Our latest wanker was not a motorist. A rarity so far in this blog, but not in real life. Cycling down a quiet road in Beckton, I clocked a group of four teenage boys. They clocked me too. I don’t pretend to understand the mind of a teenage boy, never having been one, but it seems that whenever a group of boys spot a female cyclist, like Pavlov’s dog they have no choice but to wordlessly nominate a spokesman to hurl some ill-thought out half-baked attempt at an insult. To fail at this, would be to fail at being a teenage boy in a group. I imagine many teenage boys begrudge this universal obligation as much as adults despise depositing cheques at banks on Saturday mornings. This time, however, they couldn’t even manage words. The tallest scalliwag ran towards me roaring, with his arms gyrating like a windmill. I like to think of this as a reverse Don Quixote scene, with me on my rusty 28 year old pink bike.