The Cafe Idler
I read the other morning, over my bacon and eggs, that Lord Winston feels it is high time something is done about all the “hoodlums in Lycra” that are gadding about London’s streets these days causing His Lordship no end of anxiousness when he crosses the street in front of the House of Parliament. In this, apparently, he found ready agreement from his fellow peer, Lord Sharkey who described the crossing of the street in front of Parliament House ‘an accident waiting to happen’ especially during the rush hour and all because of cyclists. One could be forgiven for thinking this rather quaint-sounding exchange came from an archived story from The Times, circa 1896, or perhaps something from the pages of P.G. Wodehouse, but no, it was from the BBC’s news website, reporting on a discussion in the House of Lords this week. I have often wondered where the Wodehousian world had crawled off to die, and now I know: it hasn’t.
It was a tram driver’s strike in Melbourne back in the early Nineties that got me riding a bicycle again as an adult. I was living in Elsternwick that year, one of those old bayside neighbourhoods in the city's inner south. I didn’t own a car but relied instead...
Last night I sat down with a bowl of popcorn to watch the special edition the so-called director’s cut, of an old favourite film. I wish I hadn’t. Why do they do it? Spoil a classic by throwing in stuff that was rightly left on the cutting room floor the first time around?