Back in the saddle

Having managed to get another bike fixed up with the sole purpose of discovering which hitherto unthought of method of destroying it he would choose to employ, Ottawacker Jr. ventured out for his traditional Sunday bike ride with Mrs. Ottawacker. 

It's always a surprise to find out where they end up. Usually, I find out via the phone: sometimes, it is a "can you come and get us, he's fallen off his bike/cycled into a wall/fallen into the canal/hurt his knee" phone call; other times it is through a flick through the pictures to see which blip they have taken for me. (Even I am getting sick of seeing pictures of my back garden.)

Occasionally, I have no idea at all where they have been. Like today. "But where were you?" "Guess." "I don't know, that's why I am asking." "Guess." etc. etc. ad nauseam. I still have no idea. My best guess - and all it got was a knowing Ottawacker Jr. look - is an O-Train station somewhere. But, as they say in The Commitments, "fecked if oi know Terry."