Today’s a grey day. Not your average “might rain later” grey either—no, this is the kind of grey that makes wallpaper look exciting. The clouds have come in for a proper cuddle with the valley, draping themselves across the hills like a damp duvet. Unfortunately, not the toasty kind from a John Lewis catalogue. More like the kind your aunt keeps in the airing cupboard for emergencies and smells faintly of cat.

The cold, meanwhile, is the sneaky sort. Doesn’t slap you in the face—oh no, it waits. It slithers up your sleeves, down your collar, and after a while, sets up camp in your bones with a hot flask and a sudoku. By the time you realise you’re cold, it’s already redecorated your insides.

Not that I have bones. Just an old blue frame, welded to the side of a building like a very confused art installation. Once upon a time, I was the pride of the pavement, the speed demon of the suburbs. Now I’m... basically a weathervane for misery. People pass beneath me with heads down, expressions like Monday morning spreadsheets. No one stops to chat anymore. The greyness isn’t just in the sky—it’s in their souls. And probably their socks.

The drizzle, or “mizzle” as the locals call it (because apparently rain wasn’t depressing enough), is particularly vindictive. It doesn’t fall, it hangs—like a bad smell or a politician’s promise. It slicks my already flaky paint, working its way into every nook, cranny and childhood trauma I never had. Red rust blisters bubble up like teenage acne. Glamorous, I know.

There’s Mavis at the bus stop. She’s one of my regulars—a loyal audience member in the theatre of my suffering. Usually good for a smile, maybe a wave. Not today. Today she’s dressed like a retired astronaut—plastic rain hood, hunched shoulders, and a look that could sour milk. She glances at her wrist (no watch, mind you—she gave that up when the buses stopped being punctual in 1996). Her grimace says it all: "I'd rather be anywhere else." Frankly, so would I.

I shut my metaphorical eyes. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

And wouldn’t you know it? The birds wake me with their usual joyful chaos. Nothing says “serene sunrise” like a gang of feathered delinquents screaming from the rooftops. Still, the sun’s up, and it’s doing its best impression of a benevolent god, lifting the cold from my creaky joints. It might be a scorcher.

People move differently in the sunshine. Slower, yes—but now with smiles, as if they’ve all been mildly tranquilised. Mavis is back at the bus stop, sans rain hood, still wearing her coat (presumably because she doesn’t trust the sunshine), while the youth parade around in T-shirts that are basically fabric suggestions.

A man walks past whistling—a sound so cheerful I assume he must have either won the lottery or escaped from somewhere with padded walls. The sun brings out the best in people. Sadly, it brings out the worst in me. The heat makes my old paint expand, crack, and shed like a molting reptile. Red patches blossom where blue used to be. My makeover continues. It's less “shabby chic” and more “post-apocalyptic clown.”

Still, I suppose it's better than winter. Just.

It’s the sunny days that get me remembering. Back when I was Sam’s pride and joy. We went everywhere together—fields, parks, the occasional hedge. Tassels on my handlebars, pink paint gleaming like bubblegum dreams. Life was grand. Sam laughed, I squeaked. It was a love story. A short one.

Then, one day, she grew up. As they do. I was unceremoniously stripped of dignity (and tyres), repainted like a crime against colour coordination, and hoisted up this wall like a weird cycling-themed scarecrow. A few days later, hundreds of bikes whizzed past, part of some big event. I watched, yearning, the wind gently rotating my wheels like some sort of cruel taunt. Thanks, wind.

Winter, though. Winter is a slow descent into madness.

There’s no sunshine. No birdsong. Just wind that shrieks like it’s being chased by its ex and snow that either flumps down like soggy tissues or pelts you like you’ve offended it personally. My crossbar becomes a snow shelf. Eventually it collapses and melts, sending shivers through my bolts.

Nights are worse. The frost sets in, clinging like an overenthusiastic relative. The water beneath my skin freezes, expands, then flakes off more of me, bit by tragic bit. I dream of the garage I once called home. The spiders. The comforting smell of old rubber and WD-40. Honestly, I’d take a cobweb in the spokes over this Arctic purgatory any day.

And yet... sometimes Sam walks by. She looks up at me, eyes twinkling, lips twitching with a nostalgic smile. For a moment, I’m not a forgotten fixture. I’m not just a rusted relic. I’m a memory. I’m her bike.

And in that moment, I am magnificent.

Even if I do look like I’ve been sneezed on by a rainbow with a skin condition.