"IDIOT MEATHEADS!" I'm having a rant whilst on a cycle ride. Predictably it's about cars and their drivers. Nissan Spritzers and Fiat Hercules's bomb past me on a winding B-road as if I'm some kind of hologram bereft of human vulnerability. They're desperately rushing home to begin their weekends oblivious to the fact that I'm already trying to enjoy mine. Selfish swines.
I need a pint to calm down. I text Ben, 'Pint?'. Obviously I pull up by a hedge to do this. I don't cycle and text, unless of course I'm freewheeling down an ever-deserted narrow country lane and I've just seen a scarecrow that looks exactly like Ralph Fiennes.
I rejoin the road and, as I'm almost hit by another crazed maniac in a Mercedes Ravashé, I am hit by the thought that if I was knocked to my death by one of these dreadful motorcars my last uttering on this mortal coil, albeit in text form, would be 'Pint?'.
I like the idea of this. It puts a smile back on my face. What could be a heartier, humbler and more optimistic swansong?
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