I have an enemy. He sits in his little glass box and watches and waits, until I come along on my bicycle. Then he shuts his gates. Just like that - slowly, deliberately, maliciously. The gates control the level crossing on the main road, beyond which is my office.

Now I am not one of those impatient people who fret while waiting for bus or train. In fact, when travelling, I always arrive far too early and quite enjoy waiting and watching and thinking. But I dislike, with an intensity of feeling, having to wait at a level crossing. And he knows it - my enemy! Why else should he always close the gate at the precise moment that I arrive?

So a state of war exists between us. With the strategem of an army general I have tried out manoeuvring him. Taking careful note of the time of trains I arrive minutes beforehand. But he sees me - on the final stretch of road. And as I pedal furiously in a bid to beat the gates, so just as furiously he pulls his levers and the gates and I meet - with me outside. At such moments I cannot indulge my pastime of watching and thinking because a little demon of hate is churning within me and a fury, quite alien to my usual placidity, overtakes me. Battle number one goes to my enemy.

Next I try camouflage. Changing from my usual bright red swagger coat - which, come to think if it, was inviting trouble - and soberly dressed in khaki raincoat, I try pedalling with airy nonchalance towards the gates. With an "I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world" attitude I cycle nearer the gates. A hundred yards to go and no sign of movement from the man in the box. Fifty yards and I think I can do it, but twenty yards away the gates begin to move and round two in the battle goes to my enemy.

It isn't as if our station is a busy one, for on a normal day no more than six passenger trains go through. But those trains always manage to reach the station when I do. Even if I my timing has been correct and I miss the trains, that tyrant in the box will shut the gates and send a little engine shunting up the line - just to exercise its wheels and keep me waiting.

The war continued in the middle of the day and this is the most infuriating of all. I have an hour for lunch and a ten minute cycle ride each way. But at lunch time, it seems, all the goods shunting must be carried out. Impregnable in his fortress my enemy looks down and laughs at us all meekly waiting while he brings over, not one long goods trains, but two. Two lumbering, squealing meandering trains. As the crossing is on a main road, the traffic piles up on either side. The footsloggers can cross by the bridge but car-bound, bus-bound and cycle-bound must wait. And of course I wait too.

When he eventually deigns to pull his levers a flood tide of impatient vehicles press forward and, in the face of the oncoming stream I haven't the courage to make my right hand turn, so must meekly wait once more until the line has ended and I can cross in safety. So he scores two battles.

But things have changed now. My enemy won many battles and chalked up many scores against me but ... I have won the war! I have discovered a new route to the office. True it is nothing more than a dirt track for much of the way; a dirt track through fields. It is much harder on my tyres, and I wallow through mud in wet weather and skid on sandy soil on fine days. But there is no traffic at all - only the skylarks singing. And best of all there is no enemy in a little glass box controlling me with levers. I still have to cross the line but I do so at a little 'Halt'. A most obliging little 'Halt' where, if the gate is closed against me, I can watch the line and choose my moment to cross - through a little side gate.

It's a lovely feeling - to be at peace again. I can even feel benevolent towards my one time enemy when I think of him, sitting in his box, waiting to do battle with me in a war I have already won.