Did anyone catch the Rookie F1 Brit aquaplaning his low slung rocket at 200 MPH, on slippy tarmac occasionally rising above a deluged skid pan? No? Me Neither, that’s not what this is about. Oh sure, the barely-long-trousered wunderkid has skill, balls and attitude in spades but to hell with him, I’ve been getting wet.

Full Wets means Summer is over and Winter is coming. Out with the Gortex covered shoes, shorts and jacket, power up the big lights, dig out the longs and fix an expression of extreme stoicism on your fizog.

And then get in the car and drive to the station. Still ample time to get jiggy with the moist button in London tho.

With wet comes dark and splashing through Hyde Park last night, I noticed there were no other bikes within spitting rain distance. But that’s because I’d forgotton about the special breed of night rider – the ninja cyclist. Dresses entirely in black atop a black steed and – another scorpion pit offence – wearing dark sunglasses. Only when the whites of his eyes were briefly illuminated did the proximity alarm start mentally dinging like a bastard.

A desperate wrench of the bars was almost enough to avoid impact and absolutely enough to unclip a previously pedalling foot. What follwed was a lung emptying ‘whuuuffff’ as my – until then – silent assasin exited over his bars and the rather louder curse of a man stopping a fast rotating pedal with his ankle.

It took me a while to find the fella. He was reposed in a handy bush, earphones still installed and groping around himself as if searching for a missing limb. But in fact he was fine – if a little stoned or pissed – as demonstrated by a drawled “hey man, that was RUDE’

I have no idea what this means. It is the street language of young people and, frankly, if there going down the Darwinism route of stealth commuting in a city of a million cars, then it’s a dying language. I fetched him out of the schrubbary, spent a comedy thirty seconds attempting to separate black night from black bike and sent him wobbling on his way with a shake of this grizzled yet wise old head.

Which hurt almost as much as my ankle after a phone based injury I may share with you tomorrow. This morning I woke with a club foot and stumped around in a dark bedroom trying not to wake my wife. This is exactly what happened once the difficult combination of a limp and no light navigated me unerringly to a toe stubbing interface with the foot of the bed.

I’m clearly getting old. Only today I was musing whether it was socially acceptable to set off the fire alarm so as to see how short one of the Girl’s skirts are. I was coming down on the affirmative before a realisation that this was unlikely to provoke a favourable reaction during appraisal times next week.

This time I’m taking the chicken