Thursday, 17 May 2012
It's getting too dark, too dark to see
It's that time of the year when photography is becoming painful - literally. The morning temp dropped to 9 degrees this week, which is when the finger tips start to ask for the fingerless gloves to be put into storage until spring time. The top two joints of my fingers ache with cold for the first five minutes - then the blood starts flowing, and all is well. However, it's bloody hard to take a photo with frozen fingers. It's even harder though taking a photo on the move with full length gloves on. And it's really, really hard taking a photo on the move in the dark, as the above photo attests.
The dark blob in this photo was out of the ordinary - I could smell cigarette smoke, but couldn't work out where it was coming from. That's nothing new - I smell people smoking dope fairly often, but what kills me is when I smell something freshly baked - like croissants - and I know I can't stop for a bite. Anyway, the smoke was coming from the cyclist in front of me. It wasn't slowing him down at all. His lungs appeared to be in better shape than mine.
I've seen classic old photos of cyclists having a fag whilst racing, but I can't remember the last time I saw a real life bloke on a bike having a puff. I wouldn't have minded, except that he flicked his butt out behind him and it nearly went down my top.
Speaking of which, I made the classic mistake of being careless when zipping up this week. It's been one of those weeks of greatcoats on, greatcoats off. Pretty cold in the morning, requiring two layers and leg warmers. Fairly warm in the afternoon, requiring the shedding of the top layer. I was starting to overheat, so when I pulled up at a red light, I quickly took my jacket off and was in the process of neatly folding it away when the light went green. So I simply stuffed it down the front of my jersey, and rode around with one massive tit.
At the next red light, I extracted the jacket, folded it neatly and stowed it in a rear pocket. And then the light went green, so I rapidly zipped up the jersey.
Careless old me managed to insert a nice four inch stretch of chest hair into the rapidly moving zipper. That was way wrong. I thought I was going to end up with a landing street between my man boobs, but it didn't eventuate. It certainly felt like half the hairs on my chest were being ripped out.
By the way, follow this link and check out the bears at the bottom. You won't be disappointed.
Badly proofread by Boy on a bike at Thursday, May 17, 2012