Ah, polling day. Returning to the primary school you left years before, to find a place that once felt like the inside of York Minster has shrunk to the dimensions of a large garden shed. People wearing rosettes whom you've never seen before and will never see again asking how you voted. The distant sound of promises being shouted through speakers on the top of a car.
Anyway. I'm pleased to see that after being missing-presumed-binned for several years, someone's had a rummage in the caretaker's storeroom and brought back this woodface sign. Yes, that is my bike.