It's an Indian Motorcycle

and a bloke turning his back on it and pretending not to notice. Just look at him hiding

behind the Sump logo. Look at that posture. But inside he's probably eaten up with envy.

He's probably sick in his stomach. Sick with desire. With lust. With raw, primal, animal

craving. He wants to touch it. He wants to nick it. Or just sit on it. But instead, he's just hanging

his jacket nonchalantly over his shoulder and discussing the weather. "Hey, John. I see

we're having an Indian Summer," says his mate. "Shut yer gob," says John.