"Ahh, yes," I said to Graham,  over a cup of Darjeeling, "it's that time of year again when I feel we should don our cycling apparel and dust off our phrasebooks and look to raise some money for a worthy cause."

"Hmmm," Graham replied reaching for a slice of Victoria sandwich, "as I'm sure you remember, old chap, last year we succeeded in raising £793.59 for the Autistic Society by cycling through the Black Forest. How, pray tell, could we surpass ourselves this year?"

I ruminated. "What say you we fly to Berlin, that fine cosmopolitan centre of the old Iron Empire of Prussia, and thenceforth journey down the Elbe to Dresden?"

"How far would that be?" Graham inquired, pulling his fez down over one eye, something he only ever did when his interest had been piqued (or his bicyclemanship had been slighted).

"Around 200 to 250 miles, depending on the viscisitudes of our route," I replied.

"When shall we do it?" he asked.

"I suggest we set off on June 17th, and perambulate until the 25th of that month."

Graham stroked his chin. "And who say you should we raise the money for this year?"

I handed him a cutting I had put aside to paste in my album. "Kidscan...a children's cancer charity, and local, to boot."  My brow furrowed. "It would appear one in six hundred and fifty children is diagnosed still with cancer, and of them ten percent don't survive."

 A moment passed as we consided this shocking statistic.

Graham shook his head. "But I fear cycling alone cannot effect change by raising money for these fine people..."

"Then, by jove, we'll have to do something in conjunction with our perambulation," I countered.

Graham, in a contemplation worthy of Homer, traced a finger over upper lip as he thought; clouds of despair obscuring the steely glint in his eye, cast from the mountainous furrows in his brow. I watched his fingers move, back and forth, back and forth...

"I have it," I shouted. "We shall grow fine moustaches, just like those chaps from Movember, the prostate cancer charity. If Germany is not the land of the moustache, I don't know which land is..."

"Steady on, old chap," Graham interjected.

 "I'm not talking about that damdable corporal. After all, he was Austrian. No, I'm talking about, Einstein, Neitzche, Strauss, Albert Schweitzer, that chap from Boney M...Where better to fly the flag of international hairy-lippitude than Germany?"

"You've convinced me...I'm in."

We swept the tea things off the tea table and rang the bell to have the maps brought down. Over the next few evenings, we concocted our grand plan; no money raised would be used for our expenses (unlike with other cycle-charity events); we would book no accommodation, and see which way the wind took us; we would set up a JustGiving page on this new-fangled radio-televisual wideworldweb thing (oh how that  John Logie Baird had been working in my abscence); the beauty of which being that donating would be quick, easy and totally secure. It would also be the most efficient way to sponsor us: Kidscan would get the money faster and, if our sponsors were UK taxpayers, Justgiving would make sure 25% in Gift Aid, plus a 3% supplement, would be added to any donation.

"Hip-ray," Graham exploded, tossing his fez into the air.

"Steady on, you'll damage the stucco." I said, opening the sherry and pouring two large glasses to christen the undertaking. I handed him a photo clipped from a periodical "Take a look at all these fine mustachioed, chaps," I instructed. "It appears to be from an event called the Love Parade. I'm not sure to what it relates, exactly, but there seem to be a lot of cyclists there, given the close fitting nature of their clothes...their shorts especially. We'll be right at home."

Graham's eyes widened. "Egad, I never realised Berlin was such a popular place. I hope there'll be room to stay. I wonder if they have a YMCA. I hear one can get oneself cleaned, one can have a good meal, one can do whatever one feels..."

"Indeed, one can," I added straightening my pith helmet and casting a wistful eye to the future. "I think you'll be surprised the doors a moustache will open in that fine land."