A fond kiss

It sounded like a good idea at the time. Well, it was my idea. So it must have been good. Yes? Lets go and have a look at the Moulton. For the first time. The trashed-by-a-truck Moulton. The Moulton that's been moldering in my aunt's shed for over a year.

The same Moulton that careered through the Andes and down into the Amazon basin. That tossed its rider onto the gravel on the steepest downhill track in Ecuador. That whisked along off-road tracks on its little slicks. The perky wee blue thing that raised eyebrows and a smile wherever it went. That stopped strangers in the street. That made its rider friends for life. That wasn't allowed on the London Underground. That was hooted at by smiling waving taxi drivers. Whose suspension was a godsend for anyone with a fear of White Finger.

That went over the Picos with a Thorn that continued on through Africa and is now soldiering on through the Americas. That was inadvertently offloaded from a train in York and almost didn't make it to Cuba. But did. Performing for every street musician and drumming crowd. That was scraped and dented and rarely got a puncture. That flew over the cobbled streets of Edinburgh and was dead staunch when facing off buses in Glasgow. That was allowed inside banks and museums, art galleries and cafes, and even the ESPC on the hunt for a new flat. That had pride of place in the tenement stair - resisting theft at every turn.

And whose final journey was unceremonious, violent and filthy. A dirty junction on a dirtier road. On a light grey day. The day of the Scottish Transport Awards. Oh the irony. An inconceivable end for a glorious piece of engineering. Handbuilt by master craftsmen in England. Top dollar.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Less damage I guess. Hadn't anticipated the enormous forces that corkscrewed the frame. A folded Moulton. But the experts amongst you will know that Moultons don't fold. Well not normally. The front wheel seems true. And the seat OK. My hands shake a little as I pull it out into the daylight. Dusty and rusted. Suspension ripped apart. Gaping holes in the steel. And here's the rub. The bike is steel. And I am not. How come the bike is fucked? And I'm not?

On the return home on the bypass we sit for sometime behind an ambulance. I curse my bravado. But its done now. And in a few weeks the bits that can't be salvaged by The Bike Station will go to the great metal scrapheap in the sky. There will be no formal ceremony. Its just a bike after all. But there will be a quiet salute - and a gentle whispering of those famous lines:

A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

The operation date that wasn't

Oh, it was so close. The letter came in. The good news: a date for the clinic and the following day an afternoon slot in theatre. Even get to have breakfast. The bad news: as anticipated, the operation is scheduled for the Golden Jubilee - 50 miles away.

I phone the hospital.

Check who the surgeon is. It wouldn't do to run out in a flapping theatre gown when you discover on the operating table that they've given you someone else just to meet the waiting times (they haven't).

Check whether its a day case or an overnighter as the letter doesn't say (its a day case).

Check whether I have to go to the clinic or whether as a professional theatre patient I can just give it a miss (no I cant give it a miss).

As a sop, am offered free hotel accommodation for the night between the clinic and the operation (food not paid for).

So. All systems go. Need to take a week off work post anesthetic (based on the last experience). Start clearing diary and canceling meetings. Need to find a way of getting to the hospital (door to door its a bus and two trains). Need to find a way of getting back from the hospital (a bus and two trains is not going to work after a general anesthetic).

In the midst of all this, some 20 minutes after speaking to the waiting list manager, I get another call. The operation is off. Surgeon cancels his list that day. An emergency. Head in hands at my desk.

All systems go. Start reinstating meetings. Canceling the cancellations. Breathe a furious sigh. Then hesitate for a moment.

Operation number six is technically cosmetic. My 'thigh on a shin' will become a shin. Just a shin. With some minor scars. I have been wanting this for a long time. Not even questioned wanting it. My thigh on a shin is hideous. The photos don't lie. Nor does my mirror. OK the scar itself is very neat. Good stitching. Great job by a fabulous surgeon. But people stare when it pokes out from under my jeans. Sheer vanity means I don't wear skirts. And sheer bulk means no boots. It shakes a bit when I swim. A strange piece of flab clinging on for dear life.

But my thigh on a shin has had, and continues to have, critical functions. It saved my leg. It put skin where there was no skin - and soft tissue where there was no soft tissue. It protected my bones as they healed. It took precious nutrients to where they were most needed. And its been a cushion over a place that badly required some protection. Both physically and emotionally. I haven't seen my shin for over a year. Which is probably just as well in the circumstances.

Pause again. Stroke my thigh on a shin. Actually, its going to be more complex to give this up than expected. The clever man who put it there is going to take some of it away. This is necessary and important. But the loss shouldn't be underestimated. By me at least. And had I not got the operation date that wasn't, I might just have jettisoned the thigh on a shin with a barely a second thought. And no doubt paid heavily later.

My thigh on a shin lives on for another day. We find our peace somewhere in the realms of co-dependency. And I will quietly mourn my loss when the end finally comes.