Thursday, 8 October 2009
Yes, I know. My bicycle has a basket. It's very handy. I can keep things in it, like my lock, a bottle of water, a scarf, some wipes, my bag, and even, last week, the heavy folder containing my annual accounts. It's wicker, and dusty, having been cannibalized off an old bike I purchased on ebay that turned out to be far too big. It has the patina of age. And it fits a french sourdough loaf just so.
But why are people so pleased by it? Even grizzly mechanics' features soften as they affectionately pat the basket. "And you have a basket". Yes, yes, I have a bloody basket. Now can you tell me why my chain is skipping?
My workplace has a lovely stable of bicycles. There are two blue Pashley Poppies there, some dutch bikes, elegant roadsters and an array of perfectly charming bicycles. I'll admit I often stand by the floor length windows, indulging in a spot of bike spotting. Passing by the other day, I noticed two girls standing amidst the bicycles, pointing, discussing the options, obviously keen to purchase bicycles of their own. One of them pointed at my basket, determined. I could see the words forming in her brain "I need a basket. Just. Like. That". I watched, open mouthed, as her friend grabbed, no groped my basket, examining it, nodding in approval.
Dude. Basket fondler. Step away from my basket. They're barely the cost of a meal out. Go get your own.