How to never have a bike stolen again

I was pleased to see this Christiania bike parked in posh Connaught Square, between Hyde Park and Paddington Station, the other day, taking up a fraction of the parking space of the family car next to it.

But isn't it a little vulnerable there, secured to itself with only a cheap cable lock? No! Not at all, thanks to the 24/7 police presence next door, guarding the residence of former PM Tony Blair.

(There are more coppers round the back in the quaint mews of Archery Close - they were quite helpful when I nosed around there, pointing out more picturesque back streets to explore - no, seriously.)

So that's a little tip for you, there: don't bother with expensive category-15 D-locks - just move in next door to someone who might have rubbed up a few people the wrong way after starting an unwinnable war on a trumped-up premise.

The officer on duty did come and ask me what I was doing, in a civil and ultimately friendly manner actually, but she beat a quick retreat when I started talking in depth about cycle blogging, changes in contraflow sign regulations, and how continental brakes are the other way round to British brakes. Another little tip for you, there.

A bit of Christiania in the Barbican

Pleased to see this Christiania bike parked outside the Barbican at the weekend. Good to see them involving their kids in cultural activities. Or perhaps they are just borrowing an awful lot of books.

And hats off to anyone who manages to pilot one of these around London. Finding a parking space big enough must be tricky, and finding a cycle lane wide enough even trickier.

They're an easier proposition in Copenhagen, though I didn't actually see any in Christiania itself. But then I've never seen a Brompton parked outside Brompton Oratory.

It's Bicycle Repair Man!

I'd nearly made it to the Library this morning when I was stopped by a damsel in distress. She was a young lady (younger than me, anyway) with the improbable combination of a Brompton and a Christiania (right, a Danish-made ice-cream salesman's bike, except that where the Mivvies usually go, you put your child, or dog). Her Christiania's chain had come off; could I help?

I was into Bicycle Repair Man mode instantly. It took me a few minutes - the back-pedal brake meant you could only pedal forwards, restricting your options; plus the chain was metric, and my fingers are imperial - but I managed to ease the chain back on to the rear sprocket.

As an encore I helped her fold up her Brompton. No, I don't know why she was carrying one of those, but at least she wasn't carrying her seven-year-old instead: I know how Bromptons work much better than I do seven-year-olds.

This roadside repair episode worked out more successfully than last time I was hailed from the pavement. On that occasion, it was the author Will Self, by Battersea Park. (I'm actually rather a fan; Great Apes is one of my favourites.) He was scything away at the atmosphere with his pump, which wouldn't fit the valve on his flat tyre, trying to attract help.

I stopped and gave him a quick crash course in Presta and Schraeder fittings, perhaps in more detail than he had in mind. I had the wrong fitting too, but luckily the next cyclist along had the right sort of pump. We fixed up Mr Self's bike and off he went to Television Centre.

He didn't use any words like 'susurrating' or 'ratiocination' in our brief exchange, but I suppose that's the professional-private dichotomy thing. Like famous TV comedians who don't tell jokes when you meet them in Specsavers. Or bankers who don't steal your wallet when you get chatting to them in a pub.

Anyway, the delightful and friendly young lady I helped this morning was rather more grateful and impressed than I deserved. But it was a pleasant little encounter to have on the way to work on a sunny morning. We both went off cheerily, and she even posed for this blog (right). What nice people cyclists are. Well, most of us, anyway. Me, obviously. And her. And you.

My impromptu mechanics meant I got to work looking dishevelled and grubby. Which was lucky, as nobody noticed any difference.