Yesterday I cycled up to Sister and Boyfriend-In-Law’s house to lash myself to a desk and force out a word or two in a manner similar to performing open heart surgery on oneself.
As you can tell, progress on the second novel is going well.
I borrowed Mother-In-Law’s mountain bike for the trip, which comes accessorised with toe clips. I had no choice but to jam my boots in, because otherwise the clips struck sparks off the ground on the down stroke.
I’ve never seen the point of toe clips – although I’m sure someone out there in padded lycra shorts can provide one or several. I suppose toe clips might stop my feet shooting off the pedals and kicking pedestrians or, more damagingly – for me, at any rate – lamp posts or letter boxes.
Because that happens all the time.
Instead, the only effect of the toe clips was that, when I pulled to a stop at Sister and Boyfriend-In-Law’s house, completely forgetting my feet secured to the pedals, I toppled off the bike and applied my face to their flowerbed