Phil on holiday, Andy not going out and yes, I should have got out of bed and headed off on the bike, but I didn't. Why not? Because I stayed up later than usual on Friday night and didn't hit the sack until midnight and then, when I overslept – which, in my world, means waking up around 0700hrs – I made some Shredded Wheat, chilled a bit, checked out the weather through the conservatory window, and, by rights, I should have gone out. An urban ride might have been good: over to mum's for breakfast, meet Bon in the process, chew the fat and then ride home, but I didn't. Instead I kind of sat around thinking about it, going as far as looking for my trainers, but then I just said something like "Oh, sod it, I can't be arsed." And that was it. No riding.
Instead I lounged around a bit and then later drove over to mum's and had lunch. We went out for lunch, which was great. Banstead. Haven't been there for a while. Parked in the Waitrose car park – which is now on two levels, not just one – and headed over the road to the Edibles Deli – it doubles as a caff and offers waitress service. I had a ham-on-the-bone sandwich and a cup of tea. Mum had smoked salmon and a glass of milk. It was pleasant. I drove her home and then drove home myself and then took a trip to Oxted and back, followed by pasta and wine and (ahem) the X Factor, which was good, although Cheryl Cole now has a poncy surname, something sounding a bit like Italian aristocracy. And my problem with that is this: she might have a poncy-sounding, affluent European surname, but she's still got that God awful tattoo on her arse – you can't buy class.
So, after some wine and the X Factor and pasta and sauce I settled in for a night of Jackass on Viva – my favourite TV show. Right now Johnny Knoxville is goofing around with a rattlesnake and it's 1120hrs. Time for bed if I'm going on a ride tomorrow.