Briggy

Briggy runs a bike stall on the market near where I work. A few weeks ago I left my bike with him one lunchtime - the dynamo was playing up, and he said he could take care of it before the end of play. Pick it up at about 6pm, he said.

That afternoon was an utter catastrophuck, one of the worst I've ever had at work. After admitting defeat at about 7.30pm, I decided to go home. And then I remembered my bike.

I had left no phone number nor got one from him. I wasn't even sure if he even had anywhere to keep bikes overnight. Basically, I had no idea of where my bike was. Good work.

I returned the nest day, red-faced. As soon as he saw me, he ripped the piss out of me something mortal. Bearing in mind, I had never met him 24 hours earlier, this was a fair measure of what a twat I had been.

He didn't do it alone. He made sure the whole street knew what I had done. His girlfriend who runs the sandwich shop across the road joined him. So did her assistant. And the customer he was serving when I squirmed into view.

They assumed I must have got drunk and forgotten I even had a bike. That would probably have been a better idea.