The deadliest, jelliest site ever. Brought to you by Niamh Shaw

Posts tagged ‘candia road’

Destiny’s grand design

We woke up to blazing sunshine yesterday, so decided to venture out to Riverhead with the mountain bikes.

“It’s going to rain, though,” predicted Andrew gloomily.

I ignored him, because:

a) Husband is a pessimist who often asserts things with no basis in reality or the NZ Met service; and
b) we’ve been together nearly 12 years (look, it would be virtually IMPOSSIBLE to pay attention to EVERYTHING that comes out of the man’s mouth) (although barf always gets my attention)

While I organised coffee to go, snacks, finances and dog balls, Andrew loaded the bikes on the back of the car.

As we trundled down the drive, tiny pricks of rain settled almost imperceptibly on the windscreen. Along Mountain Road it started drizzling in earnest, intensifying to rain with a definite spatter effect up Candia Road. By the time we reached Swanson, it looked like a blizzard outside.

We pulled up outside The Station Café and made a dash for it across the carpark; me with a couple of old magazines clamped to my head, Andrew using the dog to shield himself from the driving rain. Sitting miserably moist and lightly steaming over a couple of coffees, we agreed there was no point biking.

Driving home, the rain eased up, the sun sullenly emerged from behind the bank of clouds and, by the time we pulled into our drive, the elements were entirely agreeable. So we could have gone biking after all.

Evidently, the cosmos had other plans for Husband and me.

These plans being investigating the leaking differential on the Hilux, and lying on the sofa reading respectively.

Depressing that destiny’s plans for us are so pedestrian.

Advertisements

Terrifigreat

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

Tag Cloud