Each time I see one of those bicycles with a basket… I hear the ‘Murder She Wrote’ theme song in my head. Angela Lansbury’s classic TV show featured the old duck as a mystery writer who went around solving real crimes. A nice enough premise, except with about a billion episodes it gets a little fishy.
This elderly woman rides into town. Next thing you know, bodies start dropping.
She could be anywhere. Rich places. Poor places. North, South, East or West. Ride into an Amish Village where there hasn’t been violence for 300 years. No matter – she gets in – people start dying.
Now I know I’m not alone in thinking, after some time, that she framed all the people she ”caught’ and she was actually behind all the murders.
I see a bike with a basket – I hear that song – I think of the greatest serial killer of all time, and she looks a lot like Nan.
With all that in mind, when you walk around dehydrated and sunburned in merciless London sunshine and heat – like I recently did – your feet lead you to a small little park for some shade. You get a cold drink, sit down in the shade, kick back and relax – only to stare at what must be the deadliest gathering point in all of the Western hemisphere.
A gaggle of bikes? A murder of bikes?
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here…
It was supposed to be a feeling of mild self-righteousness, about how ecologically kosher and physiologically fit and stuff the collective cosmopolitan culture was.
But all I heard was the ring, the typewriter clacking, that theme song, and a soft, wrinkly hand of death extended as the Reaper herself uttered: “Jessica Fletcher. How do you do?”