I am strolling down by the lakeside with my three-year-old. He stops and points. His tiny finger indicates what has caught his interest. For once it is not something that could be a dinosaur bone. A bicycle leans against a wall; it looks as though it has been ridden through a flour mill.
The bike is covered with dried mud and little mussel-like shells. Fascinating! To think…. Someone designed the bike. Someone built it. Someone bought it. Someone rode it. Someone threw it in the lake. And then someone, somehow, got it out of the lake and left it there to be discovered by a passer-by who was intrigued enough to photograph it (noting how the molluscs seem to be particularly attracted to the gear cogs.)
I can’t help thinking that Lake Bike merits a more dignified resting place. Maybe I’ll wrap the saddle, pedals and handle bars in leopard skin, attach a pink neon light or two and hang it upside down from the ceiling of a contemporary gallery? Well…. maybe!
