Since I gave up cycling to work (twelve-to-fifteen miles twice a day was Not On), I've noticed that Herself, whenever we're in the car, has become a born-again cycle hater. In particular, two or more lycra louts, dawdling line abreast in full gossip mode, has her reaching for the swear box before she's changed down to first gear.

I blame the road layout clowns, seem to think that a line of paint in an already-narrow road is a barrier to ingress of cars.* But that's cheaper than constructing a separate cycle track, which the lycra louts tend to ignore anyway, as those that exist are often rim-bollockingly lumpy.

* A subsidiary trick is to wait until an interesting junction where one really could use some help, then the track disappears: "You're on your own, sunshine."