Fingers crossed, so far I’ve not had a puncture. I do have a repair kit somewhere, but as I had to consult the manual just to get my rear light cover off this morning, I’m not hoping to have to cope with the broken nails and doubtless humiliation that the task probably involves any day soon.
Luckily for me, closish to home, and on my way to and from work, is a little outfit offering sanctuary. It’s a left over from the eighties, a sort of protest and survive pad, a self-help place of the type that you used to find decades ago, but which largely vanished when padded shoulders and big hair became fashionable.
You can probably get the feel of the place from this noticeboard.