Punk (o_v_e_r) Ture 101.4/second

I left work and walked back to the cycle shop, it didn't rain and I made good time. The guy in the shop took a while to realise I was a customer. I think perhaps he thought I was a window shopper who'd actually taken the plunge and walked inside, for the first time, not really knowing what to do or where to look.

Anyway, I asked for some assitance and explained I'd returned to collect my bike, the one with the puncture from this morning, the Carrera, the old one, the heavy one ?
That was the key word. "Heavy".

He wheeled the bike out, and appeared covered in a fine sweat from the effort taken to wheel it from the workshop all of 18 feet to where I was standing beside the till.
I checked the work. They'd put the tyre on "the other way around". I shan't explain in great detail, it's important though. Basically when I leave anything of mine in someone else's charge I expect to be reunited with it in the same state. Especially down to tyres being fitted as they originally were. So I felt instantly miffed and all my thoughts of the shop began to stink of the same turdy-mire and fugg...I'm such a self destructive consumer. I'm not dumb enough to accept my goods in an unsatisfactorily altered state. I'm crap at saying to myself, "Oh well, never mind" when it concerns my stuff.

So I'm about to leave and he says, with a very metallic German twang, "Hew shood veally sink abawt gettink yar bayke sarveest, ya?". (Ok I added the "ya" bit there, but that's because I'm still sore.)

I asked him what he would recommend, and how much it would cost. He explained that after considering all the service costs, replacement parts and of course the labour I'd be looking at over a hundred pounds, which in his opinion is daft and a waste of time on a bike such as mine, which is heavy.
I asked what he'd recommend, and while doing so began to apply lip gloss and eye-liner, dye my hair blonde and start to inflate little cushions under my shirt to enhance my bust. I swapped my shorts for a sexy pink and glittery crotchless number and proceded to spread myself over the counter. Just so he could completely fuck me, you understand?
He concluded that if I handed over £500 to him, he could find me a decent bike that would help to reward me for the effort I put in to my daily commute and the hardship that entails.

I picked myself up off the counter and left the shop. I gave a nod to my good friend Dave, who was sat in the cab of the mini crane just over the road, and left the wrecking ball and its master to do its job while I cycled happily off into the sunset.

Everyone was left alone to enjoy cycling around on crap bikes and we all lived happily ever after.