I give thanks to Mr Speedy who decided to cut inside of me as I slowed to let one of those long Volvo estates turn into a petrol station, briefly clipping my front wheel, and then spraying me in the face with dirty water as he sprinted off which meant that I spent five minutes getting grit out of my contact lenses. When I finish building my Karmic Redistribution Engine something terribly, terribly bad is going to happen to you, sir.
Then, as I descended the Hill of Doom, a scrotal strangling descent in this era of endless leaf mush my brakes start with an aguish squealing only normally heard when demons feed the souls of the damned into a paper shredder (that's mostly Wednesdays, between 7 and 8pm). This reminded me of that urgent brake block replacement chore that I abandoned a few weeks back because Nothing Was Working.
Oh it's no bad thing, I reckon I shaved a couple of grams from the titanic weight of that bloody Brompton.
Anyway, some swearing and an hour in the garden got the bloody things off, the inserts out (no, no, don't use the tip of a sharp knife, said my inner Ms Sensible, so I found something stabby in the cupboard, stuck that in the remaining rubber, selected a playlist of some the finer words of anglo-saxon heritage, and levered the fucking things out, put the new ones in, faffed about for ages lining everything up and putting everything back together, a process made more difficult by everything being practically subaqua).
I'm going to be finding grubby finger marks around the house for weeks like it's a bloody a crime scene that CSI have been over.