So I’m in the changerooms at Southbank, all kitted out like a Euro road warrior (more about that in a minute) when I realise that I have no jocks or socks to wear to work today. And this is not a day that I can just pedal home and grab some spares – I have deadlines dammit! So, I remember I have a few bits and pieces stashed away upstairs for these occasions; I rummage around and find some hideous old dusty bloomers previously abandoned (in better/fatter times?), so I’m relieved I won’t have to freestyle my way through the working day. But no socks – so it’s on with the pre-ankle numbers I wore on the bike. Very white. Very short. And very obvious even after slinging these crappy Malaysian trousers as low as I dare. I have made 3 brief ventures outside my office – accompanied by a pathetic shuffling gait which only draws attention to myself. I avoid stairs to avoid stares. I’m just waiting till 5, when I can rocket home on one of those gusty south-westerlies we have today. In my Dutch Hans Anders Opticiens Euro-cool cycling top that Kim got secondhand and cheap and without knowing it was Dutch. Which means that from now on, I have to ride like a domestique so I don’t get humiliated by some kid in jeans on a BMX. At 37 this is not always as easy as I thought it would be.