The Bicycle Incident

This is CubikoGirl, Cubikoman’s seventeen year old step-daughter, and let me tell you; if it takes a village to raise a child, it takes the constant vigilance and support of this five person family to reign in an inventor. We’re still deep in the “spend lots of money and rip out your own hair in frustration” phase, which my step-dad demurely calls “the developmental stage of the business”, and I try to help out where I can. This blog was my idea, but getting this blog written is like getting blood out of a stone.

Step one: Select hefty stone

Step two: Aim at step-dad’s head

Step three: Ask step-dad, with a threatening grin, how his blog is going

Step four: Listen to his apologetic mumble until temptation overcomes you

Hey presto! Blood. Stone. So, I’m going to write a little bit of it myself, to show him how it’s done.

The ever-so-slightly raised voices of Mr and Mrs Cubikoman dragged me out of my summer-holiday lie in this morning. I lay awake, groggy and increasingly bewildered, as the “discussion” ratcheted up in volume from downstairs. It was a bit like listening to Prime Minister’s Question time; ferociously civilised, with only snatches of intelligible conversation;

“Bike... Trailer... Pubs...”

Bike powered portable pubs on a trailer? Trailering, bikey... what the hell?

Morbid curiosity drove me downstairs. Mr and Mrs C were in the kitchen. I slowly stuck my head around the door. Mr C stood by the counter, his eyes glittering with the blinding enthusiasm of a squirrel on sherbet. My heart sank. My step-dad is a great guy, don’t get me wrong, but he can be a little bit like a clockwork toy. He gets wound up, and then zam! Off he races in search of the next big thing, and he’ll go far if he’s facing the right direction. Or he’ll kinda... run into a wall and spin around in circles. My mind was suddenly filled with the image of him pulling a pub on a trailer. He’d do it.

He’s just that determined.

He glanced toward me, and pitched to us both. “I’ll get one of those trailers and cycle around to pubs, clubs schools, all of that, instead of this 'jump in the car, drive, park, jump in the car, drive, park.' A bicycle trailer, but I’ll put Cubikos in the back instead of kids. I’ll go from place to place selling Cubikos, I won’t have to pay for petrol, congestion charge, or anything! Plus, I’ll loose weight.”

Mrs Cubikoman took a breath to steady herself. I leant back to watch. Engarde, and...
“You have a car outside. Why don’t you use it? Or you could use a rucksack and carry five games at a time to each pub or- use the boot of your car.“

Parry, and repost. I smiled and reached for an apple.

Also:
“Where are we going to store the trailer in the winter?”

“Is this just a piece of equipment that you aren’t going to use?”

“How will you avoid arriving at the pubs all covered in sweat?”

“You haven’t used your bike for, what, eight years? Is it even safe?”

Mr C’s enthusiasm was beginning to dwindle. Something approaching a scowl crossed his face.

“Well, there are three bikes in the house.”

I paused. There were three bikes in the house. Mrs C, my sister and I had been given them for Christmas; they were lovely, bright pink and purple. I burst out laughing, but hid it with a bite of apple.

“So, you’re going to use my pink bike to pull a trailer of Cubikos from pub to pub?”

Touché. Mr C was wounded. “You aren’t supporting me, darling?”

Mrs C’s face darkened. I strongly suspected that she was leaning toward the “Blood
From Stone” school of thought (see above- the method can also be used to permanantly change a person's mind). I decided to take my cereal to another room.