Nothing brings me more joy than a person with with a good story (and a dog). Some people have loads of stories and they deliver them in a way that makes you hang onto very word. I used to work with a bloke who had a lot of tales, I reckon about 70% of his tales were as long as the Mersey tunnel- I didn’t mind that they were fabricated, because they were entertaining and we worked the Tuesday night shift in a backstreet boozer and their was nothing to do other than tell tales.
We had a bloke in here earlier this week selling a bike who had a good tale – he had come in to see if we would be interested in buying his father in laws’ bike.
The bike was pretty old, it looked like it was from the late 40’s/early 50’s.
His father in law had gone on a tour of Britain, with a view to staying in every Youth Hostel scattered across this great land. This would have been in the early 50’s and the roads would have barely had any cars and it must have been silent, but for the sound of the birds in the trees, it must have been great. But please don’t allow yourself to carried away with nostalgia, as something truly terrible happened, something happened that we wouldn’t imagine when we dream of the past. His bike got nicked. Yes, stolen. The 1950’s wasn’t all peaceful roads and busty blonde bombshells on the big screen, they had bicycle thieves then to.
Determined to remain undeterred by this hiccup, he marched himself down to a local bike shop (in Newcastle) and bought himself a new bike, a J Clarkes. The tour continued and he carried on lovingly riding this bike for another 63 years, and that was his tale.