I led the way. Lacey stopped, looked, and then burst into hysterical laughter.

I stood on my dignity. ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

‘Er, where did you get this, Becky?’ she managed, between convulsions.

‘I responded to a classified advertisement in the local newspaper,’ I replied, speaking slowly and clearly.

‘Are you sure?’ she giggled. ‘You didn’t pop round to the museum while they were having a clear-out?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This thing is ancient! And I was right the first time — it’s a pile of scrap metal.’

‘I am afraid madam is mistaken,’ I contradicted, in my best used car dealer’s voice — or do I mean used motorcycle dealer’s voice?

‘What?’

‘The vehicle you see before you,’ I went on, ‘is a genuine BSA Bantam, circa nineteen-sixty…’

‘Nineteen-sixty! It’s nearly twice as old as I am!’

‘…and is a valuable collector’s item,’ I finished.

‘Collector’s item! How much did you pay for it?’

‘Sorry,’ I told her. ‘That information is classified.’

‘By which you mean you paid twice what it’s worth. What’s the matter with you, Becky? If you wanted a motorbike, why not get something a bit more modern, like a Honda, or something?’

‘Because,’ I replied, climbing onto my metaphorical soapbox, ‘some of us are patriotic enough to support the home-grown product. This machine was made in Birmingham. England. So there.’

She didn’t have an answer to that one. ‘Shall I make us some coffee?’ she said, changing the subject.

‘Thanks.’ Off she went, leaving me to polish the handlebars of my pride and joy.