We went to the shops and were reminded why we get our food shopping delivered. My weird hearing means the ambient noise of other shoppers, freezers etc overwhelms my ears and I turn into a zombified simpleton. I can't hear what Mr Weenie is saying and, as he hates shopping anyway, we always end up miffed and fed up.
On the slow walk home, on which he matched my waddly pace and we ended up walking for what seemed like forever, I saw many cyclists.
The first were laughing over coffee in lycra, four drop-barred bikes chained to the lamppost nearby, clearly having just done a Sunday morning distance run, probably just for fun. I tore my gaze away and we walked on. A couple whizzed by, again on bikes with drops and in long-distance gear, chatting and clearly enjoying the window of non-rain.
I confess, I welled up. I very nearly cried there and then. Forgetting our minor tiff and sweeping me into a cuddle, Mr Weenie asked what on earth was wrong.
I launched into a monologue of love for my two-wheeled companion.
My bike is not just my bike. Reg is the instant mood lifter, the transport that takes me wherever I want to go, when I want to go there, the outlet for my grump when I'm in one and my main source of physical achievement. He's not even in our house at the moment and has been banished to the storage garage as more and more baby things start to accumulate.
I finished, expecting a pat on the head and to be told to stop being ridiculous.
The reply came swiftly: 'Well, let's think about getting you a Brompton then.'
That, my cycling friends, is love.