Esprit de corps
WHEN the sun first properly warms London, as it did last week, the city palpably relaxes. People walk more slowly and the traffic seems appreciably less aggressive. While waiting at traffic lights, I was cheerfully addressed by other cyclists on three occasions in the course of a single day, an unprecedented occurrence. Two of them commented on the weather, that timehonoured neutral subject of British small talk.
The third, however, was flamboyantly dressed with a boom box mounted on the back of his bike. He pulled round the front of the waiting peloton just before the lights changed. Smiling back at us all, he called out ‘Brothers! We’re all smallwheelers! Cool’ before pedalling off at impressive speed, taking his music with him. It took a moment for the peloton to recover and follow. I think he was remarking on the fact that everyone in it was on a folding bike.
Hopefully, the warmth will bring to a close an unusually long run of sickness in the house. Sleeping arrangements with small, sick children inevitably descend into farce. I start the night in my own bed, but with no confidence that I will remain there. By morning, I may be in a child’s bed or ejected to the spare bedroom or even onto the floor. JG