Present at the BPNS are miss_newham, hoshuteki, carsmilesteve, and friedslice. Three pints is enough to sink me - I am possibly indiscreet but not as much as some - and I manage to finish the night by resurrecting a story from twenty minutes previous and ending it with a moral appropriate to the theme. I do actually love it when a plan comes together.
A pleasant slope to the 243, up until Southhampton Road, where there's a police car in the road, just behind an ambulance which is putting some poor fucker of a motorcyclist on a stretcher, together with foam bricks on either side of his head, strapped on tight to prevent any movement whatsoever. I am of course in no state to do anything but stare at this until they're gone. It does remind mme, and remind me to tell you, of my bargain in getting back on my bike: I am on my last warning from myself. One badly-judged overtaking, one switch up to third gear so that I can get to the lights before they change, and there'll be a second hand bike for sale. I have a great hunger for being alive since three Fridays ago.
As I come downstairs before my stop on the bus, two hipsters talking in that accent that I still can't place but have nonetheless come to hate.
"... the weekend before or the weekend after. I mean wasn't the plan to go paintballing and then that night go out to a massive party?"
"Maybe they thought they'd be tired after the paintballing."
"Oh, yeah, everyone knows about the tiring effects of coke."