I walk down the long Park Road. I close my eyes while I listen to the bristle of the trees and the cheering of the birds. I've always liked walking through this street.
On one side stand big luxurious houses that no one but the rich are able to afford, on the other side lies a park, hence the name.
Each summer morning it promises a Broadway worthy spectacle. A lightshow of sunlight shining through the colourful leaves, adding to the effect are the birds, the orchestra.
I look up to the end of the road. There's an old cafe there and just before it stand my bicycle. Wretched old thing. It's a passed down example, that originally belonged to my grandmother. And now it's my turn to live with it.
It is about as ugly as any bike could go. The frame has a coppery red colour, always dusted by the aftermath of spring.
The combination of my brown saddle with black handles didn't add to her beauty. And each time you get on it, a loud clicking noise comes from the chains that drive it forward.
I never felt the need to leave it well protected because no burglar is stupid enough to take it from me.
And yet it has history. Despite the noise, the odd colour. It served my grandmother a great amount of years. And now the duty carries on to me.
I smile while I drive off with my clattering bicycle.