I set off this morning for a meeting, after which I got a bit carried away at the sales (who can resist -70% in an excellent shop?), and then on impulse decided to go and see if my bike was ready to be collected (I’d been told they’d call me after 15 January – these are very good bikes that the shops rents out for a year then sells off relatively cheaply). Indeed, the bike was there and ready, but there I was in my posh meeting clothes with no helmet…and it was pelting with rain.

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She looked stunning: all black and shiny, with six gears and a fancy extra lock as well as the inbuilt one, and a bell and lights front and back that worked…no way was I not taking her home there and then.

The salesman gave me an ‘A vélo mesdames’ fluorescent yellow jacket with matching ankle bands which I put on over my posh meeting outfit, helped me strap my shopping onto the back, and off I went, riding the wrong way up the one-way street – which I have learnt is allowed. But – the usual question – where was home? I’d been to the bike shop often enough, but always by train or tram plus metro, and the metro does the last bit underground, which isn’t helpful for someone with no sense of direction…

Actually, it wasn’t that bad – I had an inkling of the general lay of the land, headed south, and soon came to tramlines. So all I needed to do was follow them home. Now whoever put those tramlines in did not calculate that in strong wind and rain it’s very difficult to hold a straight line. And they put very little space between the tramlines and the kerb. And, as some of you know, I have a tramline phobia when I’m on a bike. Very soon I was on the pavement, which I’m not sure is legal, but it’s definitely safer.

Until this morning I was under the impression that Belgium was flat, but no, there are lots of slopes, and they all go uphill to my home. So I battled against the gradient, the wind and the rain, feeling exhilarated, and got home safely. I had noticed a room in the apartment block foyer where bikes were stored, but when I opened the door, it was totally packed – no way would Willabelle (I had named her en route – it means ‘helmet’) fit. No problem, I thought, we have a little storage room one floor down, by the garages, so I’ll take it there. However, the remote for opening the garage door was in my car, one floor down. So was I to leave the bike sitting in the foyer, go down and to the other end of the building to get the remote, and ride the bike round? Our concierge is quite a particular lady, and I was sure she wouldn’t like to find my wet bike dripping over her recently cleaned floor…okay, I’d take Willabelle down in the lift. We’d learnt about bikes and lifts at my cycling class, but this was a minuscule lift in comparison. With much shoving and twisting and dripping, I managed to position the back wheel on the ground and the front one up towards the ceiling, and down we went. A bit of rearranging of boxes (yes, there are still plenty of those, still unpacked), and Willabelle was ready for a rest, as was I.

Looking forward to exploring more – perhaps with my helmet on my head and my GPS in my pocket!