The rain stops and we hit the road...

Radio Four sprung to life at 0600hrs as usual and I listened the news headlines before getting up and peering out of the window. It was raining heavily outside. Stair rods hitting the puddle on next door's flat-roofed extension. Surely, an abort, so I texted Andy to this effect and then went about my business of making breakfast. Something said the rain might stop and when Andy replied saying that his weather app was claiming it would stop by 0700hrs, I was prepared to say, yes, okay, if it's all quiet on the rain front, we'll go for a ride. It was quiet and we did go for a ride. There was no rain and things had brightened up considerably.

Our bikes just outside of Tatsfield Village. Pic: Andy Smith.

We met on the green as always and decided that the best bet would be Tatsfield Village, bearing in mind the old Tatsfield Bus Stop was still taped off and out of bounds.

When we got there the tea and biscuits came out and Andy told me about a photographer who had sold a shot of a potato for one million dollars. A shot of a potato. This sort of thing annoys me – and I know it annoys Andy too. We start to think of the people in this world starving or living on the breadline and we think, What fucking arsehole is stupid enough to spend a million dollars on a photograph of a fucking potato?

"We're heading for a revolution," I said, looking over at the pub, The Old Ship.
"We've already had one," said Andy, referring to the recent EU referendum.
"That sign over the pub door doesn't really do anything for the pub, does it," said I. "And nor does all that writing on the windows," I added, having noticed writing advertising a "BBQ" and a live band. Why write all over the windows, it lowers the tone, I thought, remarking how, if The Old Ship closed what would happen to the Tatsfield community.
"Pubs aren't the heart of the community anymore," said Andy, and I had to agree with him. These days people are insular, preferring to 'stay indoors' watching Sky Movies and drinking supermarket beer.
"Technology is isolationist," I said.
"It is," Andy replied.
"Everything's designed to keep us indoors," I added, making reference to Skype. "Instead of a meeting in New York, we just go on Skype and stay in," I added. Andy nodded.
"I just want to know how one gets into a position to sell a photograph of a potato for a million dollars," Andy said, mildly peeved at the whole situation.
"I'm not sure," I said, checking Google on my phone and finding the story, about a man called Kevin Abosch, a photographer. The potato, incidentally, was Irish and organic and you can read all about it, by clicking here.
"It's probably a case of who you know," I said, "but I understand what you mean: how the hell does he get himself in a position where he can sell a photograph of a knarled old spud for a million dollars?"

We both wondered how. Andy filled me in a little on the story. The guy specialises in portrait photographs with black backgrounds. He was,  according to The Independent a 'celebrated photographer'. Celebrated for what? For somehow selling a photograph of a potato to some gullible idiot for a million dollars? It made me wonder whether the photograph he sold was a one-off, or whether he'd given the guy a JPEG. If the photograph was digital, that would mean it wouldn't be original or rare and that Abosch could sell exactly the same image to somebody else, making it far from being exclusive and valuable. He could print off loads of them and sell them to Ikea and we could all buy one for £20. That would put the buyer's nose out of joint and reduce his million dollar investment (if that's what it was) to dust. Did he check this, I wonder? I wouldn't pay a million dollars for a photograph unless I was the only one in the world with the image, the print. Fucking hell, I'd want the camera that took the photograph. Imagine how you would feel if you forked out a million dollars on a potato photograph only to find an identical image on the wall in your local McDonald's a few months later. You must have more money than sense if you're prepared to spend a million quid on anything, unless it's a decent house or life-saving medical treatment for somebody.

I know we live in a free country and that America is the land of the free and all that, but surely there ought to be some kind of law against people squandering so much money when other people are in dire straights.

We enjoyed our two cups of tea and Belvita biscuits and then we rode home. The rain held off and never really returned apart from a few brief showers later in the day. The ride home was very pleasant. As usual there were a few Lycra Monkeys around, but when we hit the 269 we put our bikes into top gear and roared towards Warlingham Green where we parted, promising to meet again next weekend for some more cycling.

I reached home around 1000hrs.

To Woodmansterne Green and then round to mum's...

Saturday 24 September: There was a light, blue-grey sky and a few wispy clouds and everything looked like a water colour painting when I drew back the curtains and peered outside. Somebody had left the plastic bin from the council on the lawn in the back garden. It was stuffed with cut-down shrubbery. What caught my attention was the huge, white figure 5 that I had painted on the side of the bin. It stared back at me and I felt quite proud of my handiwork.

I dressed in the usual garb and headed downstairs to prepare my breakfast of fresh fruit – blueberries, black grapes, raspberries, strawberries and sliced banana plus tea and two Weetabix with cold milk – and then set off on the ride.

Andy wasn't riding today and nor was Phil, he was preparing for winter hibernation and it will soon be time for the cardboard box, so I was heading to Woodmansterne Green for a meeting with Bon and then on to mum's for tea and biscuits.

Following the off-road trail home...

The weather was wonderful. It was dry and warm and bright. Perfect cycling weather, I thought, as I rode along Foxley Lane in Purley heading west. I half expected to see Bon, but we didn't meet until I reached Woodmansterne Green. 

Woodmansterne Green is a great place. It's peppered with big trees, there's the occasional wooden bench and it's a very pleasant place to wander around. Bon turned up seconds after I arrived, on his Cannondale mountain bike, and we walked around, chatting about old times. He remembered the time when we, that is Bon, Andy and yours truly, met at here at the green in the pouring rain and were forced to take cover under the church gateway. I mentioned how the occasion was well-documented on this here blog (click here to reminisce).

And here's a post in which you will find shots of Bon and Andy soaked through prior to taking cover under the aforementioned covered gateway. Click here. What you will find hard to believe is that it was SEVEN years ago – almost to the day.

Mind you, it is quite incredible how summery the weather was back in November 2009. Here's a few shots of Woodmansterne Green taken the weekend after our soaking. Click here.

It was nice being on Woodmansterne Green and I began to regret not bringing tea with me, but then mum's beckoned. It's a short ride to Carshalton along rural (ish) roads into Carshalton Beeches and then across the Carshalton Road towards mum's. We did this and regretted not taking the off-road path, which I later took on the return ride.

Mum was in fine fettle and made us tea and biscuits. We sat in the 'through lounge' as we used to call it, talking about old childhood memories. The 'through lounge' used to be two separate rooms and was knocked through in the seventies, when people did that sort of thing. I remembered when the space we were occupying was the back room. Where John was sitting there used to be a television set and I recalled a moment, long, long ago, when, aged six or seven, or not much older, we used to sit on the floor with a Bakewell tart, watching Doctor Who, in the days when William Hartnell was 'the doctor'. Back in those days there was no patio window, just French windows (or French doors) and I remember the 'radiogram', a Ferranti, that was a record player and radio in one polished wood unit. Dad had a number of Beatles singles (on the Parlaphone label) and we remarked how they would be worth good money if we still had them.

And then there was the gas fire. Make that 'the gas fires' as we had two of them, one in the back room and one in the front. The back room fire was a strange, petrol-coloured affair, brand name Cannon, and mum reminded us how we used to make toast on it. She hated that because of the crumbs we left behind. And then I remembered how we used to make chips in an old asbestos garage using a pair of pliers, a jam jar lid and a candle, not forgetting some cooking oil and a chopped and peeled potato. That in turn reminded me of the old wheelbarrow and how, when it had been raining, we used to pretend it was a swimming pool for our toy soldiers. The slant of the wheelbarrow gave it a deep end and shallow end, which we loved. Bon remembered how, one year, when, for some reason or other, we didn't go on holiday to the south coast, we once used a puddle behind the old garage and a broom to simulate the waves and the sea. How sad was that! But, as far as I can remember, we always went on holiday, so we weren't always using brooms and puddles to keep our dreams alive. In fact, it might have been that we had been on holiday and were just reminiscing, thanks to the puddle and the broom, I can't remember.

Further along the off-road trail...

Mum's house is full of good memories of days when it was always the summer and the sun was always shining. Days when the summer holidays seemed endless, the back garden was always bathed in hazy sunshine and populated by white butterflies, not forgetting the odd bee or wasp to make us run back to the house, and there was nothing to fret about. We didn't have a care in the world.

Soon it was time to leave and Bon and I would be parting company at the end of the road, he turning left and me right. I rode into Carshalton Beeches and back past the smallholdings and along an off-road section we hadn't used on in the inward journey, eventually turning left on to the Croydon Road and rolling into Purley, past Cycle Republic and home. Bon rode into Sutton towards Epsom, where he lives.

I reached home around 10am and later drove to Forest Row, which is near East Grinstead, where I found the Forest Row Festival in full swing. I nipped into In-Gear, the local bike shop, and purchased some oil for my chain and then enjoyed a millionaire's shortbread and a cappuccino in Java & Jazz before driving home along the A22, which is peppered with speed cameras, so I was constantly slowing down to keep within the speed limit – very annoying. Came home, watched Strictly Come Dancing – well, I had to see Ed Balls strutting his stuff – and then I hit the sack, after a bit of messing around on the lap top and reading the newspapers. All told, a great day.