So there I was, just outside the vauxhall underpass, where the cycle-on-the-pavement bit ends and the no-cycling part begins. Being a good girl, I stopped cycling and – having paused to check for free bike racks – got off my bike. Or started to. For as I swung my leg behind me and over the back wheel, it encountered something. Something soft and trouser clad. Something at – not to put too fine a point on it – more or less crotch height. Because the chap behind me, despite seeing that I had stopped, didn’t seem to think that there was any likelihood that I might be actually about to obey the law and get off the bike, and was trying to squeeze past me, to the imminent peril of his meat-and-two-veg. Lucky I was wearing my crepe-soled shoes, is it not?
Gentlemen, you may uncross your legs now.