Don’t talk to me on Pinstone Street...

Lance Armstrong of the US strains as he rides towards the finish line during the 19th stage of the Tour de France cycling race, an individual time trial over 52 kilometers (32.3 miles) with start in Bordeaux and finish in Pauillac, south western France, Saturday, July 24, 2010. (AP Photo/Laurent Rebours)

Lance Armstrong of the US strains as he rides towards the finish line during the 19th stage of the Tour de France cycling race, an individual time trial over 52 kilometers (32.3 miles) with start in Bordeaux and finish in Pauillac, south western France, Saturday, July 24, 2010. (AP Photo/Laurent Rebours)

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CRIKEY! I nearly didn’t make it this week.

No, I don’t mean I almost missed the deadline for your favourite column.

It is that I was almost knocked down.

It happened in Pinstone Street when I foolishly stepped out into the road without looking.

Or, to be more accurate, I didn’t look both ways. But to be fair, why should I?

It’s a one-way street and I could see the traffic coming towards me.

Plenty of it, actually. Including several buses.

But as they were going relatively slowly, I felt quite safe to take a tentative step into the carriageway, waiting for the moment when I could cross to come down Fargate and back to the office with my Cornish pasty lunch.

That is when disaster almost struck. For coming from the opposite direction was a pedal cyclist.

He was on the cycle lane which goes against the flow of traffic.

I reckon the reasoning is so cyclists can see the on-coming traffic.

But, to speak out in my defence, pedestrians can be forgiven for falling into the trap of thinking the only traffic to watch out for are the four-wheeled type heading down Pinstone Street.

It would be churlish on my part to suggest that all was not my fault as the cyclist didn’t have a bell on his bike, something we were told was obligatory when I was a lad and the proud owner of my first sky-blue Raleigh pushbike.

He did have a pair of lungs on him, though.

And used them to shout at me to get out of the way.

I duly did so and began to muse that I was turning into a liability. Someone who had senior moments instead of lunch breaks.

It confirmed the views I had heard earlier in the day which were offered on the back of a survey which said young people felt betrayed by the older generation who were holding on to their jobs while they, the kids, were stuck on the dole.

‘Out with the old, in the with the new,’ was the most cutting comment I heard.

Is that what is in store for me?

A gentle cull one morning when my dismissal is delivered along with my final payslip?

But to be honest, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.

I know there are concerns about the pension bill and all that. But if we are destined to have a proportion of the nation’s workforce on some kind of state handout, why not offer that option to those who have done their share of the nine-till-five?

And it opens up some jobs for the younger generation who, let’s face it, are easily led and wander astray during those idle hours at home without a job.

I’d be interested to know what you think. Only don’t speak to me on Pinstone Street.

I’ve got I’ve got to keep my wits about me.

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