‘And gears,’ said Anathema, ‘my bike didn’t have gears. I’m sure my bike didn’t have gears.’ Crowley leaned across to the angel. ‘Oh lord, heal this bike,’ he whispered sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry, I just got carried away,’ hissed Aziraphale. ‘Tartan straps?’ ‘Tartan is stylish.’ Crowley growled. On those occasions when the angel managed to get his mind into the twentieth century, it always gravitated to 1950.
