems this was merely an undiagnosed symptom for an even more expensive malaise. Something is rumbling back there and it’s not the kids as I threw them out**** – the worrying fanaticism of the Internet informs this is known problem with the Mighty Accord, that Honda spend the entire warranty period pretending they don’t know about.

So any spare moment tomorrow shall be spent wondering if “Honda do really appreciate my call” while oily men with spanners suck air and offer to fix it in a) three weeks and b) which is fine as I’ll need that time to raise the finance. My initial response was to grab the warm evening and take it for a fast wind-out-your-mind ride. But the Roadrat has spent too long skulking with the sulking MTB twins, so when the freewheel exploded in a hissy fit – abandoning me in the epicentre of absolute bloody sodding nowhere – I shouldn’t have been surprised.

I wasn’t really because I was busy recreating my signature move for a few cows and a man doing something thoroughly unpleasant to a Landrover. And while the Wifey support vehicle was en route, my time was industriously spent concluding that both wheels and tyres were completely shagged.

Normal service is resumed. Grumpy is back.

* Oh yeah, I wish.

** For those not afflicted to the firefly/light call of the Mountain Bike, this is the lowest gear ratio available. It is also known as the “BBC3 gear” in that nobody admits to actually using it, but it’s nice to have the choice should you ever be really stuck.

*** I’ve got to put my foot down here. Saffers: Sausage and Marmalde, JUST SAY NO. Kiwis: Cheese with everything: IT’S NOT RIGHT. Australians: OH BLOODY HELL, WHERE DO I START?

**** We did stop first. I am not that much of a bastard. Yet.