This and that...

It's around 0300hrs and I'm lying on my back in bed, or rather on the bed. Suddenly, I'm awake and it'll take me awhile to get back to sleep. Outside I can hear the rain, that's probably what woke me up, but now I'm hoping I don't remember whatever it is that I've been fretting about otherwise I'll never get back to sleep, although it's odd how suddenly I awake, unaware that I did fall asleep, and it's something like 0630 and I should be getting up to go to work. A lot depends on what day it is: if it's a Thursday or a Friday then I can afford to lie in, but in all honesty, once I'm awake there's little point remaining in bed. I get up, go downstairs, make breakfast and then sit and watch mainstream television channels, normally GMTV between 0630 and 0700 and then possibly a bit of the hilarious Mike Graham Show on YouTube, although it's highly addictive and that's the last thing I need when work, in some shape or form, beckons.

Pricey cake from GAIL's.

I haven't written for a long time and there's no real excuse or reason why not, I just haven't. I have, by and large, kept the cycling up. Last weekend, for example, I rode to Oxted and back, 20 miles, stopped for a cup of tea at Caffe Nero, finished off Hard Rain Falling by Don Carpenter and now I'm reading another 'rock' book, this time Welcome to Your Life by Roland Orzabal of Tears for Fears fame. In fact, today, I walked around two miles or so to Filtr, a coffee shop (a bit pricey for what you get) and sat there reading. I even managed to walk back and miss the rain. Yes, despite a major heatwave which started at the end of May and continued up until a day or two ago, the rain looks as if it's coming back as we head towards autumn, although I don't particularly want to talk autumn and then, inevitably, Christmas and how many shopping days there are to go, that's just plain depressing.

So the cycling has continued. The weekend before last I'd started riding non-stop, doing what I think I once called the Slines Oak Slogger, a 15-mile 'slog' up Slines Oak Road and then through Woldingham and down towards Botley Hill before heading along the 269 to Warlingham and home. Not a bad idea doing a non-stop ride as there's no lolling around in coffee shops and, therefore, no expenditure on tea and cakes, although on the latter, I had been doing really well in not having them, I literally stopped for some time until, that is, yesterday when I found myself in GAIL's eating one of their tiny little oval-shaped cakes with pink icing (see photo above). GAIL's is too pricey for what it is, like most places, but I always feel ripped off in GAIL's because it's too expensive for a chain operation masquerading as an independent, pure and simple. In fact, we try not to go to GAIL's and were foolish to enter one in Kew Gardens yesterday when there was so much choice from the independent sector. Still, you live and learn I guess. Actually, a word on Kew Gardens. The last time I was there, I was standing outside of a music shop and next to me was Pete Townshend of the Who. The music shop has gone, much to my dismay.

The much maligned front wheel.

A key thing of late has been walking, lots of it. Take this week, for example, since Monday I have walked roughly 13 miles, last week it was even more, I think it was 18 miles. I have a local route but I also walk back from the station on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Today is Friday and I walked roughly seven miles. All I've got to do now is get the swimming started up again and I'll be quids in, so to speak.

Tomorrow I hope to be up and out of the house on the bike. It's crucial not to sit around in the morning as it gets later and later and I end up doing a non-stop ride rather than a longer Oxted ride with a cup of tea thrown in for good measure. I've got to force myself not to watch YouTube, which, I'll admit, is becoming a problem, it's addictive, and the trouble is I tend to watch a lot of people shouting the odds about the UK and how it's governed, which, while entertaining, can become tiresome in the extreme.

I wouldn't say I'm on top of the world at the moment, I'm not. Up until relatively recently I was getting a good night's sleep, but now not so much. I'm still letting things get to me, which is wrong and it needs to be addressed, but how I just don't know. I need a day or two in the capsule to get my sleep back in order, a dose of Radio 3's Night Tracks wouldn't go amiss, anything to reset the clock or get myself back to a default setting.

Upended bike on parched lawn.

The bikes have been fine, though. The Kona is used occasionally and the Specialized is still my main go-to bicycle. I did have a puncture problem the other day, one of those occasions when something goes wrong and I end up in the shop asking them to fix it for me. It started when I bought a new tyre, which was okay, but it's always a little bit of a hassle getting it on the wheel. I was doing this in the back garden during the heat, the lawn totally brown. Anyway, somehow I pinched the inner tube the tyre wouldn't inflate because it was punctured. I bought another one.  There were far too many 'leeches' on the original inner tube that's why I bought a new one in the first place, but then, I ruined the new one and had to buy another. There was another problem, however, and that involved the wheel itself. We're talking the front wheel, which is normally the easiest when compared with the rear wheel, which involves the chain. I don't know what happened. I had to make sure that the wheel spun freely, but it didn't and I had to mess around trying to get it right, which I couldn't. God knows what happened, but I ended up having to buy a new thread thingy, a quick release set to give it its technical name and the guy in the shop fixed it for me. Very annoying. I always feel defeated if I have to let somebody else fix it, but it's working well now so all is good; there's a new inner tube, a new tyre and a new quick release set. I have another one should there be a problem with the rear wheel.

As the weather has, to a degree broken, my summer habit of buying two large bottles of Highland Spring sparkling water is slowly stopping. I used to sit out in the garden sipping the chilled drink as I read until darkness fell and then I'd come in and watch TV. Well, now, instead of the usual two bottles I only buy one and I'm guessing it'll only be a matter of time before that little habit disappears altogether. I'll try not to let it die. There's nothing worse than chilled (or ultra cold) water when the heat has gone, but if I can keep it up I will as drinking water is good for you and I'm partial to sparkling mineral water. For some reason I've gone off of drinking Pellegrino.

Dr. Michael Mosley once said that it was good to drink a glass of water with every meal. Well, I have one in the morning and I'm still working on having one in the evening too.

Blind faith...

There's nothing worse than blind faith in anything, particularly 'ideology' but on a day-to-day level, technology, note how both words end with 'logy', never a good sign. I encounter the latter on a daily basis, normally when I've jumped off a train and found myself in a crowd of people edging ever closer to the automated ticket barriers. In the good old days there were ticket collectors, far better, and often I would encounter some real characters like the bloke on the barriers at Victoria station back in the late seventies, or possibly even the early eighties, I can't recall exactly. I was on my home after a hard day in the office and I asked him something like, "Is that the Carshalton train, platform 11?" His response was actually very funny, mainly because it was so unexpected. "I don't fucking know!" The humour was in the fact that he should have known, that was his job, to be helpful to 'customers', we were no longer passengers but customers, but that never rang true as there was no choice, we had to be on the train and British Rail was the only provider of the service. I used that phrase a lot, still do, but always in jest, and most people get it.

I have, of course, digressed. I was talking about blind faith and while I suppose you could say that I was putting all my faith in getting a proper answer from the man at the barrier and that, in a sense, I had blind faith in his ability to provide me with an answer, the real reason behind my sudden interest in 'blind faith' is that, last week, I was moving forward very slowly towards the barriers at Redhill station in Surrey and when I was just one person away from placing my ticket into the automated machine that would ultimately free me from the station, the man in front produced his smart phone and placed it on the clear glass protecting (I'm guessing) the scanner underneath it, but guess what? It wasn't working and the man in question was now holding everybody up with his blind faith in technology. In the end he had to give up and approach the one person supervising the situation who handed the man what looked like a normal ticket for him to place in the machine's aperture and gain his freedom. I just find people with blind faith in technology really irritating when it's plainly obvious that the analogue way of doing things works best. I hate going to restaurants where they have blind faith in technology for a reason: to save money on waiting staff. I was in Wagamama the other day just outside of Battersea Park Power Station (now a shopping mall) and the man who would ultimately lose his job to high tech was pointing out how I could order my meal and pay for it online by simply scanning the QR code on the table. I already knew that I wouldn't be doing that, but humoured him nonetheless with a smile and then ordered in the human way when prompted.

I remember once leaving the house unknowingly without my debit card and not realising until I needed it. I know how this situation arose: normally, if I break with routine, something will go wrong; in this case I'd either changed wallets or stopped putting my debit and credit cards in the wallet that carries my smart phone. Result? I've left the card in the house on the console table in the hall. For a short while my day was ruined. In fact, I thought at the time, I might as well have stayed in bed all day, but then I remembered that I had my debit card on my iphone, which ultimately saved the day. For a short while after that incident I too started using my phone to buy things until, very quickly, the novelty wore off and went back to using the real debit card, once I'd accustomed myself to having a wallet AND the wallet that now only contained my smart phone. The moral of the story? Never break with routine.

What's been happening, you may well ask, and I would have to say 'not much'. I've tried to keep up the cycling and I've started riding over to Sutton on a Sunday morning to see mum. On Saturdays I try to ride to Oxted. I've also been walking a fair bit. Last week I managed two walks home from Purley to where I live (around two miles) and the week prior (and possibly the week before that also) I was putting in seven miles a day if I walked to and from the station AND had a walk at lunch time. The extreme heat has put an end to the lunch time walks but the walk home from the station, largely in the shade, has been good as has the morning walk to the station in the relatively cool morning air. But let's make no mistake, it's been hot, very hot, 35 degrees hot and the nights have been long and uncomfortable. It's cooled a little bit. As I write this, it's almost 0600hrs on a Friday and the reason I'm here at such an ungodly hour is simple: I woke up around 0330hrs or 0400hrs, I can't remember exactly when, and found that as the light seeped into the room I was wide awake, so I jumped out of bed, made myself a cup of tea and some marmalade on toast and here I am in the living room, nobody else about.

The whole blind faith thing has been on my mind for a few days now, ever since I found myself in the queue at the barriers and was temporarily held up by the man who had put all his faith in his iphone. Actually, I remember another incident where blind faith in technology let me down. I was at a European airport, I think it was Helsinki, but it might have been anywhere in the world and it could have been further way, I can't remember. For some reason I had my boarding pass on my smart phone. Normally I have a paper boarding pass. I was at the gate with my smart phone ready to show the woman at the gate and guess what? My phone ran out of power. Typical, I thought, as she hastily produced a paper version for me.

My dad, God rest his soul, had blind faith in the government and this was probably because he spent his life in the civil service and at one point worked inside No.10. I never once heard him question the motives of the politicians he worked for or in any way show distrust of them and if he was alive today I'm sure that would still be the case.

I don't believe in blind faith in anything, least of all the government. There are, in fact, very few people you can really trust in this world and if you think otherwise then you're a fool.

To Oxted...

The heat continued but not as hot as a week ago. I took a ride to Oxted and when I left home it was around 14 degrees; in fact as I rode off I considered going back for a fleece, but it wasn't THAT cold, just a cool breeze, which you might expect at around 0730hrs. I was on the Rockhopper and it needed a good clean, but as we all know, it takes a while to get it together and actually CLEAN it. There's a power hose at the Esso garage and one day, yes, one day, I'll remember to stop by and get it done.

The outward ride was simplicity itself; it is a straight ride along the 269 to Botley Hill and then down Titsey, brakes covered. I reached Limpsfield Village hung a right and then a left and rode into town, turning right and riding up the high street. It was a beautiful day and it was good to be on the bike again. I'd been planning on leaving the house earlier than the usual 0800hrs, in an effort to get back to what I used to do: riding off at 0700hrs, but in the end I left around 0730hrs. I've even been thinking about buying myself a small flask and getting back to some of NVL's old haunts, like the Tatsfield Bus Stop and the Tatsfield Churchyard, to name but two. Today I didn't have a flask or biscuits, although, on the latter (and cakes and pastries) I am trying to give them up and, to be fair, I've been succeeding. I've stopped almond croissants and this and that, I simply order tea, English Breakfast with a dab of milk. It's amazing how much milk is wasted. I only need a dab of the stuff but the cafes always fill a small jug and half the milk then goes to waste. 

Couldn't find a Bobber so here's a tank instead!

I sat outside in the sunshine. By the time I had reached the Caffe Nero it was around 0850hrs, which was fine, I was in no hurry, had nowhere to go and it was going to be too hot to do anything. I'm reading Dark Luminosity (Memoirs of a Geezer) by Jah Wobble and I love it, so I sat there in the sunshine, doing a bit of people watching here and there but largely reading and sipping from a large mug of English Breakfast tea, not as large as my Sports Direct mug, but there you have it. There was no way I could indulge a second cup (although later in the day I would do just that). When my Nero tea had been finished I stopped reading and checked out (as I always do) the charity shop next door. I wasn't in there long because there was nothing I needed. I checked the books in case something decent had been left but there was nothing I fancied reading and, let's face it, Jah Wobble's book was all I needed.

Riding to Oxted is always blighted by the hill on the return ride and I started thinking about it as soon as I rode away from the Nero and headed down the high street. Actually, I started thinking about the hill on the outward journey and considered riding to the Velobarn instead, but when I reached the roundabout just past Botley Hill I decided to ride down Titsey Hill and into Oxted. I always forget that the uphill ride is not as bad I think it will be; once I cranked the bike down into the lowest gear and once I had passed the turning for White Lane the effort remained at a bearable level right the way to the top. I can't remember what I was fretting about as I rode up, but whatever it was it kept my mind off the hill and, as I say, it's not anywhere near as bad as I think it is going to be; soon I was at Botley Hill. I decided not to branch off on Beech Farm as the heat was beginning to rise and instead rode straight down towards Warlingham Sainsbury's and beyond, following the Limpsfield Road into Sanderstead High Street and then down Church way and home.

Sooner or later I'm going to buy that flask and start revisiting places like the churchyard and the bus stop again.

Later, in the heat of the afternoon when it was around 26 to 27 degrees, I drove to Westerham and the bells were ringing out from the church. A wedding was in full swing and by the time I reached the doors there were people togged out for a wedding flooding out of the church ahead of the bride and groom who eventually emerged themselves and were sprinkled with confetti by some of the guests. The bell ringing was fantastic and continued for some time after the bride and groom had left the church. I sat on the green in the sunshine uncertain as to what I was going to do. The heat was pleasant and eventually I decided to have an English Breakfast tea in the Tudor Rose. The temptation to eat cake was resisted and I simply sat outside  enjoying the sunshine and basically chilling, which, as always, was much needed.

There was a Triumph Bobber parked up on the green and for a while I admired it, parked there, because I love the design. To my right were two seats and on one of them there was a crash helmet. On the other sat a man with sunglasses and a white Ace Cafe tee-shirt.

"Is that your Bobber," I asked and he said it was and a conversation was initiated. I said that it was a good-looking machine and he agreed proudly. I didn't realise that it had a 1200cc engine, but it does and he told me how he used to have bikes when he was younger and used to be a bit of tearaway, riding fast and such like, he even rode the Isle of Man TT route and scared himself in places, but now, like everybody I suppose, he had mellowed somewhat and only takes the Bobber out when the weather's fine. I told him how I once yearned for a motorcycle but how I was put off when I visited my son's then school and met somebody I used to chat to outside. He was limping and I thought (wrongly) that he'd broken his leg skiiing, but no, his leg had been amputated after a motorcycle accident. From that day on I decided not to pursue the fantasy, which involved buying a Harley Davidson 883 Hugger with buckhorn bars, and I'm so glad about that as the last thing I want is to have a leg amputated. The Bobber is a nice bike and I did feel slightly envious considering the heat and the fact that he had a ride to Greenwich to look forward to. He paid £10,000 for the bike, which is a lot, I thought, but probably about right. I was mindful that I had the car in the car park and that the ticket expired at 1653hrs, but there was plenty of time, so much so that I ordered a second cup of tea (£2.70 per mug). It was good tea and just what the doctor ordered for a hot day like today.

It was soon time to go and I drove home, aircon on.

Summer heat and the return of the magic...

It's been unbearably hot. I've even seen a stag beetle, a sign of summer and schooldays if ever there was one. Except that summer kind of started early this year: in May, but now, in June, it's been extremely hot, up there in the mid-to-late thirties, there have been red warnings, we're all being advised not to travel unless it was absolutely necessary, making me wonder whether anybody travels just for the hell of it, to some random railway station, perhaps, for a quick coffee and then the return ride. No, most people are going somewhere to do something, nearly always work, but visiting relatives, friends, whatever, nobody travels for the hell of it.

A few days ago there was thunder and lightening and heat. I was lying on top of the bed when it started, early in the morning, it was still dark. The lightening flashed and the thunder crashed and I was reminded of people, or perhaps it was just one person, who told me that the longer the period between flash and crash the further away the storm was travelling, and sure enough, after a while, the storm blew over and was gone. Where it went I'll never know, perhaps over Sutton way where mum resides and I remembered how much she hated a storm when we were younger. I thought of her then, in the dead of night almost, the darkness still present, and wondered how she was coping.

As a child I always remember, on a stormy afternoon, back from school, looking at the front door and the crinkled glass window that gave little away as the late afternoon light faded. "The front door is jealous," I used to say to mum, having no idea what it could be jealous of or, indeed, whether a wooden door could even experience jealousy. It was a mad thought and still is. A jealous front door, it was up there in the scary stakes with the silhouette of the stairhead at night, when it turned into the Mug Dog, a cloaked dog-like figure that stood at the top of the stairs when we were supposed to be going to bed. Crazy, definitely. Childhood is strange, surreal almost and I never remember it being any other way; everything was in some way strange: the sea, the countryside, cows, flowerbeds, insects, agricultural machinery, nothing ever seemed real in the days when I didn't watch or listen to the news. It was a world of fairy tales and toy soldiers, hankerchief tents in the back garden, stories within stories and nothing anywhere near reality, not that I knew what reality was all about; in many ways I still don't although I'd say that's more wishful thinking than anything else.

The heat brings back memories of being young when every day of the school summer holidays was long and sun-baked. Long grass swirled in slow motion, trees swayed ominously at the edge of fields where sheep and cows stood motionless even as we passed them by in a train to the coast. If the cows were sitting down, said dad, then there might be rain; if they were standing up there would be sunshine. Invariably they stood up, rarely were they sitting down. Most of our summer holidays were bathed in sunshine and I recall early evening when the sun cooled and our toy soldiers were in their respective hotels (the bedside cabinets) and I was walking around barefoot in white trousers with a collared short-sleeved navy blue tee-shirt with a white anchor logo, looking out to sea, at low tide, long stretches of wet sand, the distant bark of dogs and my tingling, sun-burned body. Later I would sleep on top of the bed, my shirt sticking to my skin as I hoped the feeling would leave me by morning because my inflatable boat awaited me.

We all longed for a lightening storm by the sea but all we really saw was distant flashes on the horizon and not the waves whipped into a frenzy by the wind, nobody in peril on the sea, a hymn I still find frightening in some way. I would not wish to find myself or anybody else in peril on the sea. I would sleep with the windows open so I could hear the sea throughout the night. It was magical, and once you let the magic escape it rarely returns unless you find it, like I did, in a theme park in Holland, it hides in the most unlikely places. The Dream Flight. You either know it or you don't and I know. The magic is out there, in pockets, don't go looking for it because it will find you. I once found it, aged 12, on a milk round, in South Wallington of all places, and it's still there and I can find it today on my bike, the quiet, seemingly empty, large houses set back from the road, the hedgerows, the trees, swaying again, nobody around, and I can sail triumphantly through it and out the other side, reluctantly riding back into real world suburbia.

It's 2239 as I write this and it's still hot. 24 degrees and it won't dip lower than 20 degrees before morning and then it will rise into the thirties again. I'm sipping from a mug of tap water that never quite comes out of the tap cold in this sort of heat. I'm putting off going to bed because it's going to be unpleasant, at least until I fall asleep, which I will, eventually. I'm wearing shorts and a black teeshirt with 'Future Inside' written across the front. Future Inside! 

I was listening to an old prog rock album, Octopus, by Gentle Giant, a band I only remember from a track (not on Octopus) called Free Hand. The Astronome disco at the Croydon Greyhound used to blare it out before the bands came on stage and for some reason I remembered it, found it on Spotify and listened to it, then discovering another track, Remember Me with Kindness, which I found mesmerising and that led me to key into Google the question: What is regarded as the best Gentle Giant album ever. Octopus was the answer and Remember Me with Kindness was on it, so here I am, alone, in the dark, just the halogen glow of the computer screen and the 24 degree heat outside.

My wife often tells stories of her childhood growing up in India and how she and her family used to sleep on the roof in the extreme heat of summer and they would lie there looking at the moon and the stars. Once again, it's the return of the magic, just when you thought you'd lost it.

In Bologna...

When I got back to room 436 of the Fly On Hotel after dinner, I noticed a strange-looking insect with a rear end like a locust and a nasty-looking sting coming out of its arse. I can't say I was happy sharing a room with it so I went in search of a newspaper or something I could hit it with. A copy of the New Yorker would suffice, I thought, having bought it a few weeks ago and only reading one article on the plane coming over from London.

Arriving early at T5 Tuesday morning

The insect in question was in the bathroom and I wasn't sure whether it was going to join me in bed later so I hit it hard and sent it rolling into the sink. I turned on the tap and washed it down the plug hole, but rather worryingly it scuttled up and tried to get out of the sink so I whacked it hard again and this time, with the aid of more water, it disappeared and was never seen again. I left the room and later returned and when I looked at the sink I was under the illusion that it had filled with water and was about to overflow on the floor. I wondered whether the insect had mysteriously grown in size and somehow managed to reach out and turn on the tap. I felt paranoid enough to place a drinking glass over the plug hole. The sink was empty so what made me think the opposite started to freak me out. Perhaps, I wondered, it might have something to do with my recently acquired Coke habit; only a week ago I had a Coke Zero and somehow I'd acquired the taste for it. But no, surely not. The drinking glass, I thought, would stop the advance of the insect if it somehow reformed and edged its way back up the pipe.

When nature calls and your flight
awaits, this is the last thing you need!

Later, once in bed, I kept an eye on the area around the bathroom and started imagining the insect, now around six feet in length and with no legs, edging its way towards my bed, but nothing came and I fell asleep until my alarm woke me at 0600hrs. Another day in paradise, I sighed, thinking about the stressful day ahead of me and how I would be confined to the hotel for the rest of the day. In truth I felt fat. Very fat. I certainly needed the exercise and while I had vowed not to eat any cakes or biscuits, I had fallen foul of my decision, which was especially damning after having rubbished the reputation of an extremely fat man I know, somebody morbidly obese, who, I often wondered out loud, must have had many moments in the lead-up to his current and unbelievable size, when he peered in the mirror and thought 'perhaps I'd better knock off the cakes'. Well, let's say that I was thinking the very same thing as I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, knowing there was more of the same ahead of me as another day of sitting down presented itself and I started to feel guilty about doing nothing. My cycling had been non-existent (virtually), one week on, another week off, and, I fretted, I really needed to do something about it and quick. I figured I was at the stage that my morbidly obese associate had been at some time ago and had ignored the warning signs. I mustn't do that, I must cease all bad things now. 

I was staying on the outskirts of Bologna in Italy, close to the airport, in a rather dated hotel that had a few issues but was perfectly okay. The shower worked, which made a change, the small bottles of shower gel were great, not too gloopy in a tomato ketchup sense and enough per bottle for two showers. There were towels and even face flannels, the beds were changed daily (unlike in some hotels that don't bother until you check out, citing environmental reasons, which is rubbish). The bed is comfortable, the black-out curtains work a treat and I'm generally very happy, even if the hotel is a little confusing.

The plane at Bologna airport...

The reception area is on the fourth floor as is my room, which follows an upward-sloping corridor from the front desk. By the time I get there and take a peek out of the window and over the balcony's edge I notice that I am high up, at least a few floors from ground level and I simply can't work it out and decide it's best not to bother trying. I started to wonder whether what seemed like a strange kind of reality was simply another illusion, like thinking the bathroom sink was full-to-overflowing with water or that a giant insect was heaving its way towards me as I slept. I started to wonder if I was going insane, but then they always say that if you think you're mad, you're probably not. 

On Tuesday, the day I flew to Bologna, I awoke to bad weather. Despite it being June, the skies were dark and heavy rain was falling. I had woken up at 0345hrs (never let other people book your flight) made breakfast and then reluctantly went upstairs for a shower and to complete my packing before lugging the heavy case downstairs and leaving it in the hall for when the taxi arrived. Sure enough, around 0430hrs, a bearded foreign gentlemen was sitting patiently in the driver's seat while I faffed around inside the house checking I hadn't forgotten anything.

The drive to the airport was hell on earth and at one point, looking out into the gloom as we raced along in the driving rain, I swear the driver was careering towards another car and only managed to miss him by pure luck. I was glad to get out and I'll be taking the train home.

The view from room 436, Fly On Hotel, Bologna...

When I reached Giraffe in Terminal Five after a painless run through 'security', I couldn't face a big breakfast (I'd already eaten two Weetabix and a banana plus some bread and marmalade and very tasty it was too) so instead I had a mug of tea and one of those healthy smoothies.

It was time to fly, from gate A21, but I needed to answer the call of nature. In both bathrooms all the cubicles were in use. Somebody suggested trying the one downstairs, which I did, and it was the same situation: loads of men taking early morning dumps and spending far too long doing so. I started to worry, the gate was closing at 0720, it was now 0710. Fortunately, a door opened and in I went. Then, afterwards, I strode purposefully towards the gate and was there in good time.

What a great restaurant!

The skies brightened and by the time we roared along the runway in the broad daylight, the grey skies had been replaced by a light bluey water colour painting that somehow turned to clouds. There was some turbulence initially, but not much. I had seat 8F, a window seat, and I spent the flight looking out of the window unable to concentrate on reading, apart from one article in the New Yorker magazine about Donald Trump.

We landed and then had to endure the new finger print and photo stations installed throughout Europe and causing many delays for travellers throughout the continent. It wasn't that bad to be fair, and once out the other side there was a short courtesy bus ride to the hotel. Check-in was easy and soon I was in my room and putting away my stuff, including my new Reiss suit that had been stuffed in my suitcase since the early hours but was soon on a hanger (one of only three!) in my wardrobe. The new suit was pricey, £400 pricey, but it was well worth it. I didn't fancy another M&S suit, which hang badly and make me look like a right arsarillo.

Room 436, Fly On hotel...

I didn't get to see a lot of Bologna as the hotel was far away from the city, but I managed to get to the 'downtown' on Thursday night for a dinner with a few industry friends, which proved very enjoyable. On Wednesday night myself and a few colleagues found a 'local' restaurant (football shirts on the walls, a snooker table, the smell of cigarette smoke) that offered basic food, nothing to write home about in my opinion, but it was okay if a little ordinary. All that said, it was an experience, not the sort of place you would visit out of choice, perhaps, and that was something in itself.

While the weather coming out of the UK had improved from the torrential rain of early Tuesday morning, it got better when we arrived in Bologna. Getting out of the plane reminded me of the days when I would go on holiday to Greece and that lovely moment when the heat hit me square between the eyes; the weather improved as the week progressed, and now it is time to head home. I need to pack my suitcase, take my passport out of the safe and head down for breakfast for the last time. In fact, on that score, the breakfast offering has been fine, I can't think of anything to moan about (for a change!).

Another shot of room 436...

Outside I can hear the birds tweeting and I know that behind the curtain is blinding daylight. It's almost time for breakfast, but first a shower. Actually, a word about the shower, bearing in mind that my bathroom at the Residence Inn by Marriott in Pittsburgh, USA, offered nothing but tepid water at best unless I'd left it on for five or 10 minutes. Here at the Fly On, it was a great rain shower that was easy to use and the water was just right. The hotel is a little dated, a bit rough around the edges, meaning there was a bidet in the room, something I have never ever used (I wouldn't know which way you're supposed to sit or crouch on them, there's no seat) but, like a true Englishmen dying for a pee I nearly (and I stress that word 'nearly') used the bidet instead of the toilet. Fortunately I noticed at the last moment, not that it would have been THAT disastrous as there was a plug, but thankfully I realised in the nick of time! It could, of course, have been much worse, but let's not go there.

It's now Friday morning, time to go home, well, time to have breakfast and then back to the room for the boring bit: packing. I hate checking out of hotels, but I really hate playing pants roulette, which is when I put all my pants back in the suitcase after wearing them and then mix them up with clean pairs. Then it's a game of chance. Am I putting on yesterday's pants or a new pair? Perhaps I ought to buy pants with the days of the week printed on the back and then, if I stick to wearing the right pants on the right day, problems won't exist, but I've never seen pants with the days of the week printed on them. Perhaps always remember to have a spare plastic bag handy for used clothes, yes, that's the answer. Or, of course, empty the suitcase of all clothes so that I know that anything I put BACK in the case is used. Yeah, there you go, two possible solutions.

Travel to and from Bologna was pretty much pain-free. While the taxi journey to T5 in the driving rain wasn't pleasant, both flights (outward and inward) were fine. On the way back I had a middle seat, which I don't like, but there was no choice, it was 'a full flight'. Flying home took one hour and 50 minutes and for at least half an hour of that time I finished reading Geddy Lee's My Effin' Life plus a bit of the appendix right at the back. It's great, arguably the best rock memoir I've read. I doubt if anything will beat it. 

Arriving back at T5 and having been ferried from the plane to the terminal building in a bus, passport control and baggage reclaim were simple. My colleague Pete and I took the Piccadilly line to Earls Court and Green Park respectively. I took changed on to the Victoria Line and then an overground train from Victoria to home. I was picked up at the station, thankfully.

Milling (and riding) around in the heat...

I rode to the Velobarn outside of Westerham and was surprised to find it open for business. On countless times prior to my visit on Saturday 23rd May it had been stubbornly closed, forcing me on those occasions to ride into Westerham town to either Esquires or Costa. In the old days I might have sat on the green with a flask of tea and a couple of biscuits, but since the pandemic I've been spending anything between a fiver and a little more for tea and something else, be it a millionaire's shortbread, a toasted tea cake or an almond croissant, that about covers the gamut of sweet treats I've over-indulged in for far too long and make no mistake, it continued this weekend. On this particular visit to the Velobarn I had a cup of tea and a stodgy almond croissant and while I needed the tea I didn't need the pastry, but I still had it, more fool me I guess.

The Velobarn! It's open!

I woke up this morning (Saturday 23rd May) at 0600hrs and an hour later it was 18 degrees. When I left the house at around 0830hrs, probably a few minutes later, it was 21 degrees and when I reached the Velobarn it was 23 degrees. I sat outside in the sunshine watching the Lycra Monkeys and then, rather than putting off the return ride any longer, I stood up, got my stuff together (wallet, phone, keys) and then rode out of the place, turning on to Pilgrims Lane and heading home.

They're selling Santa Cruz electric mountain bikes at the Velobarn for over £6,000. I found myself thinking that I could possibly buy a Harley Davidson 883 Hugger with buckhorn bars for less than that, or even a 1200 Sportster, but I wouldn't do that, not since I realised, some years ago, how dangerous it was. Who wants a leg amputated or worse? Not me. Perhaps that means I would be interested in a six grand pushbike that can reach speeds of 45mph, but who's to say I wouldn't need a leg amputated if I came off? Let's face it, being on two wheels and not four IS dangerous, you just have to be careful. And then there's the cheating angle. Is riding an electric bike cheating, like having a powered polystyrene float in a swimming pool? I don't really think so; I used to, but now I think an electric pushbike will take you further and because you still have to pedal, you're still getting the exercise. That said, I figure there are better things I could do with £6,000 if I had it to burn.

Later that day...

A few hours later and I'm now sitting in Ori, a cafe inside John Lewis, nursing a cup of tea and worrying about how time is slipping away and I'm doing nothing, despite having loads of things to do. I walked into HMV earlier and thought about vinyl records and old-fashioned record players. I remembered how, foolishly, some years ago, I had thrown all my vinyl away, well, I gave it away to a record dealer in Sutton and started buying CDs instead. Giving it away, throwing it away, it amounted to the same thing. I only have around six vinyl albums left and they're in the loft somewhere. I started looking at what was available on HMV's shelves and there were plenty of the sort of albums I used to own, although I'm guessing mine would have been more valuable than what was now on sale. But first, if I was to start again, building a vinyl collection, I'd have to buy a deck and a decent one would set me back a few hundred quid. Back in the day I used to have a decent hifi system: Mission speakers, a NAD amp, I can't remember the tape deck and, of course, a NAD CD player. Soon I amassed a reasonable amount of CDs. On vinyl, HMV is offering three albums for £66 and I found myself staring at an hourglass that somebody had turned over without me knowing...until now. How long, I wondered, would it take me to amass a decent-sized collection of vinyl again, do I really want to do that and how much would it cost me? Answer: a lot of money and a lot of time.

I have many things I need to do and I'm not even going to go on about any of them, all of which are on my 'things to do' list, which is getting longer and longer and longer and it's not being helped by the fact that the list in question is in my head and not on paper. I need to write it down and soon because otherwise I won't do anything, and the list keeps getting longer, by the day.

Damn! They found me!

Going back to the Velobarn, the reason I was sitting there was because I was halfway through my first bike ride in three weeks. I certainly needed the exercise and the weather was great. In fact, a heatwave was coming and temperatures were going to be in the 30s before the day was out. But right now I'm in Ori, in John Lewis, in Bluewater shopping centre and that means I have a longish drive home later on. Fortunately, it's light outside so I won't have the usual hassle of being dazzled by headlights and not really knowing what's coming up behind me.

And now I'm thinking about my to do list again and how I am still adding things to it, but I'm not ticking anything off and, as I said before, I'm always going on about this so I'll try my best to shut up about it. Swimming membership, a new lap top, a decent watch, a new suit, a nest of tables for the living room, proper bookshelves...all stuff, well, not all, but some things I can certainly do without. More important, perhaps, is a holiday, which is much needed, much like today's bike ride. I'm glad I got out because the temptation is always not to bother. There are times when I can't go, like if we have people coming over, but when I can I should get out and get the exercise under my belt. It's important. It's important to get more on my Strava than just a few walks around the block, but it can get a little obsessive too. I remember the days before technology got a grip of things when it was just a case of going out, although there was always the temptation to note things down, record stuff on paper. There was a time when I bought in to some kind of swimming challenge, I think it was something like you swim, say, half a mile or a mile and then you note it down somewhere in a booklet provided by the organiser and eventually you clock up the desired mileage of the challenge, there's no prize, no kudos, nothing, just the satisfaction that you've swam something like 100 miles or more in a year, I can't remember exactly.

Getting back from Bluewater is always a little fraught. On this occasion once we'd left the motorway behind we found ourselves on the A25 going through Brasted and close to my traditional cycling territory surrounding Westerham. Sadly, there was a car accident and the road had been closed off. We had to make a wide detour that went nowhere and ended up coming back to where we started, or almost, and then having to travel along Pilgrims Lane, fine on a bike but not in a car. There was a jam, lots of reversing and getting far too close to the hedges, and when we eventually emerged from the narrow lanes we weren't that far from where we had started. But we were still on the right side of crash site, ie it was now behind us and we could continue on our way home without hassle.

It was late when we got home so I decided to have fish & chips and mushy peas from a local takeaway. I bought enough chips for everyone. Later, I sat and watched a documentary on Iron Maiden's 666 tour on Ed Force One with leader singer Bruce Dickinson flying the band and crew all over the world. Great escapist television with a strong feelgood factor too. I watched other stuff but a lot of it was a little hit and miss after Maiden's epic. I stayed up until gone midnight and was awakened Sunday morning (24th May) by Radio Four and the 0600hrs news. Trump says a deal is almost there with Iran, but the Iranians say it's nowhere near. You can't believe Donald Trump and that's a fact.

Sunday 24th May: The Coffee Shed at Botley Hill

What was formerly the Sheep Shed was my destination for Sunday's morning ride. The weather was still scorching. When I got there it was 23 degrees and it was because of the heat that I rode there. Why? I didn't want any hills, Church Way was more than enough. Oxted, therefore, was totally out of the question, there was no way I was going to attempt Titsey Hill, not in the extreme heat. Likewise, the Velobarn was ruled out. I simply couldn't face the climb out of Westerham towards Botley Hill and also, where the latter was concerned, there was always a chance that it wouldn't be open (you just never know) and the thought of having to come back up the hill for nothing ruled it out completely. If the truth be known, had the Velobarn being closed I would have riden the bike into Westerham and visited Esquire's Coffee. But I didn't do any of this, I went instead to the Coffee Shed.

The Coffee Shed...tea and er, cake!

As always, I weaken at the sight of a cake, especially a small millionaire's shortbread of cup cake proportions, actually, smaller than a cup cake, and that was the attraction. It turned out to be pretty gooey and I started to regret it. There was no way it was going to do me any favours, but I'd ordered and paid for it so I had to move forward and eat it, which I did. I remembered a Harley Street dentist I met on the luxurious Scotsman train telling me that as long as you drink hot or warm tea within 15 minutes of your culinary misdemeanour (ie, eating a sweet and gooey cake) you'll be alright. Really? I'm not so sure about that. So I washed my mouth out with leaf tea, felt a little better about things and got on with my life. And why not? Not that drinking the tea did anything about the calories consumed. As I've said before, I need to get my act together, but I never do.

The hot sun persisted. And then, a great moment. There was me fretting about everything under the sun, especially how much exercise I'm not getting, when a group of Lycra Monkeys appeared, hailing from the Penge Cycling Club, the PCC. As they humped their carbon fibre-framed steeds on to a provided cycle rack I overheard one of the party talk about his 'hibernation', which he had just come out of, prompting another member of the group to add that this ride, the one I was witnessing, was his first in three months. What? First ride in three months! You can't be serious! Needless to say I felt a lot better.

Comparing the Penge Cycling Club's bikes with my own I realised that mine needed a good clean, and I know just where to get it. There's a jet cleaner on the forecourt of an ESSO garage in Warlingham and while I don't think I'll be going there this weekend, it's definitely on the cards for the immediate future, which probably means the next couple of weeks. I also need a haircut having had a couple of crap ones in short succession (and they weren't cheap).

As the sun continued to beat down on the exposed car park of the Botley Hill Farmhouse I decided it was time to head home. The original plan was to ride through Woldingham but then I remembered the hill at the very end of Slines Oak Road so I opted to ride back along the 269, retracing my steps, and then hang a right on to Beech Farm Road and wind my way around the country lanes that will bring me out at Warlingham Sainsbury's. The Lycra Monkeys are leaving too, but not before a group photo. I was tempted to offer my services so that they could all be in the shot, but by the time I had thought of it, it was too late, the shot had been taken and they moved to the side of the pub where, I heard somebody say, the scenery was better. Presumably she meant it was a little more scenic than the car park.

"Have you got the drone?" somebody asked.

Last day in Pittsburgh...

On Thursday we headed for 'the strip' - or Smallman Street, which is virtually next door to Pittsburgh's David Lawrence Convention Centre, it's where the restaurant Eleven is located AND the Heinz museum, which my colleague Pete visited while I was having lunch in Market Square (see previous post).

The view from the Grand View Restaurant, Pittsburgh

This week I have walked many miles because being on foot is, arguably, the best way to get around IF, like me, your hotel is close (ish) to where your work is located. Every day for the past six days, I've walked over two miles a day just getting to and from the David Lawrence Convention Centre, but then, outside of that journey, I have made many others and all on foot; and as discussed in the previous post, excessive walking probably helped with my overall health bearing in mind the type of food and the quantities I was eating (mainly burger and fries). Oddly, I didn't have many desserts (thank God!). I've enjoyed a couple of cookies (and by that I mean I've had TWO cookies, one in Starbucks and another in Yinz, an independent coffee shop on Station Square) and I remember a rather dainty dessert at a dinner on Smallman Street on Tuesday night from where I considered walking back to my hotel but decided against it as I didn't really know much about Pittsburgh at night. But suffice it to say that walking was a major part of the last week and I'm talking about 20,000 steps daily.

I'm losing track of what lunch we had where and on what day. So the following is a little bit sketchy. At some stage we had an awful pizza on the strip (it was square and not what I considered to be a pizza, they're at least round!). At the same restaurant I ordered an even more disgusting no-alcohol beer, this might well have been in the late afternoon of Thursday. The previous day we'd been to Eleven for dinner where, as mentioned in the previous post, we ordered from the Tavern menu and I ordered, yes, you guessed it, another burger and chips (I left most of it). As I say, I'm losing track of what I ate and when. Thursday night I think we were on Smallman Street again where dinner was a fried chicken sandwich and a root beer for me; Pete had the same but with a can of Sprite. 

My last burger and chips in Pittsburgh's Grand View Restaurant

There's a great Starbucks on the strip. I was there late in the afternoon of Tuesday ahead of a planned business dinner, also on the strip. I ordered a cookie and an English Breakfast Tea and simply chilled out. I was there again with Pete possibly on Thursday afternoon and preceding the fried chicken dinner with the root beer. Pete and I set the world to rights, talked about music and generally chilled out.

On Friday we headed for Mount Washington and what was the Coal Hill Steakhouse. It's still there but it's no longer called the Coal Hill Steakhouse. I can't remember what it was called, I think it's now The Grand View Restaurant, something like that, but the management is the same and so is the food. And yes, I ordered another burger and chips, had a non-alcohol cocktail and finished with a cup of tea. I'd asked for English Breakfast but was given Earl Grey, which was awful, and I like Earl Grey! The view of Pittsburgh was great and just how I remembered it in 2019 and 2022, but the food wasn't that good.

On Friday we had to check out by 1100hrs, which we did. It took me a while to cram everything into my suitcase but I managed it and then we hit the road again and went to Mount Washington. The funicular railway linking ground level Pittsburgh with Mount Washington was closed and, as we were soon to find out, some passengers travelling on it the previous evening had to be rescued by the emergency services following a malfunction of some sort that left tourists stranded on the incline. 

As we approached the funicular railway with a view to using it and unaware of what had taken place the previous night, I turned to Pete and said 'I bet it's closed' and sure enough it was, because of the aforementioned incident. At that point a man with a television camera strutted across the road and asked if we'd like a chat. We said yes and then a reporter appeared and started an interview for the local television station. It broadcasted around 1800hrs giving both Pete and I the chance to see ourselves on TV before jumping into a cab and heading for the airport.

After a short cab ride we arrived at the airport, checked in our bags and then chilled out in a Joe the Juice after walking around the airport. At last, I thought, as I tucked in to something decent (a chicken and avocado sandwich accompanied by a ginger tea and a healthy juice drink, which was great.

The flight was on time and very smooth all the way. We landed in London earlier than scheduled and then we went our separate ways. There is a view that if you stay up until the night time of the country you have landed in, your jet lag will be allieviated somewhat. Well, it's almost 2200hrs and while I've been taking it easy, watching YouTube videos, and nodding off occasionally in the process, I haven't really been to sleep in the true sense of the word. In fact, I might watch a bit of YouTube again and will probably hit the sack around 2230 if not later. It's amazing how somehow I still have gas in the tank, but I know that when I hit the pillow I'll sleep well. Here's hoping.

Postscript...

In the end I stayed up until almost midnight, watching a documentary on iPlayer about Paul McCartney's lost Hofner bass guitar. I need to finish it, which I will later. I slept a total of 10 hours, not bad, and now here I am watching a YouTube video, well, half-watching it. Last night, or late in the afternoon yesterday I watched chilled stuff on YouTube like Nomad Sam and Rewilding Jude, the latter recently inspired me to get out into the garden and take down a dead tree. Basically the 'vlog' is all about a guy called Jude whose parents both died. He decided to move to a remote part of Scotland and live in a crofter's cottage with land for a reasonably-sized garden, he's done a lot with it, taken on chickens and growing his own vegetables, it's a great watch, or at least I think it is. Nomad Sam is all about Sam, who lives in a tent with his dog and travels around the country, staying in remote places for a few weeks/months and then moving on. He is now in the Scottish Highlands. They both chill me out and that was what I needed yesterday.

Avid readers of this blog will know that I have read Martin Downham's Remind Me to Smile, which I've probably mentioned before, it's a great read and yesterday, being in mind that he is Pete's dad, I met him, albeit briefly, at the airport. I just wish I'd been a little more awake, but I managed to tell him he had written a great book and shook his hand. Pete's mum was there too and I was offered a lift, but I didn't want to put them out and opted instead for the Heathrow Express.

Kept awake by goats...

As I lay awake in my yurt in the foothills of Turkmenistan's Kopet Dag mountains, dangerously close to the Iranian border and, therefore, within range of Trump’s and Netanyahu's missiles which might at any moment rain down upon me accidentally if the ceasefire doesn't hold, I can hear the gentle sound of bells tinkling quietly and likely coming from a herd of goats either passing through or simply milling around a few yards away. It's early evening, the sun has yet to go down and the noise, if you can call it that, has the desired soporific effect. At some stage I fall asleep and when I find myself awake an hour or two later, the bells are still there but now they are becoming irksome and I wish they would stop. I am lying on my back staring up at the conical roof of my albeit temporary home, but when I turn my head to the right and notice police siren blue lights I remember that I am only yards away from PNC Park, the Pittsburgh Pirates' stadium in, yes, you guessed it, Pittsburgh PA. I am lying in bed, room 412, of the Residence Inn by Marriott.

All week I have enjoyed the delicious sleepiness brought about by jet lag which has seen me in bed by nine o'clock every night, waking briefly, perhaps, in the early hours, but then eventually drifting off and regaining consciousness at a decent hour; but not tonight. The bells are non-existent and so are the goats and while Pittsburgh isn't London and the sound of traffic is not the issue as the streets of this city are empty, I know for a fact that as the flight-induced sleepiness of the past few days has gently lessened, the reason I am restless and awake has plenty to do with sugary drinks, greasy fries and oversized portions which I have been subjected to, a far cry from a delicate mushroom risotto or a dainty plate of Indian dahl and rice, my usual midweek cuisine.

Where the bells were coming from, I didn't know until I started an investigation which led me to the hotel room's bathroom; it might have been dripping water or something to do with the pipes, that I don't know, and if I'm honest I have gotten rather used to it: there's nothing better than a subtle distraction to send me off to the Land of Nod.

All week I have succumbed to everything the doctor says is bad: the fries, the fatty burgers, the sugary drinks, the oversized portions, and today was arguably the breaking point. As always, it starts with breakfast (on disposable plates, not exactly showing off the Marriott brand in a good light). Pork patties, scrambled egg, custardy pastries and a nod towards healthy eating, a banana.

At lunchtime in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square, a place where I thought I would be safe, the portion sizes were ridiculous. My lunch companion ordered the calamari as a starter and I'm kidding you not, he was presented with a plate piled at least 10 inches high. Klaus looked at the waitress flabbergasted as if she must be mad. My polpette arrived next and there were easily 10 meatballs when five would have sufficed, it was a starter for heaven's sake! I made matters worse by ordering a sugary soda (as they call fizzy drinks in the USA) and then another when, to be honest, the bottle of Pellegrino would have been enough, but I enjoyed the former a few nights ago and decided to relive the experience. When the main courses arrived, both were extra-large portions and once again, my friend came off worse. I can't remember exactly what we ordered, but both dishes were chicken-based and mine had an unpleasant vinegary after taste. We left roughly half of what was on our plates.

I have visited Pittsburgh half a dozen times over the past 10 years and what I can say is that, on a good day, it's a great place if you like walking. This week, I have notched up a daily tally of between 15,000 and 20,000 steps and I'm sure that, combined with the jet lag, those steps have been a contributory factor to my aforementioned delicious sleepiness.

The strain was beginning to show yesterday when I ordered, foolishly, a burger and chips from an upmarket Pittsburgh restaurant, Eleven. I should have known better having spent most lunchtimes in Bill's, a lairy sports bar inside the Westin Hotel, but then I did order from Eleven's Tavern menu, no doubt reserved exclusively for the proletariat. I can't even mention or think about Bill's without grimacing as every day I've had a burger and fries of some description. Every day! And bear in mind that back home I NEVER eat burgers and I avoid fries like the plague and as my week here has progressed I added insult to injury by consuming something else that I NEVER touch back in the UK: fizzy drinks! So now, as my week in Pittsburgh draws to a close (and don't get me wrong, I love Pittsburgh) I find myself in bed wishing I was in a yurt listening to the goats in the foothills of the Kopet Dag mountains as they gently induce much-needed sleep, but I'm brought down to earth with a bang when I realise there are no goats, I'm not in Turkmenistan and the reason I'm totally wired is the cappuccino, the two large English breakfast teas from Starbucks in the Strip region of the city and, dare I even mention it, a fried chicken sandwich and a sickly bottle of root beer made with cane sugar.

It's 1240hrs and I should be in bed, but, feeling wide awake, I decided to get up and pen this article in the hope that, by now, the effects of my food intake today might have subsided and that I could now head back to the Kopet Dag mountains and get some sleep.

 

In Pittsburgh...

View from my hotel window, the Pirates stadium, Pittsburgh

First, the flight. It was fine. No turbulence, nothing. Despite the captain saying something about the possible of 'weather' as we crossed the Atlantic, there was zilch, not even a great deal of cloud until, admittedly we were flying at almost 40,000 feet and when I looked down, way down, there was a blanket of white cloud like cotton wool balls tightly sewn together, but it wasn't in the slightest bit bothersome and remained that way until we were on the ground. What did the pilot mean when he said there might be the possibility of 'weather'? There's always weather, whether it's good or bad, there can never NOT be weather. The flight was long but bearable and the only thing that let down those on the flight deck was the hard landing which, it has to be said, wasn't exactly textbook.

40,000 feet from earth...

Having disembarked, immigration was as easy as pie, no huge queues, no connecting flights to miss and after around 35 minutes in a cab, we were checked in at the Residence Inn and safely ensconced in our rooms. It was around 2100hrs and neither myself nor my colleague Pete were interested in anything other than hitting the sack, which we did, in adjoining rooms, although we didn't know it until we discussed it later the following day that we were, in fact, 'neighbours'.

I slept reasonably well considering. I awoke at 0130hrs, but it was bright outside and I thought it was lunchtime. Foolish me! It was very early in the morning, and I'd had around four hours' sleep. I'm always told not to get out of bed and not to start writing. I've tried that before and the end result is I stay up until it's breakfast time, laptop on and writing for England, well, for myself actually, but it's not a good idea. By mid-morning I'm wasted, so on this occasion I did as I was told, lay there and eventually fell asleep, waking around 0630hrs and then waiting for breakfast.

The shower was proficient, it worked. It wasn't the most powerful, but it wasn't the weakest and, like the flight the day before, it did the trick; the only thing that really got my goat (as always) was the shampoo and shower gel being screwed to the wall. Clearly, the Residence Inn doesn't trust its guests, like so many hotels these days.

Mid-flight to Pittsburgh...

The room was huge: a double bed, a flatscreen television, fridge, mini hob, dishwasher, plates, bowls and so forth. I could have saved a fortune and entertained my colleagues in my room. Pete's room was the same; there was also a sofa, a desk, a smaller desk or console table, a table and chairs at which I could have sat after making my meal, there was a sink and a coffee maker and, of course, there was an oven or a grill, or something that had a door meaning I could have made something special if I was that way inclined. In short, I could have lived in the room long-term. 

Out of the window and directly across the road was the Pittsburgh Pirates stadium (the reason why I thought it was lunch time when I woke up).

As I lay in bed, however, prior to having my shower, I could hear somebody playing a jazzy number on a tuba somewhere nearby and then I remembered that it was the day of the Pittsburgh Marathon. The tuba playing was annoying and catchy, which meant that getting back to sleep wasn't going to be easy. I think I snatched around an extra 40 minutes and then I figured I'd hit the showers and head down for breakfast.

The breakfast offering wasn't that good. There were biscuits and gravy (never an option for an Englishman) but there was also scrambled eggs and pork patties (small burgers basically). I lumped two of them on my plate and later had toast with butter (the toaster being set to 'obliterate' meant blackened toast, but what the hell. A bowl of cereal with added seeds and other healthy 'stuff' completed the most important meal of the day. 

Then, a few minor hassles, linked inextricably to a lack of sleep: I left my key card in my room and my glasses in the breakfast room. Ridiculous. An additional key card meant I could get into my room and retrieve my key cards, which I had left on the desk and then the day began. We wandered around the city among the joggers and their supporters and soon found ourselves on Station Square, close to the Sheraton where, in 2019, I discovered that the hotel had taken my laptop and passport out of the safe and forgot to tell me. Click here for more on THAT story!

Our wander took us everywhere, including a brief stop at Tupelo Honey's for, in my case, a pot of English Breakfast tea, and then we headed off again to register for a conference on the other side of town. It was good to walk and there was no tiredness although now, as I write this, I am feeling a little jaded, but I know that if I climbed into bed I would fall asleep and wake up at some ridiculous hour, like 2130 or 2200hrs, feeling hungry and thirsty and having to sit it out throughout the long night ahead until it was morning and I could go downstairs for another fairly sub-standard breakfast. So, I'm not going to bed, not yet at any rate.

For lunch we stopped at the Westin Hotel and had a burger and fries, or at least I did. It was fine, but, by and large, it's what's available everywhere, and I don't fancy going out for more burgers and fries and some God-awful drink. The problem with not drinking is that beverages become boring: the best thing to have is a sparkling mineral water or a coffee, as most no-alcohol beers are rubbish and it's often impossible to endure more than one of them. I spoke to Paul and told him I wasn't bothered about going out; Pete was interested in going somewhere but not for the whole evening. I was thinking about the early start in the morning (we have to be at the conference by 0800hrs). The plan is to go out for a short while, possibly not eating anything or having something light, but who knows. My aim is to get back to the room early and get a good night's sleep so as to be fresh and ready for the early start, which continues all week. 

The flight was so good that I managed to read a lot of Geddy Lee's My Effin' Life, which is an excellent book. Knowing of Geddy's love for baseball and being across the road from the Pittsburgh Pirates' stadium made me wonder whether he'd be over there watching the game, not that I'd find him, but if I could I'd have asked him to sign the book. Perhaps one day.

As I write this, it's 1630hrs and a long way from dinner. I suppose I could set my alarm for an hour and get some shut eye, but it's best not to; they always say stay up until the night time, the bed time, of the country you're in. Fair enough, I'll do that, except that, as I mentioned above, I started to feel a little weary and certainly not in need of another American food experience. The trouble is, if you want anything you have to go out, there's no restaurant in the hotel, so Pete and I are meeting in the lobby at 1830hrs and we'll nip out for 'a brief one'. 

Being a litter bug and other stories...

This week I made a conscious decision to become a litter bug or perhaps it was just on a whim, I'm not sure. Not a full-time spreader of muck, you understand, but just when the fancy takes me, like it did last week. Leaving the railway station late and in my usual state of weariness, I walked through the barrier and retrieved my return ticket from the machine. Clasping it reluctantly in my hand (there were no rubbish bins) I started to get annoyed with the fact that I still had a dud ticket on my person and decided it would be a good idea to tear said ticket into tiny pieces and then, when (or if) the opportunity arose (I was guessing it would be in one of the alleyways en route to my house) I would throw the torn up pieces of paper into the air and, hopefully, would walk into a shower of 'confetti' of my own making, a kind of private homecoming ceremony of my own. It was hard not to throw the tiny pieces of old ticket into the air as I walked along the main streets, but I wasn't particularly wanting to deal with a conscientious member of the public who might hound me all the way home until I threatened him with violence. So, to avoid such a possibility, I'm not a violent man, I clasped my pieces of paper in my right hand and, as I reached the alley, I started looking behind me to see if anybody was following me. There was nobody around. The next obstacle was to ensure there was nobody coming towards me and that would mean waiting until the slight left turn of the alley where I would be afforded a view of the remaining pathway and, therefore, anybody who might be walking my way. When I reached the critical point and saw that nobody was there, I flung up my right hand and, as expected, the small bits of paper snowed down upon me. It was a great moment. The following morning I sought out the fallen pieces of paper and smiled as I passed them on the way to work, thinking: I might do that again later on today. Of course I did, except on that on the second occasion I thought I'd tear the pieces even smaller and then, when the coast was clear, off went my right hand and once again I was showered with my own confetti. I was going to say I was proud of my 'litter buggery' but it didn't sound like a phrase I should use so I went with simply being proud of myself for absolutely no reason at all. The following morning there lay the fallen remains of my tomfoolery and again I smiled to myself and continued on to the railway station.

If the truth be known, I'm getting a little fed up with the state of the country at present and it's making me a little bad tempered. I won't be voting in next week's local elections because I just don't think there's any party worth voting for. I don't particularly want to vote Reform, even if it seems as if everybody else will be, I'm certainly not voting Conservative after the way they've been behaving even if Kemi Badenoch has been exceptionally good at the dispatch box, telling Sir Keir what a complete nob he has turned out to be; and then there's the Green Party, headed up by the so-called 'tit whisperer', Zak Polanski. I'm not sure of the exact story, but it has been said that Polanski, who is not an MP, was in some way involved in the hypnosis of women with a view to making their breasts bigger. True? False? I don't know, but it's a rumour that has been 'doing the rounds'. There's plenty more reasons why not to like Polanski or his extreme left wing party and one is his insistence that if he gets into power he'll be handing over around £20,000 a year to illegal migrants. That's taxpayers money to ILLEGAL migrants (that's the phrase people keep forgetting, they're illegal!). But then they do say that crime pays. He's also planning on getting rid of the so-called Triple Lock on the state pension, what a bastard! So no, the Greens won't get my vote and that makes me wonder who I should vote for other than the Labour Party. It's not as if they've been behaving themselves is it? The most recent debacle being the appointment of Peter Mandelson to the post of US ambassador in Washington. Now, the thing here is this: I could have told him not to put Mandelson in that job, even I knew that the man was not to be trusted. He's been forced to resign from Government before and now his rather unsavoury links with convicted paedo Epstein have been revealed (along with photographs of Mandelson in his pants - even more unsavoury!) and he's been sent packing from his new post and is now facing police investigations, just like Andrew Mountbatten Windsor who has been stripped of his royal titles.

I think the galling thing about Windsor and Mandelson is that everybody knows they are both above the law and will not be going to jail anytime soon. Windsor is definitely protected by the establishment and I'm guessing that they won't prosecute 'Mandy' because that would mean they would have to prosecute Windsor who, I hasten to add, has not admitted to any wrongdoing. The media has to say that so I thought I would too, but the whole thing is very suspect and phrases like 'there's no smoke without fire' spring to mind. Prosecution ain't happening, let's leave it there...leaving the country in a strange place with its system of two-tier justice that is annoying the hell out of ordinary people. A lot of people want to know why Windsor paid Virginia Guiffre £12 million. There is, of course, no answer and I'm guessing that the Royal Family is hoping the whole thing will go away and then, one day, we'll hear that Windsor has left the country and is living somewhere in the Middle East from where he won't be expected to testify in the USA.

But there's much more. Shoplifting is rife and the supermarkets have taken to sacking their own staff rather than prosecute an actual shoplifter and if a security guard as much as tackles a shoplifter he will find himself unemployed, it's just not right. Are shoplifters also above the law? It looks as if they are, and I'm convinced that if I went to my local supermarket and tried to steal a can of baked beans I would be jailed for life. In the UK, if you are in the wrong, then you are protected. The aggressor gets off scot-free.

Throw in a liberal sprinkling of anti-semitism, add a large helping of Donald Trump and his ridiculous and ill-thought-through invasion of Iran, and you have the perfect storm. I don't know for sure, but I've heard that Trump is losing support at home and it can only get worse for him if oil prices at the pump continue to rise as they have been and other problems arise like shortages of critical drugs for conditions such as high blood pressure and diabetes. It's all out there, folks, and we need a whole bunch of decent politicians before we're going to get anywhere near a decent future for our young people. The big question is: where are they?

Lastly, everything these days is a performance and a lot of the performances are there to cover up the Epstein stories and, of course, the wrongdoing of politicians the world over. Note how there's been nothing about the Epstein files ever since Trump and Netanyahu invaded Iran. Notice also that Starmer has 'got off' too, his incompetence over Mandelson going unpunished... so far. It all makes me wonder what was discussed over dinner at the White House. Did it go something like, "Well, your Royal Trumpness, I think your invasion of Iran seems to have done the trick, nobody's talking about Andrew anymore." Who knows? But now Trump has to withdraw without losing face and quick.