03/14/2002: "A Bump of Reverence"
Well now am nursing a bloody knee and feeling quite sorry for self but somehow grimly happy all the same.
Rotten old museum-relic. In fact suppose it really should be and I've had my just deserts for giving it a go, but somehow the two machines have gotten quite gear-tangled in my mind and having just the one -- even if half rust and all sharp edges -- and not the other proved too tempting a focus for my thoughts.
Bruise should heal long before they come to fetch me but the little gash will surely leave a mark and oh then what will I say? Old bicycle survived the Blitz (indeed whole garden writing-room is gone) but not one hour with me. And yet I'm sure it is the very one and so could not have held off for all the tea I lack in this cold house. So cold and dull without. When will they come?
Had been skimming the blue-blurred mimeographs we made before I left again, this time transcribed notebooks and can't imagine why I thought to bring those later years unless some impression of this account stayed in my mind from our long days of work:
MacAlpine joined me at Bournemouth for a little --
I gave him, I remember, his 1st bicycle and lessons,
and he at once became a great adept (I had myself
begun the summer before at Torquay).
Wonder frequently these past few days if psychical impressions do hum and twitter, gibber, moan about the objects we have touched or loved. Rotten rusty bad old thing.