I’d like to thank the young lady in the tracksuit and the Everton-minty Mini, who this morning pointed out to me from her window the off-road cycle path: vehemently, lest I might miss the provision so kindly laid down for the mere pedal-powered. Not being terribly observant I had no idea this cycle path existed just to my left as I cycled along. Of course, I’ve no legal obligation to use the path—and no incentive in either improved safety or convenience—but I hope the kindness and informativeness of the woman does not go unrewarded.
In fact, I believe I’m in a position to reciprocate the deeds of this good Samaritan. I should point out (although I’m sure her modesty would forbid) that her boundless compassion and consideration for the circumstances of other people is yet more heroic, as it was so clearly being practised in spite of the obvious chronic weight problem from which she was suffering. One cannot help but marvel at the sheer selflessness of one who, struggling under the burden of excess body fat—whether acquired owing to genetic precursors, a serious illness, or an unfortunate eating disorder—keeps others at the forefront of her attention.
With this in mind, I am more than happy to suggest a possible solution to her undue corpulence, by mentioning the presence of a cycle shop in Witney town centre, on the high street, an excellent preventative against the accumulation of subcutaneous fat. I can heartily recommend cycling as a healthy alternative to sitting in a seat eating what looked like a packet of Pringles. Given this secular saint’s general demeanour and her unpretentious, distinctive mode of dress, I’m sure I’m in no small way pointing her in the right direction by mentioning it’s not far from Argos: as you leave the shop, make sure the Elizabeth Duke counter is right behind you and you can’t miss it.
So, once again: thank you, you fat, ignorant, oafish, abusive, glamourless chav. I hope your fucking face falls off.