I think I have a new crush. And she’s rumored to be only a couple years older than me, which inspires me to look deep into a bottle of vodka.
Here is a piece I wrote for the New Statesman‘s transport-themed week, A to B. Ever since I wrote it I feel like I’ve jinxed myself. I put my helmet on in the morning and I wonder if it’s a prelude to my death. I think: “Will the mortician get my eyebrows right?”
I’ve been a cyclist in central London for almost two years and I am not yet dead.
This is probably statistically rare given I am 20-something and female, and when thinking back over my first year it certainly feels like an unlikely outcome. Look at me typing on the internet. I could be dead instead of doing this but somehow I’m not. Either I’m invincible or I have learned how not to die. Since I burn myself every single time I make toast, I can assume the invincibility theory is bogus, so it must…
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