Your moped is (nearly) on fire

The jury is still out and so is Jimmy. It's midday. He’s viewing something somewhere with someone. Breathless, he crashes through the door around 12.30. It went well. Very well. Couldn't have been weller. Excellent - a deal then? No. They may be moving as late as March 2008 and are not sure of their budget... or preferred location. One hopes we're talking the Netherlands here.

This morning, the moped scooted me workwards. It is the habit of the police and me to cordially ignore each other - the mutual respect of one skilled-road user to another speaking volumes.

At a red light, I stop. It's the law. Next to me, a police van pulls up in the other lane. The driver looks at my newly tuned and serviced machine and begins to lower his window. I wonder if he'll have time to deliver his compliment before the lights turn green. He does. He says, "there is petrol gushing from a fuel-line onto your engine. You are in danger of blowing yourself up." Looking down, my shoes, the engine, and the road are soaked. I see he is right. Looking up, I see he is gone. Long gone. Not wanting to have fragments of exploded engine parts sticking out of your body is a powerful motivator.

Abandoning the moped at the side of the road for later collection by the repair shop, I jog to the office for my 9.00 meeting. At 9.20 I learn it's cancelled and the clue to this cancellation is that nobody showed up.