"I cannot believe you just told the world that you're going to be cycling down a disused railway track first thing in the morning," she snapped this morning.
"The world?" I said. "How many people do you think read my blog?"
"That's not the point," she said, raising her voice ('don't you raise your voice to me' is one of her favourite expressions, but apparently it doesn't work two ways). "It's who reads it, not just how many. There could be weirdos out there. It's dangerous. I'm not happy. I'm not happy at all."
"Mum," I pointed out. "They're announcing it on radio. Thousands of people across Hertfordshire will know where I'm going, and at what time. And I still don't care. What are they going to do? Chase me down a path with their flies open?"
"It's not funny," mum wailed. "It's not funny at all, Holly."
"Dad'll be at the beginning, and he'll be at the end," I sighed, feeling - yet again - like a kid. Never mind the fact that I went around the world on my own aged 18: apparently a 4 mile bike ride in my home town is fraught with danger.
"Have you got pepper spray?" mum demanded.
"Of course I don't. Who has pepper spray?"
"Then take a can of deodorant and spray that in their eyes instead."
"Won't do anything: not since they took all the alcohol out," I pointed out. "It doesn't even stop you sweating. But okay. I'll weapon myself up."
"Good," mum said. "Unless," she added more hopefully, "you get fired this morning? Then you won't have to do it at all."
So there we go. A sacking or death, apparently: they are my options. That, or turning my phone off after writing this blog.
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