Always the last to know

You can't let the opportunity of seeing (and in my case, a bit weirdly for a nearly 52 year old, touching) Mark Cavendish, the fastest man in the world on a bicycle made for one, go by. And so I met my nephew and his mate in Westminster for the last day of the Tour of Britain.

Young Christopher, himself already a veteran of a Land's End to John O'Groats ride last year, compared to my mere days out in 12 Hour races in the 1990's, spotted this sign on the Embankment that he couldn't help thinking reminded him of some wonderful demo pop songs he heard a few years ago, mostly the work of my genius friend, Tim, but with enough bits added in by me to make the writing credits officially Curtis-Green.

Now, if Tim has set up a huge hit factory in central London, a new rival to Tamla Motown, I don't know. I could have been number one in the hit parade for the last few months and I wouldn't know. In fact, it would be the best way of keeping it a secret from me. But I've written to him to ask, just in case.

But that's the trouble with alarmingly significant signs - it's the things they say to me, the things they say to me, make it seem that I'm a millionaire.