You might well ask ......

I know, I know - I said I'd be back to you toute suite with a report of the progress I was making with my dealings with the beurocrats who are supposed to be helping me in my quest for Olympic Gold. And, of course, my progress with my training schedule which included another appearance on the continent at the weekend.

What happened?

Well, all I can say, is that you can put the blame squarely on the local Constabulary, who appear now to be employing the services of rejects from Lord of the Flies. I obviously tried to warn them of the intense media scrutiny they'd be subjecting themselves too if they tried to lay fingers on this kiddie - but would they listen?

I mean, I wouldn't stoop so low as to utter that abominable phrase "Don’t you know who I am?" - I leave that to overpaid, Neanderthal footballers, drunken Members of Parliament and Cherie Blair - but I did wonder whether my fame and profile had indeed contributed to the sad conclusion to this incident.

It all began innocently enough. I'd bought myself a new pair of banana yellow lycra shorts which were going for three quid in the local Help the Aged charity shop and, eager to try them out, I popped down to the local gym to give them a quick one-two. At this point I must assure you that I'm not a member of the gym. Not on your life matey - you wouldn't catch this kiddie mixing with the likes of those who inhabit those dens of iniquity. The fillies pose with their micro shorts, FCUK glitter tops, new trainers which won't be seen again until the next visit to Bluewater and a bottle of Evian whilst the blokes insist on strutting around in front of the mirror spending more time adjusting the position of their Jack Straw than they do exercising lungs and muscles.

Anyway, I digress. Our local gym – Stallone’s - does have one advantage. They've got a half-handy car park which is convenient to the local kebab shop so I quite often pop down there to do some stretches and crunches between the cars before nipping into Ataturk's for a couple of large Donners for me and the Half Share in the House.

So there I was sorting out my calfs and hammies when this copper, barely out of Primary School, pounces on me and accuses me of watching the girl's Pilates class. I did point out that I was an international athlete and could have the pick of the Elite field by simply clicking my fingers at the next Piddling 10K I do - but the plughead was having none of it and he only went and confiscated my binoculars and step ladder and hauled me off to the nick.

Do you know I sat there festering in what was a pretty poor excuse for a reception area for two days until I could find Brian, my local plumber, to stump up the £400 they insisted on having as some sort of surety?

Humiliated? You bet I was.

Fortunately I did manage to get out of the place on Friday evening - by which time I'd missed my chuffing flight to Amsterdam for the half marathon on Sunday. Up the strasse without a bicycle I was forced to hitch a lift with the Nice Work crowd who were travelling to Amsterdam by bus. A fairly motley crew shared my journey to Amsterdam - gin soaked, my old granny would have called them. But having only just made it back thanks to them employing the services of what appeared to be a 1950's Dennis Lancet single decker, I've not had time to draw breath yet.

So, my report of a fairly eventful weekend in the City of Vice will follow tomorrow. Meanwhile I’ve got to go and see Septic Knuckles the village solicitor and see what he knows about some half-baked peeping tom charge that had plopped on my doorstep whilst I was away. A situation I have to say hasn’t been helped by my telling them I couldn’t pop round to the local nick on Monday – because I was in Amsterdam!

Ho hum.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.