Bike? What bike?

Since re-arranging our apartment on Saturday, my whole life has gone to hell.

There is only so much rearranging one can do in a
2DK (swinging a cat, for example, is a pipe dream) so when I whacked the crap out of my small toe and broke it on our strategically placed bookshelf (after spewing forth a steady stream of loud, profane invectives then whacking it again on the same bookshelf not two hours later) I found it was difficult to get around without my beloved "mama-chari", the Japanese cousin of the Aussie Malvern star, with almost as much street-cred.

This morning I rode my bike to the station and parked in the very clearly marked "No Bicycles" area. Everyone parks there - it is a goddamn national institution to stick it to the Parking Nazis. The local pachinko parlour even places plastic bags over the seats of these illegally parked cycles when it rains.

I got onto the (very crowded train) where someone stepped on my destroyed toe, made it to my class and then returned home only to find my life-saving transportation impounded! Impounded!

I have no idea where my bike is. The Parking Nazis don't even put a little slip in your letterbox to the tune of "Nya nya nya nyaaaa nyaaaaaaaaaaaa, cough up 3,000 big ones or your bikes going to mama-chari heaven". Nothing. They just assume I know where I need to go to get it back. Is it like the pound where thousands of discarded cycles peer forlornly from between the bars begging to be taken home? Where do these bikes go? Does anyone know?

I am but saddened at the loss of my faithful companion... say, is that a brand new mama-chari I see in that shop window? Matt???