The broken bike saga continues.

The inevitable follow-up to the crash was the insurance claim – straightforward enough, except I had to admit to a completely self-induced accident. Bloody embarrassing, but necessary.

Fortunately, if anyone at the insurance company laughed, it wasn’t in my presence.

Then the wait started. After several phone calls I managed to get confirmation that the FJ would indeed be written off. 

Then some more waiting, then suddenly, a couple of days before Christmas, I found out the (still rideable) wreck had been bought by a local wrecker.

I know this wrecker, he has a long history of stupid, thoughtless, misogynistic comments and actions. Couple that with the non-appearance of my payout cheque and his being two and half hours late to pick up my FJ, and I wasn’t terribly impressed to see it go. Livid is a good word for my state.

The cheque took another two weeks and three phone calls to turn up. I went out straight away and bought a new helmet, something I still consider a delightful luxury. 

Meanwhile the rest of the money is languishing in my bank account while I wrestle with the twin problems of how not to spend it on everyday trivia and what to spend it on.

I have a very good plan, which goes like this – put the money in a term deposit for a couple of months where, gods and financial institutions willing, it might grow a bit, and I can’t spend it.  Then, when the sun stops shining and prices and precipitation start to fall, I’ll go shopping.  It’s a fine plan, and I like it very 
much. It has lots of elements of financial sense, an attribute for which I’m not 
generally known. Which is why I know it’s not going to work.

Meanwhile I get to ride my beloved’s FJ (which is so different from mine you’d never believe they came from the same factory) but I have to ask first, and sometimes he wants to ride it. And bloody everyone is out on the road on a 
bike, and I’m jealous. 

Fuck this enforced, bikelessness, I’m going shopping – anyone hear of a good deal??

Elle McFearsome