What Goes Around, Comes Around
By Sarah-Clare Conlon
It probably hadn't been the brightest idea to leave your fancy fixie outside unattended while you nipped into the gallery to pick up the latest brochure. But the security guard wouldn't let you drag it across the freshly polished parquet and you were going to pop in and out quick-sharp, so you leant it against the chrome hoops, hidden within the melée of other bikes.
The trouble was, you knew too many people, and you were instantly spotted sneaking in and trying to streak back out. A former colleague collared you, the strangely over-excitable bloke from accounts who could never be quietened once he'd found his flow. And he found his flow easily. You nodded politely at his updates, jigging slightly from foot to foot, and eventually you managed to make your excuses and escape into the blinding glare of the sun. Your eyes straight away made out quite clearly the shape of what was missing. It was such a shame; you'd particularly loved those pedals, so aesthetically pleasing.
Then, while sulkily riding the sweaty bus home, you clocked your bike propped outside a shop and you dived off as passengers were pushing their way on board. Your legs had never pumped so fast as you made your getaway and pondered the chances of karma. Listening to the woes of others would only make you a stronger person.