The SUV pulls up beside me at the lights. I glance at the driver, interested to see what form Satan has chosen to take on this balmy evening. His face I cannot recall, due to its now permanent association with deep embarrassment and sickening relief. But I remember his wild gesticulations, his 'roll down your shitty purple framed window' exhortations.
The drive up until now has been uneventful. I spend most of it fretting over my performance in the spin class that I have just completed. For the last fifteen minutes I had been barely able to turn the pedals. As I speed over the speed bumps on Palmerston Road, I tick off the excuses in my head.
Didn't eat enough today.
You ate your body weight in pasta, you twit.
Five spin in 48 hours at the start of the week.
You've done that before, tosser.
Yesteray's crash, delayed shock.
What kind of pussy do you take yourself for?
Bump, bump, bump.
John Wesley Harding is blasting magically from Riker's discman through an FM transmitter as I fly down Morehampton Road. Previously I used the laptop for driving music but the battery is fucked. Onto the list a new battery goes, along with teaching clothes without pinhole burns and a fucking haircut. I have it with me anyway, the laptop, as it has become essential for spin, with all its music, its inspirational Tour clips and its big shiny stopwatch display.
I am forced to stop suddenly at yet another fucking red light. Should have cycled. Yeah, that would have helped. I feel the imminent total physical collapse in my bones.
It is at the next lights that the paths of myself and Mr Faceless SUV finally cross. I buzz down the window, and as it descends, the man in question is already pointing above my head, towards Purple's roof. The window is down. He speaks to me in a shocked, barely audible voice as he continues to weakly indicate to the space above my tiny, tiny brain.
Can you guess? Can you? Can you? What's on the roof, folks? What has been perched happily atop Purple for the last three miles, through hill and dale, over bumps and potholes?
Yeah, I thought you'd get it. It is, indeed. Oh yes, it is. It's my fucking laptop.
So many emotions. So little time. Still dominating, even now, is the joy I feel at having have provided my readers, my children and most of all, Common Law, with yet another reason to hold me in contempt.
Those non-existent Gods smile upon me, but they do so with a terrible disdain.
What are they doing in heaven today?
7 hours ago