6 months in, feedback sublime, probation passed.

Should winning represent the fortitude of desk meals, midnights and mediocrity, you may have called me ‘Larry the Lucky Leprechaun’.

Despite this excessive optimism, this job was fool’s gold.

Clients were becoming more advanced and better-equipped, making us surplus to requirements.  The end to my employment was clear; the date yet to be scheduled.

5 more months passed.  The ubiquity of cost savings, coupled the sobriety of Dad’s condition; Gran’s passing; break-ups; break-downs; a rumoured merger and mind battering politics.

The inevitable redundancy meeting could only end one way.

Tears?  Reconciliation?  Elation?  There was to be no middle ground.

HR present.  Those once partaking in friendly corridor conversation, were now the orchestrators of my demise.

Keep it friendly.  Stay professional.  End graciously.  Thoughts masking a more primal desire to reveal true opinion.

Positive past dealings with the MD were at sharp odds with the cold austerity on offer.  Formality, centre stage.

Conversation cautious.  Polite.  Abrupt.  No one there for fun.

Relationships creaked and cracked amidst icy abyss.

Pleasant words robotically exchanged did little to reflect prior affections.  HR took notes, whilst my Line Manager sat, awkwardly, silently, out of place.

Ill feeling is tough to bare and I saw no place for it here.

I had to restore good faith; no matter how misplaced.

Attempted in most natural form,  I bid goodbye with a big ol’ smile, open arms and the look of a man, with just one thing on his mind.

Hugs.

Only, there were no hugs to be found.  The shop had sold out at least a week before, shelves now empty, save for a single can of ‘what the actual fuck’?

The MD jolted, shirking the hug; retracting to safety.  “It’s been great working with you, but you know, I can’t hug you”.

I was left hanging.

Taylor Swift would struggle to muster such a speedy retreat.

HR still present.  I glanced over, expecting at least a wry smile.

Nothing.

Just emptiness.

‘I don’t suppose you’d like a hug?’ I said.  Blank response.  Followed by further formality.

Humour had left the building.  And I was to follow.

Despite no certain future, I struggled to contain my excitement.  For I was, once again, a free man.

Today, I attended a lecture.  An adventurer by the name of Alistair Humphrey’s.  

My two allies had met in a bustling coffee shop.  As I approached their table, tucked into the corner, set back from the rickety well-trodden stairs, it occurred to me that this was to be a wholesome evening of sophistication, stories and sobriety.  

6pm, the working day done, we sat sipping back hot drinks, gesticulating over the promise of a heroic tale.

Hours later, as midnight chimed, sobriety short lived, the evening had descended into alcohol fuelled adrenaline, as we cascaded the intimacies of our imminent adventures.

My companions departed.  Two wheels, wobbling as they went.

A mile and many minutes past.  

I arrived at my place of work.   A large steely door, behind which lay my chariot home; a limping, worn out cycle, desperate for the love of a workshop, but destined for harder times.  

There loomed the stupor of a man still relishing in the discovery that fine local ale and coffee can coexist under the same happy roof.

There was a problem.  The electronic pad of the electronic door required an electronic key.  Four digits.  The source, an email sent hours before.  The message, ‘content not downloaded in full’.

Urgency.  A feeling associated with the strategic expectation of relieving oneself only to be left without a key, midriff crushed by pressure, hobbling aimlessly in one direction like a fugitive wounded and on the run.  The nearest pub 200 metres; a jazz bar, crowded with hustlers,  hipsters and hang ons.

Back on track, ‘content downloaded’, access granted, feeling relieved, the new me grabs his steed.

Charging into the night, a feeling of invincibility swept over; impervious to anything the world could throw my way.  As I approached the light, newly red, I passed a long winder bus, people weary, dozing heads rested against misty windows.  A memory of a scene from a film watched the night before.  

A film in which cyclists did tricks and cyclists survived.  

Front wheelie.  

Should I

Could I

I could

Do it

Do it now!

The trick that had escaped me as a child, ripe and ready for defeat; 20 years past.  

Like William the conqueror, I charged into battle.  Front brake tweaked, the back wheel lifts. 

All is to plan.  

Now roll.  Roll 5 metres or more.  Rock this wheelie.  Rock it like a rocking horse.  Eddie Van Halen’s rocking horse. 

Roll.  Roll on the floor.  Failing to release the brake.  Hit it too fast.  Hit it too hard.  A flying lesson.  Flung as far as a grown man of 6ft 2 and middling years can be flung.  Over the handlebars.  Arms outstretched.  Is tonight the night I’m to meet my mortal maker?

The hour is late.  Though not so late as for no one to oversee the felling of this large, lambasted lump of lolloping lard.  People stare from streets and vehicles, gasping, pointing, chortling.  Some concerned; some confused, many amused.

I gather self and bike in an instant, wounded but unsure as to the extent.  Numbed by alcohol, eager to depart.  The bus overtakes.  People stare.  Moments later, the bus slows once again.  We both stop.  The lights do not change.  

Three long minutes pass.  A three minute silence.  The death of my dignity.

It started with a simple urge.  An urge for chocolate sprinkles and sachets of brown sugar.  I reached for the conduit of my sweet delight.  A stirrer; long, thin, wooden and splintered.

As the stirrer reached the top of the jar, I gathered more.

More leverage than I could ever have bargained for.  Slightly dilapidated, feet on the ground, head in the clouds.  Worn from a night of drinking, dancing and and mild debauchery.

The stirrer catapults with great velocity, entering a spin cycle more akin to a Samsung on its maximum setting.  Time slows as I morph from eager sugar tray participator to powerless observer of my own demise.

Then; direct hit!  Mid 40s, female, smartly dressed with a rather stern face.  

She takes a moment to reflect on the unexpected thwacking of her right cheek.  Only to turn, look toward I and I toward her.  An awkward moment ensues.   Bystanders also pause, sensing my fear.  

‘I flipped the stick’ [insert cheeky smile] was my first response.  ‘Which might have been responsible for [insert gesturing]’.  

Smile.  Just smile.  Frown.  She just frowns.   

‘Great shot though, don’t you think’.  [another cheeky smile – surely she too will feel the child like amazement that a small and otherwise inanimate object can propel itself such a distance, at such force, and such accuracy.  

[long pause]

‘Well, I hope you’re happy’ comes the reply.  

[awkward pause]

‘I’m very sorry’ [insert face humbled, head dipped].

Man leaves Starbucks