Mud, mud, unglorious mud

Because Shaun is insisting that I don’t live near a forest, an assumption he comes to purely because he hasn’t seen it, even when I point out the photographic evidence on this here blog, I make the rash promise of a) getting up early (i.e. some time when it’s still the a.m. bit) on Sunday to take him to said forest; and b) agreeing to take the mountain bikes there and somehow I manage to ride to the station without a) doing the whole journey via the pavement; b) killing the old man on a bike that I nearly crash into; and c) falling under a bus.  Woo, go me.

We get to the forest and after about five minutes I start moaning about the amount of mud and wanting to get back home to my sofa and the big bag of Cheshire Cheese & Chutney flavour Kettle Chips but it has to be said that the trees are a pretty Autumnal colour

and I agree to have an action shot taken

and if I look like I’m wobbling and have absolutely no control over the two wheeled thing, that’s because I am and I haven’t but I manage not to fall off and we eventually leave the forest and Shaun wonders how I manage not to fall off into the mud and decides he quite likes Chingford and we go and look at house porn in estate agent’s windows and decide to buy a house there, although probably not the one for £1.8 million.

Stats:
Sunday mornings: 1
Old men nearly crashed into: 1
Mud: Loads
Times fallen off bike: 0
Houses for £1.8 million: 1