After we were robbed a few days ago, some bits of trains and tracks turned up in the alleyway under the vegetation.

But so much has gone. Thirty years or more of memories. Trains, trucks, carriages, different sizes and shapes.

But most precious was a hand built bike my hubby bought in the 1970’s. The frame came first, 531 double butted steel. Then he had the wheels, chainset, pedals, handlebars added to it. That bike went to the south west, the lake district, all over Lancashire, and toured England. That has my hubbys heart infused into it.

There is a book called The Third Policeman, by Myles Magopaline? A pseudonym of Flann O’brien. It’s about how when someone owns a bike for a long time their molecules swap between person and bike so they take on characteristics of each other.

It is deeply saddening to lose your memories and belongings. He has lost his precious bicycle.