I haven’t ridden a bicycle for years but it is true what they say – that is it something you never forget. What they NEVER say is that if you’ve not travelled on a bike for many years, you really should take some precautions in the comfortable seating department. By the time I’ve reached the end of the driveway I am already feeling on the wrong side of uncomfy.
‘It’s a common complaint amongst cyclists,’ shouts a helpful Bambino from his seat behind me. ‘Stop by that tree and I’ll see what I can do.’
I dutifully oblige. I am already fretting about how I am going to pedal a bicycle around the world in less than six hours, given that the current record, held by Mark Beaumont, is 78 days 14 hours and 40 minutes. And he is infinitely younger and slimmer than me, AND he’d had a previous practise run. Who does that? Cycles around the world twice? Seriously, hasn’t he got a job to go to or something?? Anyway, back to practicalities.
Bambino dismounts his own comfortable cushion of a seat and assesses my posterior. ‘Do you suffer from haemorrhoids?’ he says.
‘That’s really none of your business,’ I say.
He agrees. ‘I suppose not,’ he says. ‘Really I was just testing out if I could spell haemorrhoids. And it turns out I can!’
‘You could have said “piles”’ I say.
‘I could NOT!’ he says, indignantly. ‘In the World of Cat ‘piles’ means something completely different.’ And he leans forward and whispers in my ear.
‘Eeeuwwwww,’ I say. ‘Really?’
‘Really,’ he says.
Leaving me to deal with renewed feelings of nausea, he proceeds to climb the tree against which the bicycle is now leaning. I watch him. I’ve never seen him climb a tree before. Not without a ladder anyway. He returns within a minute, a large bird nest tucked under his arm…leg…arm? (Oh, the problems encountered by writers when they anthropomorphise…sigh….)
‘There!’ he says, arranging the nest on the saddle. He adds an extra layer of moss and secures it with a handy ball of string he finds in Father Christmas’s present sack.
‘That could be someone’s Christmas present,’ I say, pointing at the string.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ says Bambino. ‘Who asks for a ball of string for Christmas?’
‘Er, a cat?’ I say.
‘Point taken,’ says Bambino. ‘I’ve only used a bit from the end anyway. It’ll be fine. Now, try that…’
And he gives me a leg up onto the newly padded saddle which, I have to admit, is surprisingly comfortable.
‘We don’t need any of that new-fangled gel seat malarkey,’ says Bambino, securing himself into his own seat. ‘Old bird nest, a dollop of moss and some string. That’s all you need. The old ways are the best ways.’
We set off once more, turning from the gate at the end of the Manor’s driveway and onto the main road. It doesn’t matter really which way I go, I think, because I’m going to be travelling in a circle and will meet myself coming back eventually.
‘Heading away from the village, eh?’ says Bambino, a hint of unsettling surprise in his voice.
‘Is that wrong?’ I say.
‘No, not at all,’ he says. ‘You’re driving. It’s your call.'
I pedal onwards.
‘Of course, you know where you ARE heading, don’t you?’ says the Helpful Voice From The Back Seat.
‘Yes,’ I say with as much confidence as I can muster. ‘I am heading for the next town. Little-Huffing-in-the-Backstalls, I believe. I thought I’d start with something big…’
I’m lying, of course. I am completely making this up as I go along. It’s a special, if rather unpredictable, talent.
‘Been there often, have you?’ says Bambino, who is increasingly sounding like he's got a case of the Whitty's aka the Voice of Approaching Doom. (Topical news point pun there - did you notice?)
‘Once or twice,’ I say. ‘Not at night time though.’
‘Very wise,’ says Bambino. ‘It’s not the sort of place you want to be visiting after dark, that’s for sure.’
Oh great, I think. Now he tells me.
‘I’m sure we’ll be okay though,’ says Bambino. ‘We’ll be in and out quick as a flash.’
My thoughts turn to how I am going to approach the practicalities of entering and exiting each house in the town (well, the ones containing children anyway) without being detected and possibly assaulted and/or arrested because I would, after all, be committing acts of trespass. Perhaps, I think, if I just keep pedalling, I’ll reach the edge of the world and fall off. Then this whole sorry Christmas business will no longer be my problem.
‘Don’t you dare!’ says Bambino.
‘Did I say that out loud?’ I say. It’s bad enough that Mrs Miggins can read my mind, let alone Bambino, too.
‘Yes, you did,’ says Bambino. ‘As for the predicament of delivering everything to all the children in the town in as short a time as possible, do you know absolutely nothing about this process AT ALL?’
At this moment in time, yes – I do believe I know absolutely nothing. We are fast approaching the town and as we draw nearer, the less and less I realise I do know. I have entered the Universe of Negative Knowledge.
‘Stop by the statue of Vlad the Annoyed,’ says Bambino. Vlad the Annoyed is the local hero in the town and the citizens erected an unnecessarily large statue to in his honour in 1972. I shan’t regale you with the legend of his hero status because it’s not very Christmassy. Hallowe-eny maybe, but not Christmassy.
Anyway, I do as I am told. Bambino dismounts his seat. He roots in the pocket of his waistcoat and presents me with a small, slim box upon which is a red shiny button.
‘Hold the present sack,’ he says. ‘And press that button.’
I heave the present sack from the basket at the front of the bicycle and cautiously press the red shiny button. A gentle vibration floods across the town of Little-Huffing-in-the-Backstalls. The statue of Vlad the Annoyed shivers a little. The snoozing blue tit sitting on his shoulder gives a little start and indignant ‘peep!’
‘Job done!’ says Bambino, leaping back onto the bicycle. ‘Come on! The next stop is calling!’
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