Beautiful Wife was out for the morning and I took the chance to get to the garden and cut some of the more rapidly growing weeds while the sun was shining. This done I stopped for a break in the shadow of the big cherry tree before riding home for lunch. The birds were singing, the garden was looking almost tidy after a session with the shears, and all was well with my world.

Then my phone buzzed: Beautiful Wife was calling to ask how the salad preparation was going.

That would be the salad* that Beautiful Wife had asked me to make this morning, which I’d forgotten about and was currently in kit form, in the fridge, in our kitchen. Where I rather crucially wasn’t.

Saying “I forgot and I’m in the garden” wasn’t going to be a good move.

Beautiful Wife told me she’d be home in fifteen minutes and hung up happily.

I threw the tools in the shed, grabbed coat, fleece, spare boots and water bottle and shoved them into the Xtracycle, set off, swore, came back and locked the gate, set off again, and climbed up the track to the road in about forty seconds, and crested the summit of the hill in time to annoy a driver who apparently thought that cyclists should give him priority at all times, raced down the long hill and back up the other side, joined the main road between cars, shot through the town centre, down the back streets and home, left everything on the Xtracycle, ran up the stairs and started throwing salad into the sink.

By the time Beautiful Wife came back I was pretending to nonchalantly cut radishes.

 *Salads being the only thing I’m allowed to make after the last experience with my cooking.