Horse's arse, urban cyclist, smirking water main

Having grown up on a farm where travel and transport were by horse and cart, I have finally worked out half a century later what it is that I’m missing each time I sit in traffic staring at the back of a car in front of me. The cleavage.

The hard edge of the urban cyclist is bent in the shape of the cycle frame; the soft edge is sadistically inclined.

 

Each time I walk over a pavement that has just been immaculately laid, I sense a water main underneath smirking.