On Saturday evening I spent twenty minutes with a policeman at Temple Meads station, trying to cut the lock off my scooter. Someone had tried to steal it (from the racks outside the BTP station!) by using the scooter itself to twist the lock off. They didn't succeed, but the barrel was damaged in a way that the key wouldn't go fully, preventing its unlocking.
I had gone into the BTP office after I saw my scooter upended and the lock bent, simply to report the attempted theft and to warn them that someone who looks like me will be coming down tomorrow with an angle grinder to get the lock off.
The man on the desk heard my tale and came outside. After failing to make any impression on the lock with a pair of yard-long bolt croppers, he managed to unbend the twisted shackle back enough into straightness so that he could get the key in and release the lock. The strength required to do so this was considerable. I was impressed that a policeman was helping me release a vehicle that is illegal to use on public roads.
He told me that they had two people in custody who were caught that day attempting to steal bikes from Temple Meads. The next day, I saw a lock at the other cycle park at Temple Meads twisted in a similar way to how mine had been left -- but dangling open, without a shackle nor attached to a bike. My scooter survived with only with a few scratches. I was glad that I'd got an expensive Kryptonite lock rather than the Wilko crap and crossed fingers I normally rely on.
Had a right one on the train yesterday.
Rainbow coloured straw hat, rainbow jumper, and a belt with "No Pronouns" written on its buckle. He asked me if we had any oat milk, but before I could answer he told me how he has a lactose intolerance (really? how interesting, do tell me more - and he did), and normally takes five or six sugars but today he'll only have four. "No sorry mate, I've only got ordinary milk." Would you like a smack in the face instead?
The guard came down to check tickets. Rainbow Man started pestering him, regressing into a spoilt and needy child. He was demanding a taxi, because he'd spent too much time gazing at his non-binary navel to realise that giving yourself three minutes to change at Swansea isn't enough. He exuded entitlement. Or the air of some rich cunt, in the phrase which will later be used to describe him as we retell the story to colleagues.
The guard beckoned me over into the next carriage. "I've rung Swansea," he said, "and told them he's a pain in the arse."
Later, I checked, and noted to my pleasure that the train to Llanffychym left bang on on time and so it's likely he would have had to spend two hours wandering around Swansea trying to find an oat milk vegan biodynamic understanding latte. Although I imagine he rang his mummy and got her to pay the taxi.
Current reading is Of Human Bondage. There is, suggests a character, a certain dignity in forgetting. "It is better to have learned and lost, than never to have learned at all." Pessoa also has an epigram somewhere about the value of failure, or of resignation after trying -- even half-heartedly. It must be a much older idea, but it's especially apposite in this age of striving.
