Before Christmas, I took the Castafiore to Recycle cycles to have her stripped to the frame in preparation for her transformation to a memorial. I got a phone call earlier this week to say that she was ready to be picked up. I stopped by the shop after work on Thursday. Graham, the young guy who works there, was discussing repairs needed on a bike with another customer. I perused the eclectic assortment of bikes there for a few minutes before noticing the Castafiore amongst the clutter.
After I picked up the frame with a certain possessiveness, Graham inquired if I had the receipt ticket for her. Unfortunately, I had mislaid it. However, he accepted my driver's license whilst apologizing for the need to be sure the right bike had left the store with the right person. He admitted that it was unlikely that I wasn't the right person as I had picked out a specific (broken) frame out all the stuff in the store and knew the phone number on card. I then pointed out that the frame had the number of my driver's license engraved on it. This was doubly in my favour as not only did the numbers match, but it wasn't a very obvious thing to know about it.
I slung the frame over my shoulder as I walked to the nearest Metro station. With my burden and a certain amount of smug silliness, I cheerfully walked past the disingenuous signs welcoming bikes in the Metro, (except during rush hour or other times that the STM arbitrarily decides that bikes aren't on the Metro, such as during the Tour de l'Île, Carifest, etc.) It was in fact still rush hour, and I was sort of taking a bike on Metro. Then again, the Castafiore, was sorely reduced in size, so I really wasn't taking something as large and bulky as a bike on the Metro. Suffice it to say, no one stopped me.
Now I have to clean the gunk off of her, prepare the images and hang attach them to her. After that, I will have to decide which wall of my apartment deserves her presence. My plan is to use hooks such as you would use for an active bike to hold her onto the wall.