I grabbed the bag, white as a sheet (the driver said, ‘This is a breach of all regulations! You’re white as a sheet!’), while inanely garbling a thousand apologies (‘Oh I’m so sorry! Sorry! Very sorry! So sorry!’), and then ran back (was almost hit by a car this time – he sounded his horn, furiously) to help the poor cyclist. He was already on his feet and picking up his bike. There was a small tear in the back of his trousers. Right in the middle. Which was rather embarrassing. His palms were grazed. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ he growled. He wouldn’t even look at me as I offered to … oh I don’t know; take him back to Mulberry to clean his wounds, sew up his trousers, make him a cup of … He just seemed utterly determined (at any cost) to escape my pointless ministrations. I asked him if he’d noticed an overwhelming smell of eucalyptus (there was one), then spat on my hanky and proffered it to him. He glowered at it shaking his head, almost incapable of speech, then clambered on to his bike and rode off (not another word – he hated me) looking slightly wobbly, the pedals (or was it the back mudguard?) producing an awful, metallic, keening sound which alerted several gulls from the adjacent marsh (the tide was fully in) who flew along behind him (quite maddeningly) for several minutes, squawking wildly.

I turned and headed up Toot Rock; shaken, almost tearful. After blowing my nose a couple of times (I often find blowing one’s nose has a positive psychological impact), I was casually shoving my previously rejected (but now used) hanky into my trouser pocket when it was caught by a sudden gust of wind (which, from a purely rational perspective, seems somewhat ridiculous: it’s been warm and slightly airless all day, and the hanky is a large one, 100 per cent cotton, quite heavy). Away it blew, straight into a large clump of brambles on the side of the road. Of course I reached over to try and retrieve it, and in the process my cardigan became snagged on a series of little hooks and thorns. I released my string bag to free up my hands and the next five minutes (I don’t exaggerate) were spent disentangling myself, then my hanky, then myself again (June Seelinger’s idiotic spaniel standing poised at the kerb, meanwhile, watching me incredulously, apparently very entertained by my total folly), during which freeing-up process I re-hooked the hanky (argh!) so then I just … I simply withdrew. I left the damn thing in situ, quietly observing, once again, that powerful eucalyptus smell (is it … is it me? Have I …? Have I somehow managed to …?), before cursing furiously, gathering together the contents of my bag (I had inadvertently kicked the damn thing with my foot during the extraction process and the meagre contents were now spread all over the road) and marching off.