Bicycle Belle

The word bicycle for me conjures up all sorts of images. Pulling ‘wheelies’ whilst chewing Hubba Bubba, rude and sweaty commuters in spandex (shudders) and my favourite…

…free-wheeling over Parisian cobbles in a Breton striped tee, basket loaded with breadsticks, Merlot and Brie.

I want to ride my bicycle. “Liar, you don’t have one”. Sigh. I want to ride A bicycle. Any bicycle will do.

But there’s one condition. It HAS to have a basket on the front. 

Sometimes a simple want for a material thing grows over time, the idea manifests itself in your subconscious, occasionally popping up and waving to remind you of its existence. Until it becomes a need.

My recent obsession with two-wheels hit me quite suddenly. As a lorry would me if anyone were stupid enough to give me said wheels.

I’d like to blame TFL (how we Londoners LOVE those rants) for relieving me of my annual travelcard. Although, I suspect it’s more to do with moving to Shoreditch. These things are EVERYWHERE.

See? Officer, I am being stalked.

Without getting all fluorescent and sweaty on you, what better way to endorse my new healthy urban existence than cycling through London Fields every morning to work?

I’m all about the health see? Which is why I really cannot live a moment longer without the Pashley Princess. Technically I’d be living on the street, seeing as they cost around a months rent, but that’s beside the point.

Sporty little number isn’t she?

Alright, alright, you’ve got me. I’ve lead you here under a guise. A false pretence of sorts. This is absolutely nothing to do with my recent health kick at all.

That basket may be perfect for filling with algae-filled water bottles, but quite frankly I’d rather sub them for wine bottles. “Quick call the nurse! That girl appears delusional.” Apologies, various fantasies as to the death of Mr. Lent are currently favoured over my usual waking up next to a Teasmade (more on that another time).

What it really comes down to is this. I am obsessed with cutesy kitsch. Obsessed.

From Blythe...

To retro telephones...

I am, in that respect a total girl. Or is it gurl...? Anyway I digress. Back to my vapid fandom.

Oh Pashley you are spoiling me, for she is so pretty.

I mentioned the bicycle fantasy to my girlfriend Claire and she laughed. OUT LOUD. I hasten to add, Claire’s not one for laughing. She reads books. Serious books. And, she has a Filofax. I asked her what was so damned funny about the idea of me putting leather to pedal. Granted I’m not exactly Miss Marathon 2010, but I’m hardly Waynetta Slob.

“Oh no, not at all!” she proclaimed, “only I was wondering how long it’d be before you decided to get one of those posey little bikes with a basket on the front – I can totally see you on one of those.”

I’m hoping she 'sees' me like this...

Urban chic.

Or this?

 

Dream on girl...

Or maybe this?

Mmmm, yes. Perhaps. 
Off you go Miss Hepburn. Off you jolly well go.

The reality is I wouldn’t look quite so flawless because:

a) The ride from Brick Lane to Columbia Road would never be sober. So arrest me.

b) I’d have to start eating bread and cheese again – of which I am most definitely NOT eating right now, and

c) my Breton striped tee  would get awfully ragged (through overwear) if not a little tight (see bread and cheese).

Which leaves me to ponder: how does one manage to stay on one's bicycle whilst under the influence?

Answers on a postcard please.