It's extraordinary how energy sapping this cold snap has been for me. Since the great snow-cloud of doom deposited itself on our beloved town, I've had sinus issues, headaches, coughs, and wheezes which spread all sorts of diseases.

At least they what I've been telling myself this week. Yup, for those of you who read my last post, that familiar yet fetid stench of cycling related failure is back.

The last time I sat on the infernal thing was the Sunday of the Great Snow Storm of Doom. It was my first attempt to scale the Murder Horn (that is the final bit of Sanderstead Hill from the Library to the pond). I failed of course and free-wheeled back to my home in South Croydon a broken man. I've not been back on it since.

At the moment the bike sits by my front door, still gleaming through lack of use. Silently it mocks me every time I pass it. 'Going somewhere?' it says 'We should both go. Hop on.'

'I er... I can't.' I stammer in reply. 'That is I er… I have to do this thing its y'know complicated. Bikes aren't allowed.' With that I'm out into the street desperate to avoid any more imaginary questions from inanimate objects.

What's worse is the professional cycling season is back underway. At present, the like of Alberto Contador, Bradley Wiggins and even the returning warhorse Lance Armstrong are traversing the Australian outback and the flats of Dubai in preparation for a summer of gut-busting, nerve shredding, heart-breaking punishment specifically designed to make me feel bad.

It's possible I've been driven mad by paranoid delusions of self-importance I suppose but then again so would you if your possessions mocked you as you left to go down the Purley Arms on the way to the football.

With the temperature rising and the threat of inclement weather receding, the big question for me now is what excuse can I come up with to get out of another attempt at the dreaded Murder Horn? Answers on a post card please.