The sickening cry “I wuz robbed!” never rang to hollow to our ears as yesterday, when we returned home shortly after the delivery of the day’s junk mail by a guy with a backpack bulging, they say, with a set of bolt-cutters and a junk habit that’s increasingly hard to provide for, to discover the missing link: ours, that is; to the job; the supermarche [oy! the sophisticate strikes again! –ed.]; the weekend’s fatherly duties; the Only cafe; and miles and miles of just plain fun.

Pause. Drum roll.

The folding vehicle was stolen from where it had been cable-locked, out front chez Allderblob.

stolen bike alert--1

What a crashing bore.

We call the police to report the crime, we do the usual duties including a visit to the Cycling Cob’s vehicle theft report centre.

And today, when the junk mail delivery guy walks around our front door where we stand, puttying the storm windows (as if we have anything to fear from winter, ever again), we take a closer look at his pockmarked face, his bulging backpack, his shaking, slack-veined arms. He averts his gaze, and skips our house.

Do we feel anger?


What we feel is stupid.

Cable lock? Come on.

Yeah, the vehicle cost us a penny or two, and we will be scraping somewhat for its replacement. But the junk mail junkie probably needed it more. Or if not him, someone else. Someone, somewhere, is happy on a deep-blue coloured Venture folder with 20-inch wheels, aluminum fenders and a miniature orange kryptonite U-lock stapled to the back carrier (unless the perp happens to have a bic pen handy…).

stolen folder-2

You know, we have other vehicles. We have two at the front door, and another in Castle Allderblob, and one more down cellar. We are lousy with vehicles around here. And what if we had to buy another vehicle? Hell, we could do it. We could do it a hundred times over and not pay the price of that midrange automobile we saw advertised in EYE weekly today.

Photos are clipped from shots by Vic Gedris

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