More like the six lousy feet. That’s all I had to cycle this morning to get past the last of the parked cars on the narrow one-way street so I could pull over and let Mr Maroon Cavalier pass me. Two yards. I was doing my best to hold the road, I’d looked over my shoulder twice to let him know I knew he was there (just in case he thought I was Lambeth’s only deaf-blind cyclist & had come out without my dog), and I was cycling as fast as my little legs would go. He had mere seconds to wait before he could pass me in safety. But even that was too long, for that would violate the first cardinal rule of driving like an utter twat: Car must pass bike. Car. MUST. Pass. Bike. Pass… Bike… Paaasss…Biiiike…*
So he passed. No matter that there was barely enough room. No matter that I had to use some extremely unladylike hand signals on him and his good wife to relieve my feelings on the matter. Nano-seconds had been shaved off his journey, and the honour of maroon Cavalier drivers everywhere had been upheld.
* this may also be the first cardinal rule of driving like a zombie