Grateful: Day 6 - Backwards Thinking?

I'm not sure if it's the wind or the way my face is on today, but I

found myself laughing even though things this morning suddenly

went quite expensively wrong.

I mashed up my bike. My bike that is my favourite place to be in the

whole world. My bike that keeps me steely-thighed and nowhere near

as fat as I would otherwise be. My bike that has newish pedals and

worn old saddle that I insist on keeping. My bike that is not even

my original bike, but an insurance replacement for a stolen bike from

years ago.

I felt the back wheel behaving strangely as I legged it down to the

station to catch the 7.06, but it got me there, and I resolved to fix it

at the other end. Well, it is now 'fixed', only not as I had imagined.

I started the cycle up Parliament Hill towards the Heath, changed gears

and there was a big clanky crunch. My derailleur had gone into the

spokes, taking part of the pannier rack with it. Then it snapped off,

for proper.

I locked it and ran - that cold pond waits for no lady - and I had a

skype meeting at 8.15 with two delightful people. And on my yomp

up onto the Heath I laughed. I wouldn't try and convince anyone that

I'm actually happy about the death of a part of my bike. I'm not.

Spending an extra £100 I wasn't expecting to spend is not the best news

I've had all week. And I love my bike.

I can't even explain why it was so funny. Because it could have been

so much worse? If I'd been hurtling down said hill and that had gone

on, I'd be sticking out of somebody's windscreen. Because it put my

hurry in perspective? 'I've got to rush, I've got to rush'...

'NO, YOU DON'T HAVE TO. HAVE THIS. HA!'

Or because that's just what happened? That's what it was. Will willing

it away help? There's my bike, still in one piece (thank you, clever

engineers, for designing derailleurs so they snap in strategic places

rather than buggering up your frame; thank you, man in bike repair

centre, for explaining this). And there's me still in one piece too.

That's what happened and nobody died. And I have been thinking about

how nice it would be to have a new bike. It's one of my fantasy places

to go. It's not real and in the practicalities of it, it probably wouldn't be anywhere near as good in real life. It smacks of threesome. But I did ask.

So now, in part or in whole, there'll be some new bikeness going on.

Within minutes, I was crying. I didn't change my mind. I just went up onto heathy bit of Parliament Hill. I saw people looking up, so I looked up too, and there was a sunrise worth dying in, just for the romance of it. Even East London, with cranes and drudge, was bathed in beauty. And it was that thought that set me off.

The sun rising in the East was turning the clouds pink and orange, shining up high. Over in the West, the tips of the trees were drinking in the colour and mixing it with their greens and browns. Down

in the valleys it was dull and grey and frosty-foggy, silhouetted with

dog-walkers, but above them, these trees. David Hockney laser prints.

Magical landscapes. And then the passing pigeon, lit from beneath,

was proper neon pink, like a sale sign.

I felt a bit supernatural, swimming today when the train platform had been gritted against ice, but that goodness for the winter-swimming ladies who take it all in their stride, discussing tactics and motivation and some of them still getting changed outside, so what am I even bothering to shiver for?

And there's always that high point of the day, pouring a bucket of hot water over my head after a cold shower that was warmer than the pond. You can't beat that. It's

brilliant. It really, truly is. Oh god, I'm off again.

I went to a cafe, struggled with the internet, tasted the most

appalling cup of coffee, took it back, lost a £20 note, found it again,

and got online only after the meeting I'd set up had finished. It was

a good meeting, though, apparently. I spoke to the deeply pleasing

Esther Lilley just after it, and still get to go and swap ideas with inspiring

Rob Grundel tomorrow.

I am grateful for my bike, broken or not, and for Victoria Sandison, who

made me watery-eyed yesterday too with nice words. I cry a lot. It's a

theme. I'm thinking of adding a cry-count to this blog, just to give it a

bit of perspective. It's not woe-tears, mostly, it's being moved.

Sometimes it's self-pity and sometimes frustration, but right now,

anything that makes my heart feel big, someone's kindness, love or

openness - anything genuine and positive and rich, and that's me done.

Day 6 cry-count so far: 5. 5 and half. There's a novel involved - that

accounts for two of them. This writer is blatantly doing it on purpose,

but that's what I chose that book for, so well done him, and thank you.

I loved the man whose pink shirt hanging out looked like an enormous

comedy bum. It's the fact that it wasn't that was funny. If he had been

wearing one, I'd have looked away. Oh, and I had a go, two goes, on a

spaniel. Very happy to be stroked. On a long string. Small and calendar

cute, with a burly, greasy owner. Brilliant.

Yesterday's most pleasing mis-spelling: Flabjack. If it was spelt like that

all the time, there'd be less of it eaten. And today's misread strapline -

Marxism makes you thin (it was Maxislim, but I prefer my first impression).

And I'm grateful every time someone is nice about this blog. I look

forward to writing it. Not that I don't feel sad, or challenged or annoyed sometimes - I do - but the combined pleasure of looking for things that

please me and getting to write them down is really doing it for me.

Today, I got to check files about the alphabet, migrating swallows,

skunks and howler monkeys and call it work. And my teeth came.

They're in now. They're very good, and a little easier to talk in than

my last ones.

Can't complain.