Husband and I cycled into Henderson today. At the junction where Candia Road intersects Henderson Valley Road, there was an army of police.
I have a long and varied history with The Fuzz. Ever since they fingered me as a teenager for cycling the wrong way up a one-way street in Limerick with no lights on, they have given me involuntary palpitations.
I don’t want to give the wrong impression; I am not (that much of) a criminal. I’m far too middle class for anything other than white collar crime, which I don’t have the job for; or master jewellery heists, for which I don’t have the guile or cunning.
We were not detained/apprehended/interrogated/cavity searched/force-fed doughnuts on the way into town. I guess there’s a limit to how much damage one can wreak while drunk in charge of a bicycle – not that we were. Also, it was evident there was little to no contraband or dead bodies concealed in my basket – not that there was.
On the way back, one of the policemen held up a hand and said, “Excuse me, madam. Your tyres are bald.”
What I would have said, had I not an ingrained terror of men who fondle truncheons – not to mention equipped with a quicker wit – would have been: “Not as bald as your momma, Porkie.”
What I did say, or more accurately squeak, was: “My tyres are terrifigreat!”.
I would have stopped to demonstrate the tread depth, except that I was pedalling too hard