things that are flat

Being a small person, relatively, in this day and age that is (maybe 600 years ago I'd've been considered freakily gigantic and people would've put me in the ducking chair and I'd've survived (I'm good at holding my breath) and then I'd've been hung drawn and quartered and burned at the steak for being a witch...(I can't say I'm burn proof - not if the burns on my hand from the oven are anything to go by) I like to wear shoes which give me a bit of extra elevation... And when I'm out on the razz, which I less and less frequently am, I slip my feet into a pair of high heels and I strut around for a few hours ignoring the strange dead-toe sensations that get more and more dead-toe-like as the night progresses (which is also why I like to quaff a few bottles of wine or beer or absinthe...).

But I'm not here to write about those sort of flat(or not) things. Or the flatness of my wash-board stomach. Or the flatness of Suffolk. Or the flatness of a lake with no wind. Or the flatness of those televisions called flat-screens. They're really flat, I've been led to believe.
None of that.
Today I write of the flatness of my tyre on Wednesday afternoon when I went to climb on board my trusty tank of a bike (my brother kindly told me that "its the worst bike I've EVER ridden on in my life you should leave it in the street and see if a bus can run it over") which I love and its served me well for the 4 years I've owned. Anyway. On Wednesday I had one of those mad dash horrors of an afternoon where I had to leave work a little bit early to get to Liz's nursery which was shutting early (so the staff could go bitch about our bratty kids for an hour or so) and then rush like a mad haggered over-wrinkled-35-year-old up to school to get Mol before she starts to believe she's been abandoned by her family and is off to the Annie-style-home... So step one was to get home from work. Which was smashed to small biscuit-crumbs used on cheesecake bases when I saw the extent to which my back wheel was punctured. Holy shit. And a lot of other obscenities came out of my mouth as I threw my now not trusty tank of a bike (hate you you bastard crap thing of all the days to get a puncture you're out for the rust... etc.; bike gives me sad look of rejection). So then I run for the bus like aforementioned mad haggered over wrinkled 35 year old and get the bus and get to nursery just in time, panting, and then sling Liz over my shoulders like a bag of spuds, and limp my way, panting like a half dead haggered over wrinkled unfit 35 year old and get to school just as the Orphan Minders are about to load Mol up into their van and take her off to some Victorian Institution. Or do I mean after school club? Anyway. I made it. Just.
And that night it rained and rained and all I could think of was, oh, poor bike, out in the exposed open air, rusting and crying with pain. And I did feel a bit bad.
So the next morning as I walked to school (that means pushing Liz on her scooter that has no brake whilst carrying her bag and Mol's bags) trying to maintain a bit of cool, when I mention in passing to the local bike guru (LBG) that my bike is trashed at work and I'm wondering because I'm a pathetic girl how I'm going to get it home with its puncture. And then we talked about a friends daughters' "bring a pony party" and the subject was dropped.
At work, 1hour later: said LBG rocked up at the garden centre in his fluorescent bike gear, clasping an inner tube, a spanner and a very pumping pump.
And now I have a new hero.
Thank you LBG. My bike is snug under its rug like a bug and I feel no more guilt and don't have to spend any more money on overpriced London buses.
Beer courtesy of me next time we're in a public house at the same time... (Xmas drinks...?).