The fine art of scootering

His new scooter allows Guy Adams, diary editor of The Independent, to ping from party to party in minutes

I have just changed my life, for the bargain price of one thousand pounds. That is how much it cost to buy a shiny green Vespa from a chap called Ahmed, who runs a garage under a railway arch in Shepherd's Bush.

Three weeks later, and the grimy, depressing tube ride to work is no more. Instead, I whizz past queues of fuming car-drivers and nip perkily up the inside of queueing lorries. Fulham to Westminster takes 12 minutes; Canary Wharf to Mayfair, a quarter of an hour.

As a gossip columnist, The Independent's Pandora indeed, I used to spend two hours a day schlepping round London's creaking Underground network. Now I ping from party to party in a matter of minutes, arriving fresh and windswept on the red carpet, and saving my employer a fortune in late-night taxi fares. In his heyday, Nigel Dempster, the doyenne of my trade, drove a racing green Mini, finding it easier to park than other vehicles. These days, he would have chosen a nippy little Lambretta, perhaps in homage to Jamie Oliver, a celebrity who - with admittedly mixed results - has done his best to make scootering cool.

Scooters, as a form of urban commuter transport, are unbeatable. They have all the nippiness of a small motorbike, but none of the oily chains or mucky pedals. The seat - like a girl's bicycle - does not need to be straddled, saving the crease on your trousers. It's automatic. Any fool could drive one.

With spring in the air and summer soon upon us, we are well and truly in the thick of scooter-buying season. So, as I firmly believe every city deweller - gossip columnist or otherwise - should have one, here's an idiot's guide to life on two wheels. Scooters come in two sizes: 50cc and 125cc. At a push, the former will do about 40mph, the latter nearer to 60mph. The size to go for depends on how far you intend to travel and how deep your pockets are: a new 125cc costs a little upwards of £2,000; smaller bikes cost slightly less.

Once you've found a suitable chariot, it's time to do Compulsory Basic Training (CBT) - assuming you already have a driver's licence. This is a sort of grown-up cycling proficiency test, which legally qualifies you to ride a bike of up to 125cc. It's a day's pottering round a school playground, with occasional trips to a classroom, to be told which limbs will end up being amputated if you don't ride carefully. As far as the law is concerned, that's basically it. But if you want to carry pillion passengers - and get rid of those uncool L-Plates - then you can take a formal test

The rest of the biker's armoury is basically needed to either prevent serious injury, or stop the thing being nicked. The former issue preys on the mind. Having been taught how to ride safely, most spirited scooter people instantly forget all they've learnt and start pinging their way up narrow gaps between waiting cars, lorries and buses. Should one of them open a door, or execute a sudden U-Turn, you're in trouble. And that's why, according to my CBT man, every scooter rider can expect (statistically) to come to grief once in every three years in the saddle.

It is worth investing in a proper helmet. The more you spend, the better they are, though unfortunately there's none that can save a haircut from grief. A good idea is to carry a pot of hair "product" in the storage box on the back. An alternative is to shave your head, though in my line of work that's not an option. The other essential piece of kit is a jolly big chain. Theft or vandalism is a serious problem (insuring my £1,000 bike against theft would have cost £600, with a £350 excess) and the only way to prevent it is to fit as many tough-looking security devices as possible to the bike.

And that is basically it. All that's left is to get hold of a decent outfit. A thick coat, is a must, as it is surprisingly chilly on board a bike. My grandfather served in the North Atlantic with the Navy during the War, and I have inherited his old jacket. It is made of similar material to a carpet, weighs about as much, and is fantastic in the wet, soaking up rain like a sponge. I've also come across a fairly unique pair of gloves. Or more properly gauntlets, that are lined with sheepskin and come half way up my arms. Together they keep me warm as toast, though I have been roundly teased - by friends and people I've never met - who say I look like a teddy bear.

I'm not bothered. On Tuesday, I bumped into Matthew Williamson on the red carpet outside a showbiz party, and asked him what he thought of my attire. "It's great. Fantastic," he said. "Where did you buy it? I'd wear one..."