Whatever that means
There’s always one bit escapes. As soon as the shards are hoovered, the boxes are taped up and put back in the store something is spotted lurking in a corner. Missed. If it’s feeling good about itself, thinking that it dodged some kind of end-of-the-season bullet it’s sorely mistaken. It has a worse fate than storage.
Still a 100% record for cycling this year and I’ve hatched a plot with Ellen that we need to cycle to the supermarket tomorrow so that Ewan can make us all pizza for tea.
It’s a long ride to the Tesco. I’d go to the local Co-op but I’m pissed with them for changing their colour scheme, fiddling with the recipe for their “finest” sausages and closing down the cheese counter while they renovate it. And all without consulting the “community”. Bastards. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll make the four mile round trip into a 14 mile trip. That’ll learn them.