Since my sarcastic observation about a Lycra-clad cyclist actually stopping at a red light at Kunda Park in a previous column, I have received ... well, not death threats … but certainly some rather descriptive criticism as to what I can do with the bicycle pump from irate road warriors who were obviously offended.

I didn’t agree to print a retraction but I did convince them, just prior to being beaten with a sweaty bike helmet, that I would at least say something positive about cyclists, and here it is:

“Although cyclists take up too much of the road, sometimes riding three abreast and hardly ever stopping at traffic lights, a lot of them are actually really nice people.”

Father of the year ... again

Once again, I stepped up to the plate when called upon by my seven-year-old daughter Poppy to accompany her to her Fathers’ Night at school.

This is where dads sit down with their kids and build things together – a sort of bonding experience.

Now given that Poppy has asked me in the past why I look like her grandfather, you can imagine how difficult it is for someone my age amid all of those young fathers.

So I was a little nervous to see what task was set by the teacher.

I did see what was going on in the next classroom on the way in, with many bewildered and confused fathers trying desperately to make towers out of straws

But what luck, the task that was set for me was to make a paper plane.

Now the only thing my father ever taught me in my life, the only knowledge ever handed down by George Dunn to me, his son, was the ancient art of making a paper plane.

I started immediately, folding, edging, cutting, styling.

Poppy’s eyes got wider as I continued. I must have looked like a Japanese origami expert who had just overdosed on red cordial.

“Can you pass me another piece of paper please Poppy?” I said.

“What for Dad?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m going to add a tail.”

On the word “tail”, the whole room went quiet and I felt the stares of many awestruck fathers.

Yes, I was adding a tail. I held it up, checked it for balance and took my daughter outside to begin the launch sequence. Everyone in the classroom gathered at the windows and door.

Poppy took a grip, pulled back and threw! It glided perfectly across the playground and travelled many, many metres, landing perfectly just in front of the staff room.

As Poppy ran after it, I turned to face the audience to accept their acclaim. It certainly helped to have grown up during World War II.

CSI running dry?

I think all of those CSI television shows have run out of even remotely believable plots.

It had to happen, I suppose, because there is only so many times you can run a blue light over a room and find a strand of hair stuck on a butter knife.

I base my conclusion on the storyline from a television show I saw last week.

The husband tried to kill his wife while she was having a sleep by placing a pillow over the handgun. Because he was nervous, it bounced off the back of her skull and went down through the floor, causing an electrical short in the ceiling of the bathroom below.

His wife woke with a headache but didn’t know why, and the secondary victim, who was having a bath downstairs, stood up to touch the grill of the exhaust fan in her ceiling only to be electrocuted and fall back, hitting her head on the bath and drowning.

It did take some pretty serious investigation from their part, but CSI did get it all over and done with within the required 47 minutes.