I hate the word "vulnerable"

Oh bloody hell, bloody me.

On Friday the CNJ printed a story about a 23 year old girl who died when her bike collided with a bus. Really sad. Really really sad. In the same paper, a woman wrote that we cyclists should take a bus:

"An excessive amount of attention and municipal consideration is being given to cyclists," she said. This is true. The other week a man was ranting about us skipping red lights, riding on pavements, generally being a nuisance.

The woman went on to say, impartially really not anti cyclist like the man: "All over the country heavy goods vehicles are freighting the multitude of needs for our everyday lives 24 hours of every day." That riding a bike is all very well down a little side road or a country village but in a city it's altogether "another matter". She's scared even in a car. "It is a reality in our fast moving and congested city roads that cyclists don't stand a cat in hell's chance." She ended with a flourish: "Get real. Use public transport!"

Now I've posted about my fear of cycling in the city, haven't I? Dunno, anyway, in midst of head in housing stuff, I chuck a little letter to the CNJ and go back to head in housing stuff.

Today they've sent an email saying they need my full details to publish it.

Oh fuckety fuckety fuck. We've been here before. They are not stupid; after my bccing the party leaders email to them they are definitely not stupid. One plus one, does make two! I took the bull by the horns and replied telling them they could do the sum.

I told them I still felt "incredibly vulnerable" which was why I didn't just spell it out on the email. God I hate the word 'vulnerable'. It's so crap, it's such a cop out. It's where me and Stigmum part company and I feel exposed while she just wants to get a message across.

What do I have to be afraid of? After all, they will withhold my details.

Why do I have to be so flipping frightened? Why do I have to admit to feeling 'vulnerable'? Urgh, did I tell you I hate that word, applied to me.

I'm scared aren't I, of one of those pesky politicians I'm so intent on calling pesky reading this, consigning me and my son to the depths of hell, which begs the question of why I write a flipping blog in the first place and why I insist on being hand bitey on said blog.

I am not Belle de Jour, not in terms of clever writing, nor in terms of clever cover up. But what I write is true goddammit, the lives of many, not just mine. The thoughts of many, not just mine.

I should get a grip. This is the letter that they will not publish or that they might publish and does it really matter if they do or don't?

I was very sorry to read about the death of Dorothy Elder (Cyclist in bus collision dies 26 Nov) but I must say to Ms Milner (Get real, cyclists, take a bus letters 26 Nov), if public transport was free, I might consider it. If a bus could take me to my destination quicker than my bike, I would also be tempted. Instead I hop on my bicycle and sing; It's not my day to die, it's not my day to die, oh no no it's not, it's not my day to die.
So far, so lucky. The roads belong to us all, we should all look out for one another.

There, a storm in a thimble, over that.