We’d arrived in a small coastal habitation on the Mull of Galloway and were parked by the sand dunes unpacking the car to start our ride. I had placed my helmet on the grass and was applying some sunscreen when a man walks over with his Jack Russell dog. We exchanged pleasantries; he lived in the area and was giving us the lowdown on some nice places to eat round here.
While we were chatting his dog wandered over to sniff my helmet. The man, strangely I thought, yelled really loudly at his dog before muttering, “little bastard!”.
I think the man was enjoying the patter because he did that thing where you say something like, “right, well, we’d better get on the road hadn’t we?” to bring the conversation to a close, to which he replied, “my partner died earlier this year, bowel cancer, so now it’s just me and the dog” (making it impossible to leave the conversation there). Anyway, we eventually said goodbye, I put on my helmet and we hopped on our bikes.
We were a short way up the road when Hubs said, “you know that dog pissed on your helmet?”
“Did you not hear him call the dog a little bastard?”
“Well I did, but I didn’t know he’d pissed on my helmet, otherwise I never would have put it on my head! Why didn’t you tell me as I was putting it on?”
“I thought you must have seen it and didn’t mind!”
25 April, 2021