It was a stupid mistake. I should not have taken the canal shortcut. Not at this time of night. Three shadowy figures, lurking by the footbridge, shuffle in the darkness. Their voices float eerily over the water, deep and threatening. I could turn back, but surely they have spotted me. Now is not the time to show weakness. Quickening my pace, I continue walking nervously forward, defence strategies established, swimming not yet ruled out. They laugh and push each other as I pass, totally ignored, protected by the cloak of invisibility. I’m 62. The younger generation doesn’t even see me.
John Holmes is either a cyclist who writes or a writer who cycles. johnholmeswriter.com