The huge traffic jam on the A702 held up all travellers, including cyclists (like TPR on my bike) and runners (including me). When the lights finally changed, we were pleased to take to the road again – until TPR remembered that he had left my bike behind at the side of the road.

By the time that we rushed back to the hedge where we had been waiting, pre-teen criminals had already lifted my bike, taken the wheels off, and scorched all identifying marks from its bodywork. They had done the same for all other unattended bikes.

Their long-haired greasy father grinned from ear-to-ear as we pleaded for the return of our belongings, claiming that they were now longer ours, but now his.