Lasagna for dinner, and wife decided she didn't want carbs, so she's eaten everything except the pasta.

It lies there, bereft of life, like it's been drained by some bolognese vampire.

Nosferagu.

05:50 in the morning, Aberdeen. Down the lane, over the river, onto the main road. Cycling past the bus shelters washed of the smell of cigarettes by a brief dew. The sun is already well above the trees. I seem to be ahead of the coach from Peterhead and the giant cranes that usually roar past me, a round old beard zipped into a high visibility jacket. I imagine a day when there are no more cars, and just barely make it through the traffic signal that never lets me through.

My bottom bracket is making that clicking noise again. Maybe we should just crush every car that does anything even a little bit wrong - as I dodge around a cold taxi parked across the cycle lane - and give the driver free transit for life, an addiction recovery package. The city centre was a dated British oil fantasy of stabbing wells into the sea and dominating other drivers in a rush to the mall. It's creepy and smells odd and feels unsafe, like most old straight white male fantasies, and it's falling apart and empty except for us who beetle through the corpse at this hour, and one tourist.

The amazing bike rack at the railway station isn't new any more, but it's still amazing.