It was fine while I was riding home, loaded with shopping and with my daughter, Selma, sat in her seat in front of me, on the frame.  It was fine early evening, when I dashed to the bank to collect cash.

But the next morning it was as flat as a pancake.

And I knew why. I knew why instantly.

No question.

I raised my eyes from my flat bicycle tyre and looked directly at the culprit. At least, I looked at the building in which I knew the culprit to be housed, among his many accomplices.

So it may just be the case that a year ago I was stupid enough to buy an apartment above a bar. Sure, the real estate agent told me it had been sound proofed. Sure, he waved a piece of paper, allegedly confirming the soundproofing, in the air. Sure, he asked me if I wanted to read it.

But that just seemed unnecessary. I believed him, and while you scoff know that I head butt my bedroom wall as a reminder daily of my stupidity, naivety and, once again, my stupidity.

So I may, on discovering the noise levels, have made some complaints. After arguing with some drunks who had little sympathy for my plight, I may have made those complaints official. People may have come by with recording apparatus. They may have concluded that the bar had to build a soundproof ceiling.

And okay, if you are going to drag it out of me, I might have still been unsatisfied, and so a soundproof wall may also have been insisted upon and paid for by the bar.

Meh! Whatever! So maybe I am not welcome in the bar downstairs. It might just be that the people in the bar downstairs are pissed. With me.

So it goes without saying that the people in the bar sabotaged my tyre, right? I hope so, because I found myself telling a friend this earlier. “They stabbed it,” I told her.

I may or may not have proof of this. But, I did have my bike stolen this last summer from outside my apartment building. So it goes without saying, right?

“They stabbed it,” I told her.

Today I took my bicycle to the bike shop to be ‘fixed’. He would know. One look and he would see sabotage.

“I am not sure it’s punctured,” I told him to arouse his curiosity. “But I didn’t see the flat and when I rode it the tyre slipped off.”

He looked at me.

“But I am not convinced it’s punctured, because there is simply no air left in it at all.”

“That’s normally what happens with a puncture,” he told me.

“No, but there is no air left at all. Not a drop. It’s a bit odd, right?”

“Not really.”

“But, I have had punctures before and there has always been some air left.”

“Ah, this is quite common.”

Meh! Whatever!

I went back five hours later and paid the man 100 kroner. My bike was outside the shop, padlocked together with many other recent repairs.

“So, how was it?” I asked.

“How was what?” the bike shop owner asked.

“Well, was it, like, a big hole or a little hole?”

The bike shop owner pulled the bike that was leaning against mine away, so that I could remove it.

“Was it like a gash?” I asked.

“I have fixed 10 punctures today,” he said.

“But you would notice a knife wound, right?”

“I suppose I would. But this was just a regular puncture,” he said.

Meh! Whatever!