Sunday, 21 July 2013

Sunday, 11am-2pm, Flyer Fiction 3: I Say Old Chap, What's All This About Then?

Things were even quieter when I arrived on Sunday, but that was to be expected. As I was doing my observations (and eating brunch), a dapper chap arrived on a vintage blue bike with lovely old dynamo lights, which was great as I'd already decided to use Sunday's Tweed Ride as inspiration. This is a jolly jaunt around Manchester, everyone in their finery, and this meet had been arranged as a result of the fine weather. As I know the people who had organised it, I asked them to wend their way past Cornerhouse en route to Platt Fields, and they very nicely obliged! Another friend dropped in to say hello and a lady came over and asked if I was "the flash fiction writer" and we had a chat about the project, so she's also made her way into the story.


I Say Old Chap, What's All This About Then?
By Sarah-Clare Conlon

Claude and Camille were the democratically elected leaders of Tweed Ride – no one else had the time to organise the route what with all their brogue-polishing and floral frock-ironing. The brother and sister duo would spend sunny Sundays studying satellite shots of the city, devising suitable point-to-points for their sartorially savvy cycling pals, then disseminating the details via thoroughly modern means. The stylish steeds and their masterly tweeds would then gather at a pre-determined destination for a pre-dérive drink, before pushing off for a potter around culturally significant venues.

Often, they met at the arthouse cinema; Claude and Camille snagging their Pashleys together while they enjoyed eggs Benedict and Croque Monsieur, and waited for the others. There was Jonathan with his tandem, Ella with her apple-green step-through, Rob with his Harris flatcap, the plus-fours guy; the girl with the I Heart My Bike bell. Trundling around town, the mass attracted attention, and that was the point: promoting cycling for the chic and cheerful. Folk waved from pavement cafés, the people's paparazzi snapped the passing posse on smart phones. The Urbis youth looked on, not computing this weird alternative tribe. You've all got moustaches, they shrieked at the men mosying along. The women smiled at the men. The men smiled secretly, and kept on pedalling.

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