Not enough that someone politely asks me to “piss off with your bloody bike” as I’m negotiating a shared bikeway-pedestrian precinct at walking pace.

And if a sedate-looking lady recommends me to “keep your distance. Arsehole”  as I’m on the brakes to try and work out at which point of her sinus curve-shaped trajectory it’s safe to overtake, I’ll grin and bear it.

But today takes the cake.

Drifting along the bike path on the Weißliliengasse in Mainz today and I see a couple walking ahead of me, Not too steady on their pins, so I slow down and ….here we go… Grandad lurches out right in front of me.

I hit the brakes, lock up the wheels and slide to a stop about a metre behind him.

“That was a bit close” I said.

Daughter (one of those bloody SENIORS, 63 if she’s a day) shrieks “Klingele! Sie misse klingele!. (“Ring your bell. You have to ring your bell”)

Grandad stands there looking more pissed off than dazed and I make the mistake of using logic – I had two choices: Klingele and wipe out Granddad or not klingele, brake and not send Grandad into intensive care. Can’t do both.

Blank looks, which isn’t a surprise because her brain was fully occupied with formulating the mantra:

“Klingele. Immä klingele. Mir sinn aach Fahrradfahrä un mir klingele immä. Klingelklingel. Klingelklingel. Immä klingele”

At this rate, I’ll join Kampfradlers Unite.

Sod ’em