A car idles, a small child plays in
a doorway as his mother talks
quietly into her mobile, an
elderly woman makes slow
progress with a shopping basket.
In the car, the only one parked
on the small Soho side street,
a younger woman checks her
make-up in the rear-view mirror.
Technically the car shouldn't
be parked where it is, but she is
completely involved in applying
her lipstick and unaware, I'd
guess, of the strictures of
Westminster City Council
parking regulations. Enjoying
the scene and the unusual
presence of the sun, I push my
beer glass across the table, stretch
my legs and relax. A mistake.
The cyclists come silently
but with force. Two men in their
early thirties, squeezed into
garish Lycra bodysuits, descend
on the street at speed. They are
both cycling on the pavement,
and if not actively looking for
victims, they are certainly ready
to take on all corners.
The first corner is the old lady,
who says" Ooh" when the
leading cyclist clips her arm.
I just get my feet back in as the
second cyclist - sending the
child scurrying for safety - cuts
diagonally across the pavement
and on to the road, where he
stops, slams his fist on the roof of
the car, and bellows "Bike lane,
you *unt" through
the window.
The first cyclist
has cleared the old
woman now and
stops to watch
his colleague
continue his
assault. Inside the
car, the woman
looks very scared.
The interior serves as an echo
chamber and the assailant-
enjoying the satisfying boom
he is making - continues to slam
his fist down on the car roof.
The woman's face wobbles and
her body shakes, her lipstick
now smudged beyond the line
of her lips.
Momentarily I consider
throwing my glass at him, but
there is at least three-quarters
of a pint in there and the
authorities have arrived in the
shape of an amiable-looking
police community support
officer in blue serge uniform, flat
black shoes and peaked cap.
Tubby and smiling, the officer
makes a stark juxtaposition
with the cyclists, both of whom
display the developed muscle
that comes with peddling
through small children and
bellowing at frightened women
five days a week.
There is a pause, broken only
by sobs as the child hides behind
his mother. "Ah," says the
officer, reaching to open a flap in
his jacket. "We shouldn't really
cycle on the pavement, should
we?" He gets a notebook out
and continues, "Can I have your
names and addresses, please?"
The second cyclist considers
this and then says, "F*ck off."
The first cyclist spits on the
pavement next to the officer's
shoes. As the officer looks
down at the sputum, the
two cyclists leave the
scene, peddling out
of the side street
and into the main
thoroughfare,
where they join
the stream of
other cyclists who
course and snarl
across the city .•
Not bad for OCR I thought!
