The Walking Dead and the Penny Farthing

The time of the vampires has ended. Zombies are the new vampires. There’s no emotional blurring of the line between good and bad here. Zombies equal bad. Very very very bad. There’s no chance of redemption through true love, eating vegetables or finding your soul in the depths of hell. Edward, your time is up. Take your tortured immortal soul and catch the next train out. The zombies will eat you alive.

I’ve spent a happy weekend scaring myself silly with good old-fashioned horror – The Walking Dead. I haven’t slept for all weekend, just grabbing naps in the sunshine, not because I have been watching one after the other, but because I’m too scared to sleep in case I wake up to Zombie hell. It’s exhilarating fear, the type that reminds you that you are alive. Watch the show and tremble…

Trembling describes my whole body. After agreeing to something while not really listening to the question, my body is in pain and I feel physically ill.

Picture this…
Sunday morning 7am. I am lying warmly cocooned in a mountain of duvet.
Husband: Darling, it’s time to get up.
Me: Piss off, its Sunday, God’s day of rest. You wake me and I’ll strike you down with great vengeance and furious anger.
Husband: You promised to ride bikes with the boys.
Me, coming awake: I did not!
Husband: Did too.
Me: Did not!
Me: Bugger, I did, didn’t I?

This is what happens when you multi-task. I have not been on a bicycle for 20 years and even then I was hardly Lance Armstrong. The bike in question was a dark red Western Flyer. The bike I rode this weekend is some high tech piece of torture. First off, it has gears. Not easy to understand gears like my car, but 16 gears all in different combinations. You need a degree in mechanical engineering to figure it out.

Then there is the seat. Whoever designed that has a special place in hell waiting for them. It is not, as my husband promised, designed for feminine comfort. It is designed to cause maximum pain and injury. I now know why cyclists stand up so much. It’s because it’s too damn uncomfortable to sit down. I feel violated and not in a good way.

Halfway around the block, my firstborn offered to ride home and get his father with the car. Not a bloody chance! My pride couldn’t stand it. So while I fought with gears that made me spin like crazy and not go anywhere. I still managed to make it home. Then I went upstairs and crawled into bed, emerging periodically to moan, “My bum! My ears!” very theatrically. Not that anyone noticed or cared.

Even more bizarrely I refuse to be beaten by a glorified penny farthing. I am determined to do it until I can get around the block without collapsing into a coma. Also, I cannot stand the looks of pity and condescension on the faces of all of the men in my family. I am the alpha female and I will not submit!

Now, does anyone have a haemorrhoid cushion, my ass is killing me?


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