I shouldn’t be writing this.

I should be plotting “The Last Plank”, the short story that defeated me a few weeks ago but that I can’t seem to drop, at the outside I should be putting the final polish on “Careless” before sending it out (no doubt to be rejected once again).

Instead I’m fooling around on me blog trying not to think about the way people drive around Woolwich because folks – I am the fatman referenced above. Tomorrow I shall climb back on to my trusty Trek 100 and cycle into London.

This is a big deal for me, although I sympathise if you couldn’t give two hoots. When I lived in Bow I cycled to work everyday for over a year and then in November having, I think it’s fair to say, worked like a government mule I contracted severe bronchitis and as the saying goes have not been quite right since…

…then again many would say I wasn’t quite right to begin with.

So it’s 13 miles before work and 13 miles back in the evening. Mad you say? Pah, sanity is over-rated, have you seen where I work?

If you are in London tomorrow and you see a tubby man shooting past on a blue-silver bike screaming with the barest hint of a welsh accent (near death experiences always bring out my accent) then it’s probably me. Faster than a slug on redbull…