Cycling and the pub do not make good bedfellows. 
Grey and moody sky
Under a grey and moody sky I cycled, full of brio yet unsteadily fast, homeward. While distracted by thoughts of Lula-mae, marooned in Limbo Nebraska (pop 47) a bollard leapt into my path.
The bollard won.
Bruise
Days later I noted that the bruise resembled uncannily that grey and moody sky.
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