Tuesday, 7 August 2012

The Jelly Cauldrons

I peddled hard, not even daring to take the time to look at my watch because my foldable Raleigh bike was turning into a witch.

The back tyre had sprouted a growth: a rubber bulge that bristled with strands of steel.
The wheels started cackling and the road decided to join in. Roots of trees made the tar ripple and dip like goosebumps on the skin. The road was scared of my witch bike. What to do? Keep on going of course!

So I peddled on in mad hatter haste, cycled faster trying to outrun the spell that some meddlesome crone had cast on my bike. But it was no good! The saddle started to croak, the handlebars became a cloak and the harder I tried to peddle, the more my legs turned to jelly cauldrons hissing and spitting with a black cat boil and trouble.

Fortunately I was in possession of a good stout lock. I chained the bike to a drainpipe running down the wall of the department for applied linguistics.

I'll give the situation a day or two to calm down, see how things pan out.

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