Yesterday me and a lonely daff enjoyed the sun that beat down on meandering River Mersey as it rolled past Didsbury. With bike under bum, a trusty steed indeed and warm westerly breeze the ride was heaven on earth and not in a religious way either, oh no.
A wandering stoat, it might have been a ferret, skipped from the bushes, scratched it's ear, picked it's teeth, took a look around and declared 'Fuck me, it's spring.'
"It is that sir," replied I, stopping so as not to crush the tiny creature beneath freedom's wheel. And not before time too."
The stoat appraised me with a stoney eye. "Why are you dressed in yellow?" It asked.
"The yellow is reflective safety wear used when riding on roads so vehicles can see me rather than kill me."
"But you're not on a road," Said my minuscule yet oblong friend. "This is the countryside, a riverbank in fact."
"Well spotted, " Said I, thinking, who'd have thought it, a pedantic stoat, "But I had to cycle down a road to get here."
"What's a road?" It said in that superior yet stoatish way
Reader, I ran it over, well, tried to run it over but stoats are wily buggers.
"Wanker." It shouted.
"Wanker back." I replied but by then the moral high ground had gone.
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