April 9, 2012

The Cally

The Cale. The Cale, Calle, Cally.

The Caledonian Road, fabled for filth. A trunk road, not a residence, do not live there its nowhere. I used to have a beautiful red mountain bike before I took it to the Caledonian Road.

I locked it outside the pub at about 6 o’clock on a Wednesday and went in for an after work drink with my boss. One drink turned into many and we did not leave till we were kicked out. By that time some lady had taken a shine to the boss and was trying to get us to go to a club. I had not given the bike a thought, I had put two locks round it and removed the saddle. I walked to where I had left it and it was gone.

A stake for growing a sapling against lay on the floor with my discarded locks.

“F**K! Oh, I knew it, why? Damn. F**K! F**K!” I burst into tears.

“Come on Andrew, it’s alright, you have insurance.” My boss put his arm on my shoulders

The girl appeared, “You guys coming? Come on, let’s go to the club.”

“Just leave us alone, can’t you see he’s had his bike stolen?”

“Alright.” She left.

There we were two lads one holding a saddle drying his eyes, the other holding him round the shoulders. A man passed and as he did so went to pick up the locks and judge their worth.

“Excuse me mate.”

“Oh, sorry, from a prized possession, eh?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Sorry.” He moved on, leaving the locks.

I bent down, picked them up and walked home.

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