The Dreaming Tree

Its about 3 in the afternoon. The wind has died down and the sun is out, but there's still a detectable chill in the stagnant air. I'm on my dio (which is just a scooter, but I'm on my scooter sounds too...err..dorky?) and my mirrors are full with some dude behind me honking like his horn is his girl friend's ..err.. lets say he was honking his timbers.

I move left and let him pass. And I see his bike. Its a cruiser, really pretty. Leather, black paint and shiny chrome. Its low, sounds powerful and real choppy and isn't a Bajaj or Yamaha toy cruiser. His fuel tank says Enfield.
As he quite lazily goes past me I see the biker. He's short, stocky and has a pair of shades on. Quite fittingly with a leather jacket, with a lot of metal on it too (err... sad).

As he completely goes past me his number plate reads GJ xx x 0007 and somewhere in between it says, in pink paint and quite an oestrogen induced font "I am Bond"(how ingenious and witty).

And as I look up again behind his metal filled leather jacket in large, bold, silver, painted letters I read "Britney Spears" and a sad caricature of a mountain goat with blonde hair.
I have reason to believe he is from the crab people.