The tube strikes are a terrible day to be a cyclist. Everyone's in a bad mood, and shouting at each other, and the roads are full of lapsed drivers who've forgotten what the indicator is for.
The only good thing is that there are suddenly more cyclists, and we develop a group mentality that's nippy and vicious - like commuting pyranhas. A professorial type who tried to shunt his BMW through us onto the Euston Road was suddenly surrounded by a booing, cackling hoard of us. There were snatched moments of camaraderie at traffic lights - either shrugs of shared pity, or the occasional short curse of relief at escaping from some really rather hideous attempt to knit with a bendy bus and a mini.
On the Westway I passed a woman sobbing at the wheel.