I finally married my bicycle on Saturday in a ceremony celebrated by a minister of the little-known but damn handy Carpathian Independent Church, and we have both been seriously well-oiled ever since. The downside is that my Ugandan friends have disowned me, quoting this Acholi poem:
I hear a bicycle bell,
The bridewealth of Laker,
Why do you marry a bicycle with it?
I hear a bicycle bell,
A bicycle has no eyes,
It cannot help your clansmen.
The bridewealth of Laker,
Why do you marry a bicycle with it?
I hear a bicycle bell,
A bicycle has no eyes,
It cannot help your clansmen.
(A well-clad gentleman who claims to represents my interests apparently contracted me Friday night to play piano and sing German repertoire from the 30s for a damn horny lesbian theatre group, but that is not the kind of thing one necessarily tells one’s bicycle.)
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