It’s the kind of boat-like car that certain types of men, say, who are partial to an unironic pince-nez and tweed vests purchased in bulk, gravitate towards in their middle years. The wealth-laden anti-colour that could be described as ‘mink’. And it’s coming straight towards us. Albeit at three miles per hour.
Finding an unadorned lamp/bike-rack/street-sign anywhere in our fair city is serendipitous. So at 7pm on a raw, rainy Monday, we thought we’d hit the motherlode. My partner was focused on his locking procedure, adhering his bike to a parking sign… but, the mink whaler approaches, and I let out a small shriek. There’s no time to move so he ends up with his cheek against the cold pole, a wing mirror grazing his backside. “What’s going on? Can’t he see us?” [read more]