“Your funeral.” And with that she turned tail and stalked back to the kitchen, Heather following reluctantly. I wheeled the bike over to the garage and stood it next to the mini. The comparison made me chuckle to myself. There was the mini, in all its tattered glory and then next to it was my shiny, good-as-new bike, polished to perfection. I could se why Heather wanted one. It was the finest piece of machinery on the planet. Well in my eyes anyway. To me there was nothing better than riding at the speed of light on a polished-to-perfection motorbike, the wind streaking through your hair, the sound of the engine purring with pleasure and, of course, the thrill. There was nothing more thrilling than speeding down the highway at the speed of light. It was unbelievable. The feeling of absolute freedom was indescribable, so uplifting. I stood there for a while, admiring the glorious bike and remembering all the good times I'd had with it (odd as this may sound, that bike brings back a lot of memories), before heading back to the house. My mum was drying the pots in the kitchen, obviously still angry at me for the bike. I assumed Heather was in the garden or her room.

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