Open letters

{I'm aware that this bitchy post has nothing to do with OEs, Cambridge, or travel. I don't get paid for another few days, and I'm almost out of money. I guess that's why I get angry and emotional at the same time each month. I'll be sweet-tempered again in a few days.}

Dear Tescos.

I am writing to apologise. A few weeks ago I purchased one of your bike pumps. It has now broken in two places. At first I assumed that you were selling cheap, useless, plasticy shit, but I did not read the packaging clearly, so perhaps the fault was mine. Perhaps this pump was only designed to push lighter gases than air. After all, air is made up not only of nitrogen, the 7th lightest gas, but to a lesser extent, also oxygen, the eighth lightest. Perhaps if I had used it to inflate my tires with helium, the pump would be intact and my bike would be lighter to ride. If the puncture I got while out riding in the countryside inconvenienced you at all, I apologise.

Yours, etc.
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Dear generic cambridge bike shop.

I am writing to thank you. When I purchased a bike from you a few weeks ago, you made me wait while you "serviced" it. I assumed that you were using the term "service" to mean that you would make the bike function adequately. However, it appears you were using the term in the way that a stallion services a mare, because the bike is clearly fucked. Not only has it suffered a pinch flat, meaning that you do not know how to install an inner tube (lesson #1 of any basic cycle maintenance course), but the gears have never shifted cleanly. I am normally a person who enjoys tinkering with bikes, so you have clearly given me several opportunities here. I am sure numerous other opportunities will surface soon.

Thank you, etc.
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Dear tailor in Christchurch.

I am writing to compliment you on your subtle sense of humour. Some weeks ago, I brought my new trousers to you to reduce the length of the legs. When you pinned them up, I asked you to make them shorter because I do a lot of walking and they looked like they would reach the ground. You told me to let you do your job because you knew what you were doing. They do indeed drag along the ground when I walk. I see now that you were being wryly sarcastic about your ability to do a professional job, but at the time I missed the joke because I assumed that you were marginally competant. The error was mine.

Yours, etc