Manchester united

The Manchester blast was Vs little women. Because, you know, it's their fault. 

What doesn't astound me in the aftermath of these events is the stories of the people lost and the people saved; and those who went into the chaos to help

Manchester united, like Paris did and like places across the world do, opening their doors to strangers brutalised by another stranger. 

A man-made tragedy but an entirely human response. You can't defeat that, no matter how many bombs you blow.

(First raised for a Manchester united).

BYB re-stacked

The bitter irony was that not 24 hours beforehand I'd bragged about how me and the BYB were in sync like me as a 12-year-old in sync with my then bike.

I grew up in a town that you could get anywhere to on a bike within 40 minutes and it was the '80s so you and your bike would vanish during the day then appear again around darkness. No contact; presumed okay.

You'd fly down the steepest of hills with only a pedal brake to protect you; you'd ride a long way out of town, kays down dusty roads, into the fucking bush sometimes just because you could.

You and your bike were as one.

Me and this bike are not yet as one. I thought we were but we’re not. The BYB is a trike, which has many advantages but also plenty of disads; with three wheels comes added complication.

I was tooling along a footpath when it happened—because the footpath was subsumed by a driveway that went at forty-five degrees to the entry road. The BYB, being wheels of three, meant one wheel went up the incline.

I made nearly all the way across but the bins were in the way on the path and even though I counter tipped I still tipped—nice and slow—forward into the road from the pavement. It was a blind curve and because it was a settled McMansion suburb of Canberra then the typical car that would likely come along to squish me would be a giant not-needed-in-the-capital SUV and one capable of not seeing even me.

I banged up my shoulder, forearm, lower leg and got grazed through my jumper along my elbow. My helmet and gloves protected me from worse. 

It took seeming forever to get from under the bike then crawl to my feet. No car came along to hit me but also no one stopped to help—but I’m not sure if I was seen. Then it was the limping and the wheeling of the bike until I got around the blind curve and could safely mount to cross.

I was not in sync with my bike—or rather, trike. And that was the problem—that extra wheel. It still takes getting some used to.

Even now I still bash into the fence or plinth on the gap path into my street because I’ve gone a fraction too one direction to compensate for my bigger bike bum of two wheels and a tray.

I recognise that outside riding with motion, cars and roads is a risk but it’s a risk accepted. Riding a bike outside, going the distance and going with speed is insanely great compared to the laborious slog of the SoTPC.

I had a day off to heal and it’s back on the BYB on the morrow. So I nearly died again—big whoop; add it to the fucking list of the nearly done me ins.


Sullied, cats and the dead Pringle

I'd put on a tight blue shirt, not that tight, but it was nice. My nose was dripping though and I looked down to see a fat dribble of snot had soiled it. Total wearing time < 30 seconds.

I think that's a record.

Sneaky cat
I heard the distant light clunk of the screen door close and knowing I was the only one home I investigated. The black cat was out and under the BYB. I grabbed her and hustled her back in. The door should close shut but it doesn't and the cat takes advantage of that. Sneaky fucker. 

Outside cats do not live long in Canberra. 

Dead Pringle
I had occasion to prong my second ever Pringle from a tree. I'd left it there from a previous Pringle throw but it had lodged in the leaves and not come down. Unlike last time I went "meh" and decided to let nature (i.e. the wind) bring it down for me.

Two days later I saw it had not. There was a piece of old fencing so I used that to prong the Pringle down. In its 48 hour seclusion in the tree the Pringle had curled in on itself, like a dropped leaf, the ends almost touching. Down it fell and the delighted trio of browns fell upon it and wrested shards of curled Pringle back and forth until gobbled. It was exciting for them and perhaps because it fell from heaven I am now their gawd. 

Not the gawd; a gawd. A chicken gawd. 

Here endeth the lesson.  

Tissue in the wash

Tissue in the wash
I checked every fucking pocket, I swear, every single one. But I must have missed one because I opened the lid and saw the results. There's the good result where a tissue stays in shape—I found one that went through the wash and dryer and separated into three intact dried sheets on three separate garments—and the bad one where it shreds and pulps through your clothes.

It was the bad one. I yelled as I shook the shards free, snowing the laundry with their crud. I have PTSD and dodgy hands so naturally my hands flew open more than once on a shake and I had to bend to get the clothes off the floor with my failing knees and hip screaming at me.  Then re-shake them because they'd been re-dusted with bits.

Then I used a tall-handled dustpan to sweep up the shards. I know it's a first world whine to moan about a tissue in the wash but, fuck me, that is a prime domestic fail annoyance. 

There's still little bits I cannot get, reminding me of my failure. 

BYB top gear
I went for a ride where I stayed in top gear in spite of hills and slopes. Didn't change down once in a 30 minute hurtle. I even did an overpass in third. 

Area man is enjoying the ride.

BYB scary moments
The BYB has industrial thick tyres—but already holed once from a thumbtack—and its frame is rugged and strong. So you can go off road. 

Off road and going down a slope, however, is terrifying. You cannot turn the wheel too sharply or you'll tip so if you're on a rugged slope so you're basically going in that direction until the slope gives out. So there you are, gripping on with grim hope, face rattling as you scream down a slope and just hoping said face doesn't get mashed to a pulp.

UPDATE: I was going up on one side wheel and more-than-likely headed into a lamppost when I gave up on keeping the turn and went thudding into the grass instead. It was a split second choice or smooshed me. Eep.  

Bird stare
I can see small birds in a bush outside my window. I get a "tee-hee!" reaction each time I see them. I'll be typing and at the top of my eye I'll register a leaf twitch look up and see either a titchy bird or the afterglow of its branch bounce. 

Area man is enjoying the nature.