Yesterday the husband brought back the latest addition to our household. A gleaming, chrome-glinting beauty of an Enfield.
Speechless, we stood there looking at it, any lingering bits of 'buyers remorse' fluttering away in the warm breeze, as we stood gazing at, what surely must be, the sexiest beast on the road.
Momentarily I forgot about potential road accidents, the hazards involved in driving two-wheeled vehicles around unregulated dirt roads, and the fact that there is but one bike and yet four people in our family.
No, none of this crossed my mind as I surveyed our latest familial accessory.
Nor did I blink an eye when both Eggs and Dumpie begged to be allowed to perch on the black leather seat and make 'vroom vroom' noises. (Perhaps this bike will be responsible for fostering a life long love of the motorcycle and I shall be plagued by 'mother guilt' and 'mother anxiety' for the rest of my days as a result...)
Or maybe this is just a rather stylish and easy way to avail our foursome of the now ripe and luscious mangoes from the nearest market town...
Or the non-winged creature which shall ferry us to even more divine and luxurious weekly massages further afield?...
Do I dare ask the husband to teach me the rudimentary skills necessary to take this formidable baby on the road? (The last time he tried to teach me to ride, it was in New Delhi many years ago, and excitedly gaining speed after only a few seconds, my career as potential kick-ass 'Hell's Angel', tattoo-ridden, cool chick ended the moment a fat young woman crossed the road in front of me, causing me to drive the Enfield into the nearest ditch.)
Oh, who am I kidding? I was born to ride on the back of a bike.
I'll leave the navigating and throttle power to the husband. He may not know how to get the most out of the two-legged female variety, but when it comes to two-wheeler - well he's the king of the road...the only one I'll ride with.
In a weird way, it feels like we've just adopted the newest member of our family. Only it won't poo-poo in public (Dumpie had another 'accident' at Kindergarten today damn it), drain our finances (Egg currently has more money in his allowance jar than I do in my wallet...is that right??) or talk back (good old Dumps is still rather scornfully referring to us as 'Stupid Woman' and 'Stupid Dada' with worryingly reoccurring frequency these days).
Oh yeah - and the best part is that if we decide we don't want it anymore we can sell it on. (Like that's going to happen. I can already see it being shipped across the ocean to join us back in London whenever it is we decide to return. Just imagine the school run...)