For some reason, in the few minutes since our show of high jinks in the coach park, Sunita's simulated ill-humour seemed to have shaded into the real thing, and refusing my offer of a morale-boosting Fruit Pastille she remained submerged in a sullen silence, lagging uncharacteristically far behind as I turned left at the end of the track and followed Church Lane up to its junction with the Alcester Road. Ramblers are advised to take greater care crossing this busy A-route than I did when, anxious that my sulky sweetheart might not have realised that a cycle route stood between her and the safety of the central reservation, I stopped and turned, failing to notice the blue Isuzu van turning right out of a hidden side street, at speed. Its driver might, in my opinion, have restricted himself to a single short parp on his horn, as opposed to the vigorous masturbatory mime with which he felt it necessary to express his displeasure. Still, it was quite funny, and if I was a little bemused by the hard edge to Sunita's laughter, as she passed me on the opposite pavement, better that than to have risked her being mown down by a negligent cyclist.