Nike Livestrong M65 jacket: catch one if you can

I don't really know why I'm showing you this, because if you don't pick one up today you're going to have a bit of a job finding one.

So if you're not already living in New York or Los Angeles, you might as well forget it.

The Nike Livestrong M65 jacket is available today (October 10) only, in select stores in the US, including Undefeated LA and Nike Sportswear and Dave's Quality Meat, both in New York.

For your $395 (£247) you get a lightweight nylon jacket, with ultrasonic welded and taped back construction replacing the stitching. This means it will fold down and stash into one of its own pockets.

Now personally I can't stand that egomaniac on wheels Lance Armstrong, but he does raise money for an admirable cause, and there's no denying the personal hardship he's been through.

So before you make too much noise about that price tag it's worth remembering that the entire proceeds from the sale of this jacket go to the Livestrong foundation.

The proceeds from the plane ticket you buy to get to New York will just go to British Airways. And cost about four times the price of the coat, but hey, there's always Ebay.

Raleigh 'High Life' cyclocross bike

When I was a kid, Raleigh was the make of bike to be riding. You had your Burner BMXs, the Commando (which my overweight neighbour snapped in half), Grifter, and then there were the racers.

That was the heyday, back in the eighties. These days, Nottingham based Raleigh has about as much clout on the bike scene as Puch or that other crappy make, Universal. At least that's what I thought until I stumbled upon this Raleigh cyclocross bike, in a colourway inspired by Miller High Life.

All white with deep red graphics, some serious wheels and a pair of Easton forks just to reinforce the quality aspect.

The thing is, this bike is nowhere to be seen on the Raleigh UK website. Instead we're presented with an uninspiring selection of Airlites and Avantis.

Click over to Raleigh USA and it's a different story - single speeds, fixed gear, racers you would actually want to ride. And to add insult to injury, the website even looks good.

So what's going on Raleigh? You're an English brand, once the Number One English cycle brand, and all these years you've been churning out nothing but mediocre offerings.

Meanwhile, your American counterpart has caught the cycle zeitgeist and run with it, producing dreamy single speeds and racers to slobber over, as well as a cyclocross bike that looks so good it would be a shame to get it muddy.

Best you get your act together.

The last train from Fenchurch Street

There I am, plotted up in my usual seat, last train home, last man sober, the only one who's just worked till midnight, and there's a phone ringing.

It's one of those old fashioned ringtones, the default one you get on a Blackberry - urgent, loud, piercing - and the bloke in the seats in front of me is saying "Hello?" but he hasn't pressed the button, he's so out of it, so it's still ringing, and he keeps saying "hello?"

And after about twenty rings or so we're all telling him to push the button, and he says "Im trying", and eventually he finds it and he's speaking in this sort of gibberish, all his words merging into this monotonous tone. It's pitiful.

Then he passes out, forehead in his torpedo roll, phone in hand outstretched.

Further up the carriage, a security guard is standing between some seats. Just standing there, smiling, not saying a word, and from behind these seats you can hear a couple of blokes, sounds like they know each other, but they're getting a bit fresh, giving it the large. And all the while the guard is just standing there, smiling.

Next stop is me. That phone starts ringing, like it's some sort of alarm, right on cue. But this time it's ringing and this bloke keeps pushing the button, semi-conscious, then it rings again and again, like someone's desperate to speak to him.

So I tap him on the shoulder, tell him it's ringing.

He looks at me with this half grin, like the words have gone in but he's forgot how to process them. And then, like it's the most natural thing in the world, no dramatics, no nothing, he gives this tiny jerk and throws up. Mainly red wine by the looks of it, I can smell it now as I'm typing. It's all over the table, floating his torpedo, sloshing onto his suit.

The doors open and I'm gone. As I'm walking along the platform, I can hear a phone ringing.

Ahoy there, enormous houseboat thing

I can't really say I've had occassion to step aboard many boats in my time. Despite my best efforts I've still managed to avoid knowing anyone in possession of a ship, yacht, or even a dinghy. The nearest I have come so far to a life on the ocean waves has been the ferry to the Isle of Wight in 2004.

But that hasn't stopped me gaping in wonder at any new arrival in St Katharine Docks as I stroll through on my way to work - it might even have stoked my fascination. I spend the entire walk through the docks wondering what exactly the Dutch barge Noelle looks like below decks, and if Playbuoy really is lined in faux tiger fur as its name suggests.

Every now and then a vessel turns up that has my jaw scraping the floor. This is usually a multi-million pound Sunseeker (Eddie Jordan's, The Snapper, springs to mind) or a round-the-world yacht with a brushed alluminium hull.

Or this. Matrix Island turned up last week and it is basically a houseboat on steroids. A floating five-bedroom home. It has the lot - portholes the size of bistro tables, and double glazed windows cut out of the hull that you could fit a jetski through. There's even a water-level balcony.

Two things fascinate me about Matrix Island; first, what kind of mind decides to turn what appears to be a massive barge of some description into a floating detached house, and second, how it managed to stay afloat on the open water long enough to make it into the dock. Surely even mildly choppy water would have those windows out in a splash.

The fact it is floating at all makes it a lot more interesting than a Sunseeker.

The sun always shines at Louis Vuitton

The leaves are falling off the trees and it's been chucking it down for most of the day, so the last thing on my mind right now has to be sunglasses.

And what happens? Along comes a clip for Louis Vuitton sunglasses. As slick as the puddle outside the front door, it takes the viewer on a journey around one of the latest designs, with its Damier signature check etched into the framework and all that precision workmanship.

You just know that this is a pair of shades built to last. Especially since with the speed the winter seems to be steaming towards us, you're not going to get the chance to wear them for at least six months.

Blow me (up), it's a shopping bag

I still haven't made it to a supermarket till without having forgotten to bring one of the 2,000 Bags For Life presently spilling out of the kitchen drawer.

The thing is, it's not like I don't intend to take them. I'm an environmentally conscious person. I separate my waste.

But Bags For Life do not lend themselves to being re-used. First off, they look crap. The bags I'm constantly given are the most aesthetically unpleasing to the eye as I could possibly imagine. They have pictures of groceries on them for god's sake.

Besides that, they never seem to figure in my checklist before I leave the house. Keys and pants for sure, shoes optional. A Bag For Life? Not even on it.

But now I need to forget my Bag For Life no longer, because it will be attached to me at all times like a ripe hemorrhoid, dangling utility-like from my belt.

This is thanks to Greenaid, who have invented a re-useable shopping bag that rolls up and stuffs in a neoprene shell, shaped like a hand grenade. A weapon in the fight against climate change.

And just imagine the fun you could have with a hand grenade shaped piece of neoprene. Lob it into the basket on your trolley and watch the sea of Saturday morning grocery shoppers part before you as you make your way through the aisles. Play keepy uppey at the deli counter, volley it through the tills.

If you're really lucky you might even get the Counter Terrorism Unit to take you home with your shopping.

These boots were made for crying

We were about halfway down the hill - about 500 yards at a push - before I knew something was seriously wrong. It was the boots. My brand new, just out of the box Visvim Serra hikers were going to kill me if I took another step. They were already killing me - it had been foolhardy to set out in nothing but a thin pair of dress socks between the leather uppers and my tender heels.

But those boots had been burning a hole in my shoe collection for a couple of months. Ever since I nabbed them at a bargain, but still eye-watering, price, they've been sitting atop my wardrobe waiting for some suitaby inclement weather to get an outing. The lack of a suitably stout pair of walking socks wasn't going to ruin their christening.

"I'm not going to make it," I said to Lizzie through gritted teeth."Leave me, and save yourself."

So Lizzie carried on down to the train station as I made the long trek back uphill, wincing with every step, to slip into something more comfortable.

The episode was proof if further were needed that the pain threshold of women is far above that of men. Lizzie also had her new shoes on - a pair of dainty little brogues. No socks, no nothing. After a trip to London which involved us getting lost in Bloomsbury and somehow ending up in Wagamama's in Soho, then tubing over to a pub in Islington before the long trek home, her feet were so raw that they were actually weeping blood. Not a whimper, all night. That's well hard.

Meanwhile, I continue to suffer. My heels are still showing the evidence of the failed outing of the Serra hikers, and even with the thick walking socks I have now invested in, they're still agony to wear some 24 hours on. I have been forced to admit that in contrast to the butter-soft nature of other Visvims, these blighters are going to need a bit of wearing in.

Looks like I'll be needing some lessons in pain control from Lizzie.