I feel foolish, but I’m too far from home to walk it, so there’s nothing for it: I have to go in this bike shop to get my flat fixed.
They take my bike in the back while I pace the front of the store like an expectant father in a cliched cartoon from the Fifties.
“Well, when I’m fixing a flat, I don’t rest until I find the cause,” the repairman says finally, as he comes out from behind the counter holding my wheel.
“I think this is it,” he finishes with a small smile, holding up a thin piece of metal about an inch long.
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