One Morning...

It was, one of those days. Sun rays slipped in through the leaves almost shyly to mingle with the dust motes in the air. The leaves seemed pleased to show off their best greens through the filtering light. The sky was blue, a beautiful blue of the best spring mornings. A few wisps of clouds, vapour really, drifted across the soothing blue, aimlessly. As I walked to work, I could hear the cuckoos call to their mates. They called and called and called…

…till they were startled out of their single-minded devotion by a deafening sound. RA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT came the sound from the other side of the bend in the road. A bullet motorcycle, I thought – nothing else makes that kind of a noise. But who? It was barely seven in the morning and hardly anyone was about. The only people I’d seen driving those mean machines were cops, in the 1980s, and bullet-bike fanatics. It had been a long time since I’d heard that distinctive sound. So the cuckoos and I waited to see who would come around the bend…

The bike came into view – a truly monstrous one. Black and gleaming. And perched on top of it, holding on to the handlebars as if trying to rein in a rampaging bull, was this frail-looking man with wisps of snow-white hair sticking out from both sides of his head.

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