Somewhere in every gothic graveyard there should be a tomb labelled: ‘Best Laid Plans’. Probably next to another with a neat stone sign saying ‘Good Intentions’. We all know about that road to hell, and what it’s paved with, but I suspect that those good intentions simply passed over out of boredom, rather than by demonic persuasion. Although I’m not too sure…
I had partially filled the CSR’s oil tank with nice new SAE30 – the quantity limited not by prudence, because I was quietly confident that all would be OK – but by the sad fact that I had run out of oil. I am always somehow surprised by this, and occasionally wonder where it all goes. Then I look around me at The Shed’s 1000 square feet of previously white concrete floor and understand deep and dark things about my bikes'oil-retaining abilities.
But anyway, I’d sploshed and dripped the last of my new engine oil into the tank, observed that nothing appeared to be leaking from its new plumbing, and repaired for another evening of domestic bliss watching some Chinese animated movie involving improbable and incomprehensible plots and characters. Increasing deafness is sometimes not entirely a bad thing.
Refreshed – if confused – by an evening of truly mysterious movies, I returned to The Shed the following day to discover that a worrying proportion of my last few drips of engine oil was gracing the surface of the bench. This was not in the plan. The plan, may I remind us both, was to rid the CSR of its endless capacity
