Harold was really mad. His bicycle ride was gone all wrong! He really looked forward to trying his new red bike, and the ride from Birmingham to the village Knowle, ten kilometres outside the centre of Birmingham, was gone very fine. But the front wheel of the bike made a strange noise. He took a five minutes break and was on his way home again. He drove very fast around the sharp turns of the hill, and in the same movement felt the nut of the front wheel off. There he lay with the nose in the surface of the hard, black asphalt. Or rather, the colour of the asphalt was now the same as the bike: blood – red! He limped into the medical clinic, which was situated at the foot of the hill, but the secretary sent him home in a cab, when the doctors surgery hours was over that day. In the cab had he been told off bye the driver, because his nose was dripping blood at the seat in the cap, and because he did not have enough money for the ride. “I am not a helper for the poor” had the man said. “I got to think on my wife’s new coat, the children’s winter boots, the dogs flee collar, and what I owe down at the pub myself.” Now Harold was lying in the living room’s safety, but he knew, that he had to steal his brother’s bicycle to get to the dentist. Right incisor’s one half had to lie at the bottom of the Knowle-Hill.
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