"Fine, call the police then", I suggested to the VW Golf driver, who was moaning about a scratch on his arse. I'd been cycling past Lawrence Hill station when he'd overtaken, then swerved in front of me into a parking space which wasn't really there, leaving his back end jutting out into my path. Given the 'choice' of getting mown down by the traffic behind or clipping his boot, I chose the latter and somehow managed to avoid sprawling on the road under a bus.
Although I'm well aware that if you drive into the back of someone it's usually your fault, I doubted that the third umpire would have agreed, which is perhaps why I found myself hanging around to argue with my new acquaintance, who looked barely old enough to have a licence.
I'd bent a brake lever, my thumb was throbbing and I'd just survived another close call. All the petrolhead could care about was a tiny scratch to his chariot. Seeing that he didn't want to call the plod and the Hawkeye replay wasn't going to happen, I cycled off.
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