There's a strange knocking noise in the back

Today, as I cycled in to work I was rather concerned about the knocking noise my bike was making. It seemed rather odd to have a strange noise on a bike, on a car - yes, on a bike - no. Each time I changed gear there was a clonking sound, and then my legs span round on the pedals so fast one foot slid off. On a seven mile journey this became tiresome, and I did wonder whether I should brave the scary roundabouts, or get off and do the pedestrian light thing. I don't want to get smeared round the axel of a juggernaut because my legs are doing moves more suited to 'Strictly' than those required to follow the Highway Code. In the end I stayed on the bike, and braved the famous 'Fountain' roundabout. Don't get lulled into thinking I must have an attractive, water featured journey to work. The Fountain is one of those roundabouts where the council are forever rebuilding the decorative brickwork after someone, presumably worse for drink, has tried to take a short cut, or maybe thought they could get their car washed for free.

It is scary cycling in every day. I wear a rather fetching luminous cagoule (yes, they do still exist), a helmet that slides forward all the time reducing my forward vision, and some fingerless gloves. I've even have a rather professional looking panier to put my carrier bag of necessities in. To the untrained eye, I might look like a 'serious' cyclist, but after a few moments viewing, the fact that I take some time to overtake pedestrians would put paid to that idea. I still don't understand how it takes me 50 minutes to do the seven miles. I also don't understand why I don't look like Claudia Schiffer by now - everyone knows exercise helps you lose weight. All that happens to me is my thighs become more akin to those of a Sumo wrestler than a supermodel. The Belgian buns don't help - is everyone in Belgium Sumo wrestler sized I wonder?

When I get home, I have to drag my bike through the back alley (which reminds me, my mother in law used to have a corridor off her kitchen she called 'the back passage' until the continued smirks became too much when she said things like, 'I must put some carpet down in my back passage'). The back alley is narrow and full of overhanging plants that catch in my helmet (which has already nearly blinded me) and get tangled in my handle bars. One night, I sneaked out with a pair of secateurs and started 'pruning'. It was very embarrassing when a kindly neighbour stopped and started chatting to me about what a lovely plant it was and asking me for growing tips. Its hard to look inconspicuous in a fluorescent jacket, I should have thought and taken it off first.

Time to put the kettle on and try to get the bun out of the paper bag without the icing sticking to the inside.