PASHLEY PICADOR - The only lasting physical effect of the assault to which I was subjected by my Grandfather Coe is damage to the inner ear that causes occasional disorientation. While I'm usually nimble, occasions have arisen when I've found myself unable to make my way down step-ladders or across narrow bridges. These obstacles can be negotiated, either by calling for assistance with my emergency whistle or resorting to an undignified descent on my buttocks. Since the day of the attack, however, I've been unable to remain on a conventional bicycle. Certain members of the extended family maintain that I never mastered this art in the first place: not so! I was, in fact, a precociously adept cyclist.

Rather than miss out on the healthy pleasures of cycling, I've owned a succession of trikes, the most recent of which has been the Pashley Picador, a product I wouldn't hesitate to endorse. My niece, Muriel, however is less enthusiastic about my Picador, claiming, in fact, to detest the sight of it. Until recently, I respected her request that I desist from cycling through the centre of Drumfeld between four and six, the hours when she and her friends were returning from school. Sensitivity, however, as I've had cause to remind her, should be reciprocal. The discovery that I've been savagely lampooned by Muriel both locally, in Drumfeld Churchyard and internationally, over the internet, has rendered me indifferent to accusations that I'm 'the most embarrassing man in the world'. Consequently, when cycling through town, if I see Muriel and her friends, I don't hesitate to ring my bell and wave.

 

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