As I peddled out one midsummer morning ...

As I observed the silly, grim faced, lycra clad, serious cyclists coming down the Kennington road; I thought to myself:

If you are going to ride your bike; always try and ride it like you're Paul Newman and you've got Katherine Ross on the handle bars.

Rain drops keep falling on my head ...

Invasive Bowel Surgery

My earliest memory of watching my country play football was Norman Hunter passing to a Polish bloke and crashing out of the world cup. It has largely been the same sort of experience since then, bar the 4-1 against Holland.

What gets me down is not so much the defeats, but the manner in which we play. Often, players that grace our premier league with sublime skill and creativity, put on an England shirt and turn into boggled-eyed cart horses, who hoof the ball miles down the pitch. Meanwhile, in the same tournament, handsome continentals flick the ball around with aplomb. I get so emotional about it these days that I can hardly bare to watch as it upsets me so mutch. This is completely pathetic, I know.

I can only really compare it to one of your nearest and dearest having invasive bowel sugery. You are passionately interested in the result, but you'd rather not stand in the operating theater and watch.

Inger-lun.