Rescued by a scrap metal merchant

Cycling in to work this morning, one of those wretched plastic bags blew into my derailleur gears, clogged them, tangled the chain, which flew into the pedals and jammed.

I deteriorated from trying to unscramble it using Kleenex and litter that I found in the street, but realised after three minutes that I’d need to get help.

I pushed the bike along the street and found a scrap metal man in an old truck. “Have you got a screwdriver?” I asked. “I need to lever my chain out of the pedals.”

He hesitates. Then, after a pause, he says “Course I have!” And he’s got about ten, in a rack in the inside of the door.

He says “Sorry I hesitated. I thought for a moment you were an MP. Then I realised you were you. Here it is.”

I battle for about 30 seconds, my hands getting blacker and blacker and the tangle getting no looser.

“Here, let me do it,” he says. “And listen, here’s the Swarfega and a pack of wipes. Sort yourself out.”

It’s true, my pristine white shirt was in serious peril from my oil-stricken hands. Within two minutes he’s cleared it. He’s saved my day.

We have a good laugh about his reference to MPs. And then I try to give him a tenner – but he won’t have it, so I have to shove it through his open window.

We leave, the best of friends.