Sally, where have you gone?

I suppose it's inevitable, in London, in a city this big and brutal, but it still pisses me right the hell off. Of what annoyance, of what bane of modern living do I speak? Theft, my good friends, I speak of theft. Yes, it has happened again.

My good, faithful mountain bike – known as Sally to her friends, of which I did indeed count myself -- is no longer with me.. as she's been stolen. That's right, gentle readers, stolen. The horror, I know.

I rode my dear, kidnapped bike – tho I suppose she is no longer “my” bike – to Vauxhall station this morning, where I left her, locked to a rack with £25 of rubber-coated, inch-thick, braided metal cord.

When I returned many hours later – after volunteering, no less – the bike lock lay forlornly on the ground, severed into uselessness by common crooks with a masterful set of wire cutters. And Sally – gone.

I've contacted the police and sent in photos, but I don't dare hope at her return. I know I write this in mock horror, but -- like the last time I fell victim to such senseless crime -- my melodrama just hides my pain. And, it keeps me from unleashing a curse- and adjective-filled rant upon the internet, and your unsuspecting eyes... because you don't deserve that. But them -- the bad people -- oh, they deserve very bad things indeed.

So... um... y'all gonna ship me out a new bike, like last time? 'Cause that'd be cool...