It would possibly not have ended so badly if I had let go of the handlebars, but I’m not very brave and spent this exhilarating flight screaming as though I was being given a prostate examination by Captain Hook. This short-lived passage of flight was not a graceful one, I was upside down, legs spread like an amorous fruit bat, and the descent was an uncoordinated tangle of limbs and chrome. I landed on my head, face first. All the orifices immediately filled with gravel and my ears were stretched with the impact so that they were longer than a prize bassets. Unfortunately the saddle, that must surely have been designed for other more erotic pastimes, maliciously assaulted me in the trouser hooligan area, so that various organs were temporarily repositioned, giving me the anatomical placement of an aged bush pig. This misadventure should not be examined further but to say that if any doctor required a stool sample, it was now pre-packed and ready for delivery.

 

Much later, I collected Wallet and on the way to Boss Dave’s house, bought a crate of that wonderful elixir, Doctor Castle’s anti-bruising tonic, purely for medicinal reasons. It did not however provide immediate relief, so I had the posture of a plover with bent knees facing into a strong wind. My unplanned dismount on the bicycle had left me seriously disfigured and I looked like Susan Boyle and Shrek’s love child. This provided much mirth and the only way I was going to find sympathy was looking in the dictionary, somewhere between sh*t and syphilis!

 

At the social we met up with many friends and most of the local farmers, and of course their well-manicured wives dressed impeccably for the evening. Being a predominantly tobacco area most were rather well off, and this showed in the distinct blood lines and heritage of the successful country gentleman. This was a predominantly mature gathering. I would never call them old but several were follicaly challenged and boasted crisp upper-class accents that would have allowed several to eat an apple through the strings of a tennis racquet.

 

After several courses of medicinal elixir, Wallet and I were standing with Boss Dave among a crowd of his guests when a bruiser of a tomcat strolled across the patio with an aggressive swagger that would have made a Springbok player proud, pointedly ignoring everyone. This beast was soaked with leopard DNA and Boss Dave turned to us and nonchalantly said “That bloody cat is a damned nuisance it p……es on everything and attacks one for no reason - I’m going to have to get it put down”.

 

As if to prove a point this testosterone-soaked feline strolled up to its owner, reversed up to his expensively -attired legs, and taking precise aim let loose a gushing stream of warm urine. Eventually feeling a distinctly unnatural sensation through his elegant longs which was fast spreading down through his socks and well polished “town shoes”, Boss Dave looked down. He seemed to levitate, magically leaving the ground, and his roar of shocked disapproval liberally sprinkled with a somewhat piratical turn of phrase, silenced the gathering but did not bother the offending feline. The screaming promises of retribution could only end in one way, as the recipient of this rather distasteful, penetrating odour Boss Dave made an immediate start towards the gun cabinet shaking the “scented” leg like a wounded pangolin.