My racer is not built for stop-starting. She needs speed. So when I had to stop on the Watford Road in Croxley Green yesterday by the Red House to turn right into New Road, she was not happy and showed her disdain by the chain coming off.

I got my hands dirty in her undercarriage and then tentatively cycled back home, careful not to touch anything with my freshly-oiled, blackened fingers and thumbs.

My brother had to open the garage for me as I was unable to reach into my pocket for my keys. And that's where the problem lay, as when it came to leaving home this morning I did not have any idea where the little rascal had hidden my keys.

By this time it was 8.55 so I had to go and I took what I thought was a spare bike lock key. Obviously it wasn't, so here I am writing this with my bike sitting next to me, pride of place in the middle of the Watford Observer office.

And it's funny watching people's reactions as they walk by my desk. Eyebrows are raised and there's a few double takes (journalists are an observant lot). But I think that traditional English reserve means that most colleagues do not even ask why a Trek 1000 has been manoeuvred to its current position of prominence slap bang in the centre of the newsroom.