I got my bike serviced this weekend, mainly because I needed to get the puncture repaired and felt too ashamed to have to admit that I couldn't do it. If I was getting serviced too I could say, "Oh and I think it might have a puncture too," all casual like and the man would think that I would be repairing that myself were it not for the whole service thing. I am a genius.
Anyway I picked up the bike today and then headed immediately down to Hammersmith for a game of squash. The difference in the bike was unbelievable. I don't know what they did to it, but suddenly it was riding smoothly and beautifully and with half the effort that I have been putting in of late. It might just have been that the tyres were pumped up, or it might have been that the gears had been sorted out, or the brakes realigned, or maybe even just that they'd put some oil on it somewhere, but it was a wonderful experience. I should really learn to care for my things, although having said that, I'm 41 now and it hardly seems worth changing my ways this late on. By the time I knew how to oil a bike or put up a shelf or fold a shirt I'd be pretty much dead anyway. I will just carry on paying other people to do it, like I am some kind of plantation slave owner, without much of a plantation. Though I have some weeds on my front path. Should probably get round to dealing with those. But there seems little point when all the tiles are loose anyway. I hope there's never any kind of post-Apocalyptic world that I have to make my way in. I'll be dead in five minutes.
Last night I was out for dinner at a posh restaurant - not something I do too often, although I was at another one tonight. On the dessert menu at this roof-top, swanky bistro was
Knickerbocker Glory. I hadn't seen that on a menu for many, many years and there was obviously a degree of whimsical irony and nostalgia to see it on the menu of such a sumptuous eatery. Indeed, it conjured up some distant and forgotten memories and a tale that speaks much of life's expectations and disappointments.
I remember, as a child of maybe 5 or less, being fascinated by this dessert. It sounded both funny and amusing and I think I knew it consisted of a massive glass full of cream and ice cream and jelly and fruit. It was this incredible and luxurious treat and to get it you almost had to say "knickers" which was cool as well.
I always wanted to have a Knickerbocker Glory, but my parents either considered it too extravagant or debauched or just guessed that it would prove too much for me and my pleas were always refused. But it was all I wanted in life. Once I had it, I was sure, I could happily die, my one ambition fulfilled.
Until one day, when suddenly it was deemed that I had waited long enough for my dream to be fulfilled and I was allowed to order the frippery of my fantasies (and maybe it was one of my grandparents who allowed this indulgence). The Knickerbocker Glory arrived in a tall glass, which to the tiny me looked like it had come from a giant's house. It was pink and creamy and looked delicious. I hastily tucked in to the dessert that would complete me as a person. I didn't like it. I can still remember the tinned fruit in amongst the jelly. It hadn't been what I had been expecting at all. I couldn't even eat it. It was horrible. I think I probably cried. I was that kind of child. Tears were my response to almost everything. After all the anticipation the Glory turned out to be a massive disappointment. Is there a better metaphor for life than this one incident?
I didn't order the Knickerbocker Glory last night. Once bitten...
