Miles and Miles and another Wedding
August 24, 2005 at 2.47 pmLast weekend featured a lot of driving. Firstly, down to Shaluki’s place, in Highbury or thereabouts, via Radlett to pick up little sis. Had a pleasant enough evening, before meandering back to Hertfordshire at about 4am.
Saturday morning arrived, and I took Amandhi out looking for a new bike. Several shops later, and we’d still not quite settled. One shop, all the way over in Pinner, seemed very promising at first, but they were very much of the “sell flash looking bikes to kids” type. Sure, you can pick up full suspension MTBs for £100, but they’re not going to be very good.
Got home, got ready for Cheniel’s wedding, and drove down to Teddington Lock (near Twickenham, in West London). Cheniel’s about my age, and her parents go way back with mine. My dad and hers were mates growing up, back in Sri Lanka, and they pretty much came to the UK together at the end of the 60s.
We were only invited to the wedding reception.
A fun enough do, then drove back.
Sunday morning, and it was time to go to St. Albans Cycles (our top-rated bike shop) and actually buy something. We were helped out by a very helpful man indeed, who very patiently set up bike after bike for Amandhi. The list wasn’t that large, really, given that we had a budget of £160, and we settled on either the Giant Rock or the Falcon Nomad. Amandhi “got on” better with the geometry of the latter and, with price and equipment levels similar, that’s what we went for.
Lunch with Shaluki et al, down in the Islington Tap. Decent enough beer, and the food was okay. In my opinion, though, £11.50 is FAR too much to pay for a roast beef dinner of that quality - okay, but not great - but apparently that’s par for the course in old London town. Think I’ll stick with the grim and frozen north! Shaluki’s fiancé, Paul, turned up. A fellow Spurs fan in a world of scummy Gooners, Shaluki included. Chelsea-Arse was on the telly, and the result was 1-0. Cue many unhappy-looking people in red and white. Damn, what a pity.
Got home, late, packed, late, and set off, late. Hit the M1 after 10pm, and didn’t get home until 1.30am. Absolutely knackered.
Motorway service stations are soulless places at that time on a Sunday night:
