A weekend in the country

This weekend I toddled off to the Chilterns for a weekend of patter songs and drunkenness. The venue is not too far from High Wycombe and, as I knew I'd probably be late and was taking the train, I was reluctant to call for a lift. So Reg came along too.

The weather has been glorious and when I left High Wycombe station it was balmy and beautiful (if one looked away from the passed out drunk guy who'd thrown up on himself). The station is on an incredibly nasty hill so I was anxious not to go the wrong way and exhaust myself. I, of course, then went the wrong way. Once I'd walked Reg back up the hill we embarked on the right course and headed into the country.

I had my bright reflective seatbelt on and had my lights just in case because it's all tiny country lanes (with remarkably smooth tarmac) and cars come haring round the bends. It was mainly uphill but the inclines weren't too steep.

Around 20 minutes of wonderful cycling later I hit THE HILL. The venue for the weekend is up an enormous hill. It's near vertical in places and no one even walks up it. Well I did. I decided it attempting to cycle it wasn't worth the pain and, with my lights on in case of cars coming up, I set off.

A few cars passed me (I moved over for all of them as I had my ears on high alert). What I thought was very sweet was that a cab driver, having dropped off his charges and turned round, pulled over with his window down saying 'Keep going, you're nearly at the top and you're doing really well!' before giving me a cheery wave and disappearing down the hill.

I arrived late for the first rehearsal and ran in in lycra. Moomin had collected my music and attempted to hide her worry and assumption that I'd had a disaster. Reg was duly propped against some fencing for his first experience of being outdoors overnight and Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore was wrestled into submission.

I had a fab weekend seeing people, singing and admiring beautiful small children and, in a flash, my time there was over. Moomin drove a lot of my stuff home to keep down the weight and I headed off into the early afternoon with the sun bright above me and so much suncream on I glistened.

It was mainly downhill to the station and it was gorgeous. One rude station staff member and a missed train later (I couldn't see the bike carriage) I was speeding towards London with a fellow singer who I haven't seen for years.

As we approached Wembley I suddenly realised it would probably be easier to cycle from there than to train to Marylebone, cycle to Paddington and take another train. I whipped out the incredibly useful mapping system on my phone to get my bearings and was soon on the road to Hanwell.

When I arrived I drank a pint of water and had a very cold shower. Blissful.

Best comment ever from a car and a fittie in lycra

On Saturday Moomin and I cycled to music school as her car is stuck in France being repaired. It was a beautiful day and we didn't meet any nasty drivers.

We were both a bit breathless from pollen but that was about it.

The highlights, however, were on the way home. Waiting for a green light at a bike crossing a silver car pulled up and, as it swung round the corner we heard 'Laaaaaadies.......' I braced myself mentally, I wasn't in lycra but nine times out of ten the comments aren't good. I was a little surprised, therefore when this followed in a French accent:

'I'm soooo drunk.... eeet is teeerrrrible.'

It was the passenger looking Pimmsed to the hilt but happy. Moomin and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We continued on and, soon afterwards, a rather slim and spectacular-looking bike glided up to the lights next to us. I glanced over, surprised that he'd given us lots of room and executed such a courteous overtake.

I was shocked..... He was actually quite hot.

All in lycra, on a fab bike AND a bit of a hottie? He was next to Moomin at this point and they were both slightly ahead of me. Moomin gave a dazzling smile and glanced back at me with a conspiratorial wink.

All in all, a great day's cycling.

The tandem: Pictures

At the top of Ditchling it was beautiful. Well worth the climb (almost)











Those of us who were already at the top took a well-earned rest waiting for the other riders.












The pink avengers on the sea front, proof that CC is always photogenic as no one should look that good after a ride of that magnitude.

The tandem: The magical KitKat

CC and I had arrived at the halfway scout hut against many people's expectations and the surreal nature of the challenge started to sink in.

I didn't mention it in the first post but joining us on the ride were a full-size penny farthing and a double height bike. I shall endeavor to find pictures!

Having decided to name our trusty steed Miranda we had begun to talk about her as if she were another person on the journey. Even more surprising was the realisation that we were nowhere near the back of the pack, and we watched those arriving after us join the food queue with a growing sense of pride.

Climbing back aboard we faced the problem that plagued us throughout the ride, namely that people refused to let us on the road and we were cut up mercilessly and repeatedly.

We tootled without incident until we hit Turner's Hill. It's a nasty and sharp shock that's steep and vicious but short. We got a decent run up and went for it. We passed several people as we made the ascent and, at the top, were rewarded with Mr Fabulous's comment that he knew experienced tandem riders who wouldn't have made it. It was just a comment but I was greatly cheered by it and we led the cheers as the guy on the double height bike made it up.

It should have been a great stretch after this but we finally hit problems. The claustrophobia of the stoker position started to tell as CC became convinced we were on a tilt and suffered something a lot like vertigo. Having already decided to be sensible on downhills we went at a snail's pace and stopped a couple of times to ensure she felt able to continue. Then, as we re-established our rhythm the pannier rack went weird and the pannier caught on the rear wheel. We had to stop and, for the first and only time, needed the assistance of the rear riders to get going. The pannier was put in the sag wagon and we were ever more determined to finish.

What we failed to realise was that the pannier contained all of our emergency rations and, as we approached Ditchling Beacon, this came as a nasty shock.

For those of you unfamiliar with Ditchling, it's horrendous. Around a mile of solid uphill that never seems to end. CC had managed it solo before but I hadn't and was dreading it. Even experienced riders often fail to get up it on-bike and many believe doing it on a tandem is even more difficult.

Exhausted and with Cathy still suffering vertigo-like symptoms, it looked bleak. Then a realisation dawned: I had a KitKat in my jersey pocket. I straightened in my saddle at the thought and an ill-sounding CC enquired as to my shift in position. When I told her we both near-wept with joy. It sound ridiculous but it's true.

At the last stop before the ascent we pulled over and shared the four-finger bar. Our spirits lifted and, suddenly, we knew that we could do it. We set off with purpose and decided we going to get up that hill even if it killed us.....

The tandem: An inauspicious start

Eleven pm on Friday night saw a nervous weenie standing alone at Hyde Park Corner.

I was waiting for the tandem to arrive. Charles had agreed to lend it to CC and me and we were going to attempt the Brighton FNRttC on it. With only an hour to practice, I knew we were pushing it, but the contingency planning was in place. If we really didn't get the hang of it Charles would ride it with us taking turns as his partner, he would be on the ride (on Reg) the whole way so would be on hand in case anything went wrong and, as he was riding Reg, I knew we had all the repair kit for both bikes.
This ride involved a LOT of novices who were raising money for their local hospice so the pace was fairly light. Plus we had a 'sag wagon' in case of disaster. All good.

More importantly, we both had our matching pink jerseys on.

Disaster struck early on, he was late (trains, eugh). He arrived at about 11.20pm and we got to work. I tried both positions but I had already decided in my head that I wanted to go on the front (the term is 'be the captain'). It was, however, good to give the back (or 'stoker' position) a go so that I could help Cathy when she arrived. She got there at 11.30pm and we did a couple of circuits.

Then ride leader Mr Fabulous arrived, and he was NOT happy. He thought it would be a disaster and we were treated to stern words and a glare as we headed to sign up. CC and I were determined that we would not cause him problems.

The hardest part of the ride for me is getting off Hyde Park Corner. On this ride there were close to 100 cyclists and I hate pack cycling. This, combined with the turning circle of a boat on an unfamiliar machine, was a challenge. We smacked it. We held our nerve and sailed through. Keeping up communication with 'stopping', 'braking' and 'changing gear' being shouted frequently, we set off into the night, establishing a good rhythm from early on.

We headed through London and were soon feeling like pros. Aside from a hairy moment while squeezing through a small gap to get onto the road off Mitcham Common, we were fine. And this was lucky as we soon hit the first on the hills. It's not a steep one but it goes on FOREVER.

Hilariously, we overtook several riders on out way to the top. Once there, we discovered part of why Mr Fabulous was sceptical. What goes up must come down, and down and down. Reigate Hill is very steep and the combined weight of two people on a tandem means you pick up speed VERY fast. Again, CC and I were of a similar mind: we'll ride the brakes, life is better than speed.

We cautiously made our way down. On the front I could see everything and knew we were fine but CC was the brave one as, riding blind, she completely trusted my instincts and we reached the bottom intact and still friends.

After this excitement the rest of the ride seemed uneventful. Our main problem was being cut up by other riders and, at the rest stops, no one would let us out so we were often left battling to get back to the middle from the back.

The halfway point was a scout hut in Horley where sandwiches, hot tea and cake were on hand to greet us. We ate, drank and felt refreshed. At the last minute, a tray of KitKats was passed round. Despite being full and having food in our pannier I tucked one into my jersey pocket. Little did I know that this decision was the difference between success and failure.....

Tandem

I didn't announce in advance in case we backed out but, on Friday, Cathy and I attempted a Friday Night Ride to the Coast on a tandem.

It was the Brighton run (the hilliest one) and neither of us had ever been on one before. I will blog about it at length but it'll take time to find the right words to describe what was a bizarre but amazing ride.

Keep your eyes on the skies.....

Divine retribution and why spring sucks

Ha! After laughing at my lack of memory skills yesterday, my younger sister left her trousers at home when she went riding before work! Mwahahahahhahahahaha.

Anyhoo, everyone at work is loving the sunshine. 'Isn't it pretty', 'The sky is sooooo blue', 'Gosh, it's almost summery', blah blah blah.

Yes it's less rainy, but right now the sun is eye level on both legs of my commute and I arrive sweaty and unkempt while those on the tube aren't yet hot enough to get gross. Roll on the dry heat of summer, where, although I'll arrive sweaty, I'll get to my desk fresh and alert post-shower, surrounded by hot and grumpy colleagues who have been crammed into sardine cans on rails.

Come on sun, get going!

Taking the train and a fantastic pothole idea!

It was an eventful weekend cycle-wise.

On Saturday, my lovely sister and I decided to see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition. It was cold but sunny and clear so I went a roundabout route via Kew and Putney on Reg. It was lovely except for the lecture on class structure that I was given by some poncy git who I had asked directions from. What a nob.

Anyhoo, I floated through the city, went along the Thames and just loved it.

I saw some beautiful photographs and had delicious coffee and lots of giggles with said sister before pedalling home via a more direct route. I was cold but triumphant when I got home.

Sunday was a bit less of a triumph. It was pi**ing it down and Mr Weenie was laid up with rugby injuries. I decided to go for it and cycled to do the shopping.

The cats needed food (they're sensitive and only tolerate about two types) so I had to go to Brentford to Pets at Home. The rain was torrential and I got utterly drenched. The shop was closed so I hit the nearest supermarket for human food before returning to get the cat food. By this time it had, of course, stopped raining.

I got home wet and cold. And grumpy. It took most of the day to get warm again and when I looked out of the window this morning and saw the rain, I made a drastic decision. I took the train.

Sometimes it just aint worth it.

In more exciting news, a big thank you to Abby for the link to pothole gardens! What a marvellous idea. Anyone for composting?

Men and women are different, enjoy it

I am female. It's a fact and, unless I have very expensive reassignment surgery against my will, it's something that will never change.

Although I rage against my male cycling counterparts who needlessly push me around or assume they're faster than me because I'm a woman, being female does come with some remarkable benefits:

1. Lycra.
No man will ever look good in lycra, no matter how hard they try. Chris Hoy looks bloody ridiculous in it and he's incredibly toned and quite hot. Women, on the other hand, should revel in lycra. It sucks you in in all the right places and the more you cycle, the hotter you will look in it.

Plus, our genitalia are not generally visible while we're in lycra, todgers on the other hand are highly visible, as are testicles. Hello boys indeed.

2. Asking for help.
Perhaps I live among unusual men, but in my experience men are rubbish at asking for advice and/or help. Yesterday I realised my front V-brake needed adjusting. The crap bike shop that did my last service had rounded off the allen key slot and done it up incredibly tightly. I couldn't get it to budge. Therefore, when I saw the lovely N, a colleague who cycles, I asked for his help. We then met in the car park and he sorted the problem for me.

Don't get me wrong, if I have a problem I can sort myself, I'm happy to do it but I am equally happy to ask for help if I cannot do it alone.

3. The 'damsel in distress' response.
Every time I've had a puncture/mech problem somewhere public, someone has stopped and asked if I needed help. Often, it's been more than one person. When I've mentioned this to male friends they've been incredulous.

'In London?', 'Someone actually stopped?!', 'And you didn't know them?!??!?!?!'.

Yes, it would appear that being female in appearance greatly increases your chances of being offered help. Not only that but, in my experience, men are unwilling to accept mine. I have stopped and offered puncture repair help to many stricken cyclists and have been refused every time. This is despite the fact that a few of them admitted they had no repair stuff with them or didn't know what to do.

So this one's a double whammy. Women get extra help if they want it and men won't take up your time if you offer your assistance to them so you can feel all righteous without actually having to do anything.

4. Extra helpings of admiration.
While women remain in the woeful minority among cyclists it means I get extra admiration and praise for cycling. I am extra brave and a little bit naughty. While I always feign nonchalance at being told this, secretly I love it. 'Well, you know, it's only about 100 miles a week.' Inside I'm preening.

I'm sure I'll think of some more but for now I'll sign off...

At least people think I'm hard

As the days go on and the cold sets in I'm getting more anxious texts and emails making sure I'm 'being careful'.

No I'm not a sexually rampant teenager, it's because I'm a cyclist and friends and family now automatically assume I'm cycling, whatever the weather.

I sigh dramatically and send a message back clarifying that I'm off the bike when it's so icy but deep down I love it: Wheeled Weenie, super cyclist. Of course it does chafe a bit because I would love to be on my bike and am hating commuting regular style but, at the same time, I feel like a proper cyclist if people know I'd be out in this sort of weather if I could be.

Wait a minute, what if they just think I'm dumb enough...... Godammit!

What a letdown

I live on a dead end that borders a park and when I woke and peered through the window the snow had drifted and looked a good few centimeters deep. Decision made, no cycling.

Mr Weenie agreed to take me to the nearest tube and we set off. As soon as we cleared the end of our road I realised my heinous error. There was no snow at all on the Uxbridge Road. Not even ice. I watched a couple of cyclists whizz by as we queued in traffic, it was so unfair.

I waited nearly half an hour for a train and crammed into the carriage. I bit my tongue as a brash blonde played her Michael Jackson loudly through her earphones and took up enough room for two. My only consolation was that her over bleached hair was starting to crisp in the freezing air.

Where are the 40 centimeters? Hmmmm?

I feel particularly cheated because my poor parents are stranded in Paris as their plane home from a new year break was diverted at the last minute when Gatwick was closed. Their luggage is still on the plane so they can't even train it home and it took six hours before they got a hotel. Poor dad, who still suffers from exhaustion after January's health excitement was made to queue for four hours standing up.

With that kind of drama going on I feel like I should see some evidence!

Waitrose bike trailers: Fail.

I'm hosting Christmas dinner this year and I decided to get some of my shopping done on Saturday. The ice had temporarily subsided from the roads and, rather than have to buy tiny amounts and fit it all into panniers I decided to go to Waitrose.

But what do you mean Weenie? How will you get it all home?

Aha, I thought, I shall use he much publicised bike trailers, which my local Waitrose is piloting.

I got to the shop, parked Reg and went to customer services. A very polite young lady guided me through the trailer lease agreement and told me to come back when I had shopped.

I went off and bought my various bits and pieces. A couple of kilos of potatoes, a big bag of onions, bulky toilet roll, parsnips, mince, big bag of chicken and a few other bits.

I paid and duly headed back to the desk to pick up my trailer. The nice young lady fetched two equally lovey young men. And this is where the trouble began. They have eight trailers at this particular Waitrose and four were out. Even so, the two lovely young men couldn't find me a hook necessary for attaching it. They found one, then couldn't find the bolts to secure it. After 10 minutes or so in minus one we finally found the bolts necessary.

Oh dear.

The hook wouldn't fit round my seat post. The boys made a valiant effort but apart from scratching my powder coating, no progress was made. No other sizes were available and as my panic mounted I chatted to the young men. We tested and the hook provided only fitted one of the five bikes in the stands.

Reg is a Specialized Sirrus, one of the most popular commuter models sold in the UK. Hmmmmmm

They were very apologetic and I headed home, in short leggings and inappropriate cycle trainers. I hung the shopping off my handlbars, balanced the heaviest bag on my rack with the handles tied round my seatpost and walked.

All in all it took me about half an hour and I was FREEZING. The bags kept slipping, Reg kept slipping and falling on the icy pavements, the pedals scratched my legs. It was rubbish.

Oh Waitrose, I'm soooo disappointed.

I plan on emailing them to let them know, I await a response.........

Defeated by black ice

I'm out for beers this evening and Mr Weenie has respectfully requested that I don't cycle.

I was a bit put out but obeyed as he very very rarely asks and supports my mad overnight forays. I was glad.

Walking to the local station I nearly fell twice on invisible black ice on our ungritted roads. I was furious. Everyone's known it's going to snow and be icy for days so where the hell is the rocksalt?

Frankly, I may not cycle tomorrow either if the roads aren't done. I cycle on a very busy road and I work hard to stay safe, ice is just one risk factor to far I reckon. I guarantee they'll forget to do the road edges, you know, those green bits with bicycles painted on them.

Hmmmmmmm

Given that I'm out with CC and T though there's also the possibility that I'll be too hungover/tired and emotional I spose.......

Morning cycle fans

So, I'm back rom Switzerland and among the many glorious things there (chocolate, the guy playing an alpine horn, chocolate, the gummi bear shop, chocolate, delicious coffee, chocolate, going for dinner in Germany and chocolate) there was a plethora of bicycles.

Not only are the roads and cycle paths smooth as silk with sloped subways only for bikes at tricky junctions, not only did no one lock their bicycle to anything because the risk of theft is so low, not only did everyone have nice practical bicycles often with cute baskets but my uncle Jan told me that it is a legal requirement for cyclists who cycle on road to be insured and to display their sticker as proof of this on their bike at all times.

It costs the equivalent of £5 a year to get insured and you are covered for up to two million Swiss francs. How marvellous!

It is not used to police cycling behaviour but it ensures that anyone in an accident, whether they caused it or not, is covered. Surely this would be an ideal scheme for England?

Not only that, but each train had at least two bike spaces in every carriage. Every CARRIAGE, not every train. Super marvellous!!

The public transport in Basel, I hasten to add, was similarly fab but my uncle has said he will lend me a bike next time I'm around so I can whizz round on it. I'm excited already.

Bobbing along...

Bobbing along on the bottom of the beautiful briiiiiny sea!

I have no idea but I've had that song from Bedknobs and Broomsticks in my head all day. I must have been humming it out loud without realising for some time as a colleague's just turned and asked if it was from the film.

I'll be away for the rest of the week in Switzerland so this will be the last post for a while (put away that bugle!).

I'm going out on a high as I'm actually very proud of myself after the weekend, when I cycled to Edgware to have lunch with the journalism girls. Having never ever ventured that way before I was prepared with an AtoZ and a vague idea of which direction in which to head.

I pulled over three times o check I was going the right way and had a thoroughly enjoyable, if hilly, pootle. I was the first to arrive at the destination by a considerable length and had brought not only clothes to change into but pressies as well.

After a delicious lunch and some juicy gossip I changed back into my gear and cycled home. My weird memory means I often forget what I've had for breakfast by brunch but I have a photographic memory for routes. Despite never having been in that direction before I got home without checking my map once, without making an error and 20 minutes quicker than the outward journey.

I was home safe and considerably damp, had a hot shower and was snuggled up with Mr Handsome and The Fat One when Mr Weenie arrived home from rugby half an hour later. My legs were pain-free and I wasn't particularly tired. Having checked TfL and seen the horrendous traffic on the bus route I would have taken I knew it could have taken up to two hours to get home by public transport.

I would think about padded undershorts the next time as it took about an hour of pootling on badly maintained roads but other than that it was lovely and far more intellectually stimulating than a couple of bus rides.

What on earth did I do without my bike? How did I survive? I hope only that I'll never have to find out.

An enforced sightseeing tour

Reg and I were in Bermondsey last night and Reg had his first trip in a lift. We were off to see the lovely M. In between catching up on literally years of gossip I showed her the rudimentary basics of puncture repair and brakes. The fact is that when you first get a puncture it's horrible but if you at least know what it all looks like it's not so bad.

We headed home just before 9pm and, as in London you can see where you are if you're near the river, I decided London Bridge was our best bet. Once there I turned left and negotiated the various roads behind Waterloo. One of my greatest loves about cycling in London is that when you get a bit lost you can pull over, get off and get your bearings. I did that a couple of times.

Some nasty roadworks meant I ended up heading across Westminster Bridge towards Parliament. It was lit up and gorgeous. The one way system then meant that we went down Whitehall, passing Number 10 and watching as they started preparations for Remembrance Sunday. Before you could blink we were at Trafalger, fountains plumed in the dark and tourists' flashbulbs gave the impression of strobe lighting.

Left again and Buckingham Palace loomed ahead, a majestic and beautiful chocolate box, with handsome and watchful military guards standing outside.

Then I went up through Hyde Park corner, across the ugly but deliciously smooth new tarmac put there, presumably, for bikers. Into the park, shaking may head at the sheer selfishness of the ninjas who, without lights, appear in the inky gloom inches from your handlebars scaring the crap out of you. The new Marble Arch fountains were in full technicolor brilliance splashing audibly.

The romance ended there as I made my way through the back streets to Paddington to catch the train with Reg.

The roadworks could have been a pain and they did delay me somewhat but instead of grumpy I was thrilled, how much would tourists pay to see all that in one night?

Whitstable.... soooo tiring

So on Friday night, before the lergy set in, I headed to Whitstable with the Friday night crew. The omens weren't good. It started weeing with rain as I left Paddington and cycled through Hyde Park. I get hot at the mere mention of a waterproof jacket and as I and a couple of other early birds took shelter under the Hyde Park Corner arch we were sceptical. More and more lights blinked towards us and soon a sizable number of regulars had arrived, including the lovely Andy on this:

Yes, it's a two-wheeled recumbent with a ghost on it. I knew it was there but on dark country lanes at 3am I defy anyone not to jump a little bit when it veers into view.

Anyhoo, we gathered and had the usual safety talk from Super Simon and swung onto our bikes. As we set off it stopped raining and I'm pleased to say it remained dry until the very end, when we pulled into Whitstable bay.

We were plagued by the p******* fairy even while still in London. One of the lovely regulars went over a beer bottle at London Bridge and tore a new tyre. He was visited twice more over the ride and our total for the whole ride was 10/11 depending on who you asked.

All this meant that the first half took far longer than it should have, but, on the plus side, I got to see where the Woolwich ferry is while chatting to the lovely Mike who had his bike rigged up like a Christmas tree. I know I keep saying lovely but they just are.

The air was cool and crisp with the full moon slowly revealed as the journey went on.

The cafe stop in Rochester was more than welcome and I have discovered that there's nothing quite like a fried egg baguette to perk you up. Having opened specially for us, the owners were a little put out when a couple of revolting teenagers turned up and tried to make trouble. In the end and irate female owner and the sight of 50 weary and lycra-clad bikers forced a retreat.

We headed into the countryside proper and it was beautiful. Empty fields and minimal traffic, cold clean air and good company. Bliss.

I was promised the phenomenon of 'misty sheep' at one point. Apparently, this time last year the mist was such that all you could see of the sheep were the tops of their heads. The mist had burned off by the very end but I did get the bleating from within the fog at one point.

As we arrived in the bay the rain returned in spitting form and the sight of bikes that meant 'Cafe stop!' was massively welcome. The final destination was a fabulous cafe with a large terrace to look out over the sea. It was too cold to sit out for me but a few hardened nutters sat out there just to say they had. A few even harder nutters demanded to be served beer when the clock reached 10am.

This was easily the most knackering ride I've done but my God it was fun, more pics to follow.

Reg goes clubbing

So I decided to go ahead with my cycling/clubbing plan when it became apparent that the tube was a bit pants. I did, however, decide that I'd aim to take Reg with me on the train partway both ways and that I'd only cycle all the way if I missed the last one from Paddington.

The only down side of all this was that Mr Weenie offered to buy me a beautiful dress to wear out but its length and the fact it was silk meant I didn't want to cycle in it. Sigh.

Instead I wore a fab black sequinned vest-top dress over black leggings. I wore trainers and packed smarter shoes into my pannier along with my cable loop and headed into town. Reg and I caught the train to Paddington from my local station and then I cycled to Oxford Circus. It took 10 minutes (only!) and I had loads of time to lock Reg to a lamppost that was in full view of the club's bouncers on a very well lit piece of road. Someone else's bike was also there so Reg wasn't lonely.

I tidied myself and changed my shoes while waiting for T, whose birthday it was.

When she arrived she laughed and said her mum had joked I'd probably cycle there. She laughed even more when I pointed to Reg chained up a few yards away. We got inside and the night began.

The hardest part was making sure people didn't top up my glass once I'd decided to stop drinking (I don't think cycling squiffy is particularly clever in London traffic). I solved this by getting glasses of tap water with ice from the bar. As long as you're holding a drink no one tries to give you one.

We danced to Dizzee Rascal, I chatted to T's other half and a good time was had. At around 11.30pm I lost the others as the club got packed and, knowing I had to leave at midnight anyway, I decided to call it a night. I got my pannier out of the cloakroom (took ages) changed my shoes and went to get Reg. At 11.45pm we headed to Paddington and at 11.55pm I was buying a coffee from the Costa in the station (who knew it opened so late, hooray). I got on the 12.05am to Reading so I could get to Ealing Broadway and cycle from there. It was the most unpleasant part of the journey.

Everyone was trashed, people kept bumping Reg and only my delicious and much-needed latte kept me going. We got to Ealing Broadway, I carried Reg up the stairs and pedalled home.

I had texted Mr Weenie from Paddington to let him know which train I was on so I was surprised at the level of shock he displayed when I walked in the door. 'Check the time,' was all he said.

It was 12.30am. It had taken me 45 minutes!

Last time I got stuck in Leicester Square and came home alone it took more than three hours by night bus. Where I now live is a good solid walk from the nearest night bus stop and I reckon two hours would have been a good time to do it in.

I was actually in bed an hour after leaving a central London nightclub and I live in zone 4. Even if I'd cycled the whole way I'd have been home in 1hr 15mins max, I know because I've cycled home from the Barbican late at night.

Cutting more than an hour off your journey home and feeling totally safe the whole way door to door: worth skipping a few drinks for? Oh I think so.

Clubbing by bike

Some people think I'm mental but I'm seriously thinking about taking Reg clubbing.

Basically I'm going out for a mate's birthday in central London and getting home by public transport late at night could take me upwards of two hours. By bike it'd take about an hour.

I'm not a big drinker so the prospect of not drinking a lot doesn't faze me and I'd rather bike door to door than have to walk home from the night bus stop alone late at night.

The rain may prevent me from carrying out my dastardly plan but if it doesn't am I mad?

BoJo baby get with the programme....

One of my readers met the straw-haired one!

Now I was never a fan of Ken Livingstone, his tram plans and slimy demeanor put me off somewhat. My paperwork was lost so I didn't get to vote in the mayoral election but I often wonder if I'd have voted for Boris Johnson. He's in now, and the fact he's a cyclist is good.

The fact that he's the Tory flagship and will be guided every step of the way by advisers so he doesn't cock it up for the party when they go for the big general election is, in my opinion, also good.

I was horribly disappointed therefore to learn that his solution for women being killed by lorries is that we need to fight our way to the front more. Sigh.

Tory thinks women are ninnies, the cliche is spectacular. Perhaps Mr Johnson would like to come on my commute with me one day and decide whether my decision to hang back from enormous articulated lorries is sensible or silly.....