The other day, I went to a large auction organised by the Berlin police to sell off all the stolen bikes that they had recovered over the course of the year.

Being rather a lazy lump, I managed to show up only ten minutes before the large warehouse where the bikes were being stored was closed, signalling the end of the viewing and the start of the auction in an adjacent building. Still, I managed to scribble down the numbers of a couple of very attractive looking old style racers, ones with the gear changer down on the frame rather than on the handlebars. Very cool indeed.

As soon as the auction started, my head began to itch uncontrollably. There were also millions of invisible flies buzzing around my face, just begging to be swatted at. 'Swat us, Stephen!', they shouted, 'Swat us and accidentally buy a pink ladies bike for €170!'

So I sat on my hands, afraid to move until my bikes were up.

And got sold before I barely even had a chance to realise.

Feck. I was determined, however, not to leave the place without a bike, any bike, don't care.

So when the auctioneer introduced a men's mountain bike (didn't want a big clunky heavy mountain bike, but whatever) which was about to go for €10, my right arm shot up quicker than Lance Armstrong's going around the last corner of the Tour de France.

€15 for a bike! Bargain! And being the foolish optimist that I am, I was certain that it had been decreed by the gods that it would be the greatest bike ever made, and that we would live happily ever after.

So the bent handlebars pointing wildly in different directions came as something of a slap in the face from the well-used hand of reality. As did the completely bald rear tyre. And the absent front brakes. And the punctures. And the puke-green colour of the frame.

Still. Might be able to pimp it a little and sell it on for a small profit to someone even more impulsive and naive than I am.

And so the Search For The Two-Wheeled Soulmate continues.