My first job was in the head office of a Halfords-y type shop
One day the bike buyer says, "Oi, pineapplecharm; if I get you a new bike will you test it out and let me know if it's any good?" Being a selfless and generous man, I agreed and only a few days later was rewarded with a shiny new bike. Front and back suspension, whizzy decals, even a bottle holder - this thing had it all! RRP was about £79.99 (for all its features the thing was made out of processed cheese and string) but it was a FREE BIKE and I wasn't going to be snooty about it.

After a few weeks of speedy two-wheeled commuting, I provided the feedback required and was then told I could keep the bike. Result! As luck would have it my father was in town so I decided to ride the new steed to the pub to meet him and celebrate. Dinner was consumed, beer was drunk, bills were paid by a willing parent already nostalgic for the days when my every penny came directly from his wallet.

Upon my return home, I locked the bike downstairs in its usual place by the door and retired to bed to dream of pixies and cut price car accessories.

In the morning, the bike was gone.

My fury and shame drove me to extreme acts of justification and paranoia. I didn't think it was sod's law that the very night the bike passed officially into my possession was the one chosen by the thief. That would be too simple. No, I was convinced it was no coincidence; they knew. They had been watching. And once the corporate might had been removed from the ownership picture, they struck.

It took three months for me to pluck up the courage to admit what happened to my colleagues. I mean, what kind of an arsehole loses a bike - a free bike mind you - from his own front yard? What kind of a pillock would leave it locked up where it was visible from the street? Who could live with themselves knowing they treated with such disregard such a treasured, generous gift? It was a character forming moment when I approached the buyer's desk and, in a wavering voice, admitted my transgression.

He reached for the phone, clearly to warn the rest of his department never to trust me with company property again.

"Hi, is that Darrell? Can you send another one of those P-100's over? No, we won't be paying; it's a sample. Yeah, head office. Cheers." He looked at me. "Should be here on Tuesday. Alright?"

I was, if anything, doubly mortified that I'd felt so bad about it.

When the bike arrived, I was determined not to lose it. I rode it home that evening absolutely convinced I had to find a new place to lock up the steed so that this time, no matter how psychic the local criminal fraternity were, they would be foxed by my cunning and bamboozled by my brilliance.

This time, I avoided the front yard and cycled round to the car park behind the flats, hidden from the road. This was a good start. There was no bike rack, just eight parking spaces which offered little you could loop a chain through. The fence was solid, which was good for privacy but lacking in lock-friendly orifices. The lighting was on short poles which weren't much use for attaching anything a man could lift. I was running out of ideas.

And then I noticed that the building didn't quite meet the fence on one side. Approaching with rising excitement I realised there was a good 18 inch gap - more than enough to fit a bike in. It would be completely hidden from anyone - in fact even other residents using the car park would be unaware of the bike's presence. Genius! I hurried over and peered around the corner into the gap.

And there, leaning nonchalantly against the wall with its arse towards me, was the old bike. It wasn't even chained.

Three months of walking to work. Three.

I can only surmise that, after a particularly inspirational pint of local ale, I had been struck with the idea (possibly after my dear Dad saying something along the lines of "obviously you're not still locking that bike up in the front yard are you?" in his normal passive-instructive way) of researching a new storage location but, cruelly, also robbed of the memory of such research.

Still, at least my flatmate got a free bike too!
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 10:58, 3 replies)

I like this

(Brigadier an old boot sitting on a man's face - forever, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 11:27, closed)

Hah.
Reminds me of someone elses story.

Bloke I used to work with once drove to a Millwall match, parked his car in a nearby street, went to the match.

When he got back the car had been nicked.

Reported to police, insurance claim made, new car bought, end of story.

Apart from the day a couple of months later he parked his new car in a street near the ground, and realised the filthy looking car in front of him was the one he'd parked there half a year ago.
(username failed moderation, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 12:18, closed)

Holy shit
Holy shit - that wins, by a mile!

My brother once borrowed my car and called to say it had JUST BEEN NICKED from right outside my house while he was having a coffee. I told him to call the cops. They told him to ring the council. He'd managed to find the one restricted space on my street and it had been towed. Sigh.
( pineapplecharm D d M Y, H:i, Tue 26 Mar 2013, 12:43, closed)