To the Tatsfield Bus Stop – heavy fog meant the slow way there and back...

Another mild morning and we met at the green as usual. We headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way. Weatherwise everything was damp and wet and glistening and there was a fog looming, hanging in the trees, so we thought the slow way would be safer. There was a few Lycra monkeys on the road, and even more when we headed back along Beddlestead towards Hesiers Hill. This time, as I approached the climb I changed down and managed the gears properly. I stayed in a low gear for the second hill before things levelled out and we headed for the green where we parted.

There's always something musical that keeps me moving along. The other day it was a Christmas carol, the Sans Carol, but today it was Misty Mountain Hop by Led Zeppelin, I know not why. My in-built Walkman kept playing it over and over. "Walking in the park just the other day..."

We reached the green at 0930hrs and I got home 20 minutes later. A good ride.

To Godstone Green via the Enterdent

Saturday morning, the weather's fine and as usual I'm 'a tad' late, no more than 10 minutes, but I had issues surrounding making the tea, nothing major. We decided to head for Godstone Green via the Enterdent. Yes, I know, it sounds like toothpaste, but it's a road and a very steep hill. It's also much longer than I remember it, and that's possibly because I haven't been this way for some time, let's say around eight years. It's amazing how time has flown by. Amazing and scary too, but yes, I was back on the Enterdent, riding up the hill, and wishing it would end if I'm honest, it seemed endless, but soon we turned right and virtually free-wheeled into Godstone, past the 'artisan baker', which we discovered was really a Coughlan's. We took a seat in front of the small lake on the green and watched as a flock of seagulls landed, frightening off two ducks who seemed to disappear off the face of the planet, clearly they were not impressed by the gulls. There were people around too: a woman walking two small dogs and getting tangled up in the lead, another woman with an Alsatian and a couple of blokes too, not forgetting a couple of runners.

The bikes on Godstone Green,  30 December 2018. Pic: Andy Smith

We headed back the way we came in, but avoided the Enterdent. It's a quite a haul going out of Godstone and heading for Ganger's Hill. It's steep, as we know from past rides, the most recent being on Christmas Eve when we visited Flowers Farm for tea and cake. No such luxury today, just tea and Belvitas, but they did the job, even if I'm trying to stop eating biscuits (and cake). As the hill kicked in, I changed down in to low gear and did my best not to looked pained as I ascended the hill. The bike was being very noisy today. Clickety clack, clickety clack as I rode to Godstone and more of the same on the way back, it was annoying me.

Andy and I parted at the top of Sline's Oak Road, just like on Christmas Eve, and I once again rode down the hill, turning left on to Butlers Dene Road. I jumped back on to Sline's Oak and headed up the steep hill to the Limpsfield Road, losing momentum once, but managing to restart with relative ease and then riding leisurely towards Warlingham Green and then Sanderstead.

I reached home around 1030hrs, quite late considering our usual rides are much shorter, but I blame the hills en route (the Enterdent and then, of course, Ganger's). The bike needs a jet clean and one of these days it'll get one. It's also going to get its chain oiled and I must fix that fucking clickety clacking too.

Boxing Day – fast way to Tatsfield Bus Stop (and the slow way back)...

Drinking tea at the bus stop. Pic: Andy.

Another late start. I leave the house at 0730hrs and head up Church Way. A squirrel scuttles across the road from right to left, runs along the top of a low fence and disappears into the undergrowth. Houses display their festive decorations and soon I find myself riding through the churchyard, past Sanderstead pond and on to the Limpsfield Road. I'm heading for the green where I meet Andy. The weather is fine, no rain, and there's little in the way of traffic so we decide to risk the 269 rather than ride the slow way. "But let's ride the slow way back," I suggest and we agree, even if it does mean Hesiers Hill. At Botley we notice a mist, it's fairly thick so my lights go back on. Soon we reach the bus stop where we chill out, drink tea and I turn down the biscuits for a second day – the problem with Christmas is eating all the wrong food: minced pies, Panettone, Christmas cake, cheeses, crackers, pickled onions (yes, I own a jar of Garner's); it's all going on and besides, I need to stop eating shit. We ride back the slow way, down Beddlestead Lane, and then it's time for Hesiers Hill. Unlike the last time, I change right down and manage to sail along without any issues, getting a few 'well done' comments from passing Lycra monkeys coming down the hill. Andy and I weave our way towards Sainsbury's and then head for the green where we part company. All the way home along the Limpsfield Road I recite the Sans Day Carol, aka the St. Day Carol, but because I haven't sung it for years and years, I get the lyrics wrong. Actually, not badly wrong: "And Mary bore Jesus Christ, our saviour for to be," I sing (fairly quietly), but it's "And Mary she bore Jesus our Saviour for to be." I reach Sanderstead and soon I'm on Church Way again, riding downhill towards Morley, hanging a right on Elmfield, a left into Ellenbridge and a right on to Barnfield. Soon I'm home and soon I find myself on a five-mile walk, which I enjoy. Tomorrow I'm planning an 8-mile walk.

Christmas Eve – to Flowers Farm for tea and cake!

Tea and cake at Flowers Farm, Christmas Eve 2018. Pic by Andy Smith.

I leave the house later than usual. We are meeting at 0800hrs. Dawn is breaking as I ride through suburban streets, heading uphill. It's Christmas Eve, traffic is heavier than usual, I wait longer to cross the Addington Road and then speed through the churchyard, past the pond and on to the Limpsfield Road. Andy is waiting. We decide to head for Godstone and Flowers Farm. It means riding down Slines Oak Road and through Woldingham, something we haven't done for a long time, or perhaps not that long ago. We both recall the occasion not when a deer scampered across the road in front of us. Woldingham is quiet as we pedal along Butlers Dene Road on onwards towards the golf course via 'the off-road bit' I so despise, but today it seems easier than in days gone by and why this should be so I don't know. Andy and I both marvel at the houses we pass. "Who needs such a large house?" says Andy. Nobody, I reply, but it must be a way that rich people use up their cash, an investment. We ride down Gangers Hill, over the M25, over the A22 and on to the A25. It's a short ride to Flowers Farm where people are queuing to buy turkeys and the shop is overflowing with colourful fruit and vegetables. There's a café – and it's a good one. We've been here before. The cake is excellent, there's a roaring fire, a wood burning stove, although it's warming up as we arrive. Cake is ordered: a lemon cake and an apple cake plus a pot of tea and some slices of apple. "I haven't had an apple in ages," says Andy. "Me neither," I reply. We wait for our order to arrive and when it does we tuck in. This is my sort of place, I could sit here all day, staring out of the window, eating cake, sipping tea, but we can't stay too long, we have to ride back, and it's a hard slog, a very hard slog, not initially, but once we round the corner, taking a sharp right turn, the hill hits us hard, but it's not that hard, not as hard as the Westerham hill, although much shorter. It is a short, sharp shock and we both stay on our saddles, emerging on to The Ridge unscathed. We are back in Woldingham on the other side of the golf course. We sail past the club house and into Woldingham, stopping at the top of Slines Oak Road where we part company. No ride on Christmas Day, but we will be riding on Boxing Day, weather permitting. I sail down Slines Oak Road and hang a left on to Butlers Dene Road and then further along I turn right on to a gravel track that is peppered with puddles. A man with a large Alsatian dog is coming the other way. I turn left on to the Slines Oak Road and follow it to the Limpsfield Road. There's a steep incline, but I stay on the bike and turn left towards Warlingham. Much more traffic now, people doing 'last minute Christmas shopping', the stores will be packed today, I think, as I ride into Sanderstead, past the pond and head down Church Way towards home. I have a lot to do too (last minute presents, helping people out here and there) and soon it will be evening, time to hit the sack and wake up on Christmas morning.

Taking the slow way...

Saturday 22nd December, Tatsfield Bus Stop. Pic by Andy Smith

Saturday 22nd December: It's the day after the shortest day and darkness is on the menu. I leave the house at 0700hrs with my lights on and don't switch them off until I reach the bus stop. We opt for the slow way and it's far warmer than last week when black ice took Andy off his bike. He tells me that it was, after all, pretty painful, blood was drawn, he discovered on returning home and all week there was pain, but he's better now. We take it easy, riding down Hesiers Hill with our hands covering the brakes, slowing us down, it's not safe, but it's not icy either and I'm feeling energised all the way along Beddlestead. Little in the way of Lycra monkeys as we climb the hill, emerging on to Clarks Lane and hanging a left. We freewheel to the bus stop, park up and I serve tea. Andy hands out the BelVita biscuits, but I'm not that hungry, I've already eaten a hearty breakfast. I make do with just one. A bunch of monkeys ride past en route to Westerham as we continue to sip our tea and watch the cars travelling east and west. With Christmas just up the road, it's busier than normal, more cars on the road, plenty of bustle and it gets worse as the day progresses. Well, at least it's not raining. We ride back the slow way, very scenic, amazing how the landscape looks totally different when we turn the road inside out, ride backwards almost, rewind the tape so to speak. I wonder whether it's possible to free wheel all the way to Hesiers Hill, but then I forget to try and start pedalling. The hill is hard, harder because I get muddled with the gears, change up instead of down, lose momentum, end up stopping and find it difficult to get going. I'm on the move again, I don't stop until I reach the top and then we wind our way around the lanes, past St Leonard's church, then another hill, I mess up again, in the wrong gear, a constant problem, but I'll remember next time, perhaps tomorrow, except there is no tomorrow, it's rained off. I'm awake early, around 0430hrs, I lie there, right hand fretfully on forehead, thinking bad thoughts about the day ahead, it's going to be hectic one way or another and all I want to do is nothing, but that's not on the agenda, not today. I hear the rain falling and it doesn't stop. I finally get out of bed at 0600hrs, it's still coming down, I look at the puddle on next door's conservatory roof, stair rods, well, not quite, but it's relentless. "Looks like 'abort' as it's pissing down here," I write and send to Andy. "Yes, fingers crossed for tomorrow," he replies. Later on it is still raining and I am downstairs listening to Green by REM, the ride is off and I try to keep a tally on what day it is, soon I will lose it completely, that's the way it is with Christmas, I lose track of time. "What day is it?" A frequently asked question, but time to start reading Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland, a book that's been hard to find. I like Coupland. I read Generation X, it has a special quality, reminds me of the America I love. Right now I feel slobby. I haven't been on the ride, but today would have been cut short as there's stuff to do, people to give lifts to, jobs to be done, visits to be made and I've got a new coat that I'm excited about wearing, makes me feel like Kurt Russell in The Thing. I've always been a big baby and still am, I can't really grow up, that's my problem. Paddy Ashdown has died, aged 77, after a short illness and I am reminded of the time I met him, on a train, somewhere near Salisbury, a six-pack of Wadworth's 4X, time travel, he had a view, a good man for engaging in a crazy conversation, he didn't ignore us, he got involved, clearly a proper politician, a dying breed, literally in his case.

A weird dream...

Strange and vivid dream last night involving motorcycles, a car park, a large European manufacturer, central London and a lunch appointment. It also involved people, but people who traditonally don't have bald heads, being inflicted with what I can only describe as a 'clown cut' – bald in the middle but with tufts of hair on the sides of their heads. Nick Knowles and Gary Lineker sported such haircuts and they also worked for the aforementioned large European manufacturer. I'm not sure what was going on with this part of the dream as the main focus was the motorcycling. Initially, two bikes were involved in the dream, but somewhere along the line my bike went missing, or something was wrong with it, I don't know, but I ended up with the other bike, which was totally different: it was squat and bulbous and had short handlebars. I had to ride this bike and my plan was to ride it to a restaurant somewhere in London where I would hand it back to its original owner. I found myself in a car park from where I had to ride the bike out on to the road. I managed fairly well, getting the hang of things pretty quickly, but at some stage I crossed to the wrong side of the road and on to the pavement, all without falling off, but I can't remember arriving at the restaurant. This was when Nick Knowles – or was it Gary Lineker? – turned up sporting their bald hair cuts. They worked for a large industrial conglomerate on the European mainland and for some reason we were all congregating close to the car park from where my motorcyling excursion had started. There was a woman in a navy blue suit who had one of those suitcases with a telescopic handle, but her handle was ridiculously long, let's say at least 20 feet, and I was charged with the task of pulling the case into where we were all standing while keeping the handle fully extended. I managed it, but the main thrust of the dream was the motorcycle, although there was, for some reason, a small car in that car park and I had something to do with it. At one stage I wandered down to the lower level (let's make it clear now, this wasn't a multi-storey, it was a badly-surfaced, mossy space of ground on a slant) and there I saw the car, doors open, sparks flying, something was wrong with it. I can't remember much more about the dream or why I had it.

St. Leonard's Church and the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

I had a broken night and strongly considered an 'abort' text, but in the end I fell asleep and when I woke up I discovered it was 0700hrs and not an hour earlier. I'd reset the alarm on Thursday night and hadn't switched it back to 0600hrs. A text was sent to Andy suggesting a meeting at 0800hrs. Yes, came the reply, but the ride would need to be shorter. Fine.

It was cold out and I was unable to find my balaclava, which seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. When I reached the bus stop Andy suggested we rode to St. Leonard's Church, which is not far away, but still provides us with a 12-miler, including the distance from our respective houses to the green. We headed off and soon we were there, unpacking the tea and biscuits and seeking some kind of shelter from the wind.

Andy's bike, Warlingham Green, 16th December 2018. Pic: Andy Smith

There is no cover at St Leonard's unless we stand under the gateway, so it's not an ideal destination in bad weather and not the sort of place to head for in the rain. That said, it's a good 'short ride' and a place I'm sure we'll be visiting again in the future. Not that we haven't been there before: we were there last week, and in the summer it's a great place to be. Prior to last week's ride, I think we've made a couple of visits to this sleepy English churchyard.

The subject, of course, was Brexit and the potential second referendum. We both agreed it was wrong as it would go against democracy, even if remaining in the EU, I said, was the best option for the country. Personally, I think a second referendum would be hilarious, but who knows what will happen? I have a rule and it is this: Think of the worst thing that could happen and that will be what happens. In the past I've predicted that the UK will vote to leave the EU, I've said that the US electorate will vote for Donald Trump AND I said we (the US and the UK) would invade Iraq – all three happened. And now I'm saying we'll leave the EU without a deal – a hard Brexit in other words, mainly because we won't have a second referendum, but Parliament will be unable to agree on the right course of action for the nation. I hope I'm wrong, for a change.

We left the church and headed home, parting at the green and promising to meet, on time, the following morning.

On Sunday morning I'm glad I went out, but I was still a little weary and could have done with a lie in. Still, I got out and when I reached the green I found Andy taking the photograph above. We opted for the slow way to the Bus Stop and en route discussed the lack of time for our rides. In days gone by we seemed to have more time, but now time has closed in; it's as if somebody turns over an hour glass and the sand runs through pretty quickly. We seem to reach our destination, drink our tea, munch our biscuits and then get up and head home. In the old days things seemed far more relaxed, which might have something to do with meeting at 0700hrs rather than 0730hrs. Perhaps that extra 30 minutes made all the difference.

Sunday was warmer than Saturday, but as we headed along Beddlestead Lane Andy's bike slipped and over he went. Black ice on the road. Andy was fine, but when I stopped behind him and placed my feet on the ground, it was very slippy, a bit like walking on an ice rink. Dangerous if any Lycra Monkeys were planning on racing recklessly down the hill, not that we saw many Lycra Monkeys this weekend. There was no ice in the middle of the road so we carried on, carefully, and eventually found ourselves on Clarks Lane. We turned left and free-wheeled the short distance to the bus stop. We didn't talk about Brexit.

On the return trip, Andy and I parted at The Ridge. I followed the off-road path to Warlingham, sailed along the Limpsfield Road and was soon home. I had a bit of a headache and spent the rest of the day lounging about, watching a movie and then making the Sunday roast chicken. I hit the sack around 2200hrs, but woke up just before 0300hrs and found it difficult to get back to sleep. I must have nodded off around 0500hrs and was then woken by my alarm – the sound of birdsong – at 0600hrs. Still sleepy, I reset the alarm for 0635hrs and then got up and made breakfast. It's now Monday morning and time to get ready for work. I've just enjoyed multi-seed porridge with grapes, blueberries, raspberries and sliced banana, plus a mint tea. I'm listening to the Today Programme, on Radio 4, and there's a lot of air time being given to Gaza, they're talking about the Israeli blockade, but who cares? The whole Israeli/Palestine thing is going to run and run, it'll never be solved, a bit like famine in Africa and homelessness here in the UK.

For video of Sunday's ride, including Andy's fall, click here.

To St. Leonard's Church, Chelsham...

Having only cycled once last weekend, I was determined to get out on Saturday. I was up at 0600hrs and noting no abort texts, I had my usual breakfast (porridge and tea) and then headed outside to the garage where I rolled out the bike, jumped on and headed for the green. I thought I was running late and texted Andy to forewarn him, but I was first to reach our meeting point, although Andy was close behind.

We could have gone anywhere, but Andy was short on time so we opted for St. Leonard's church in Chelsham and when we arrived we found a bench and set about the task of drinking tea and, of course, munching biscuits. I keep meaning to stop eating cake and biscuits, but this is probably the wrong time of year to start cutting back on such things; best, perhaps to make it a new year resolution, although I always find that I tend to break any resolutions I make. 

Bikes and tea on a wet bench in the St. Leonard's churchyard. Pic: Andy Smith

We chatted (as we do now and then) about Brexit. What a boring subject! Should there be a second referendum? Well, even though I'm a remainer, my answer is no, there shouldn't be: just remember in future that it's not worth consulting the general public on important matters like our membership of the European Union. And don't consult them on re-introducing the death penalty either, or bringing back the ducking stool or the birch. In essence, we haven't got a clue. Fine, rely on our telephone votes for I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here* and Strictly Come Dancing, but not on big political issues other than General Elections.

Sanderstead green

It's coming round to Christmas and our usual festive rides, although I won't be riding on Christmas Eve this year as, unusually, I'm running out of holiday – normally I take off most of December due to unspent annual leave – but this year I've only got three days left to take. Yes, I could take Christmas Eve, but I'm told we tend to get given a half day anyway, so it would be half a day lost, if you get my drift. But I'll be there for Boxing Day and our traditional ride to Woodmansterne Green, although it's touch and go whether we'll have any cake this year as mum has decided she won't be making any. So it's down to me, basically, and let me tell you: my cake-making skills are pretty good, so if I get around to it, the day might be saved. Hopefully, weather permitting, we'll ride over the weekend prior to Christmas and if Andy's not working in between Christmas and New Year then I'm sure we'll get a ride in. Either way, here's to the traditional NVL Boxing Day ride, we might even see Bon!

* Football manager Harry Redknapp crowned 'King of the Jungle'.

To Woodmansterne Green – for a jolly good soaking!

Andy texted me. He was tired and was taking the weekend off. He picked the right one. It rained most of Saturday and when I woke up on Sunday, I thought I was safe. Yes, there was a puddle on next door's conservatory roof (I say 'conservatory', it's more of an extension) but the puddle wasn't moving, there was no sign of any stair rods ruffling the calm, so I thought I'd take a chance. A trip to mum's was on the cards. Well, alright, there's a couple of boxes of chocolates round there and mum doesn't want to put on any weight. Cue yours truly, the human dustbin. Alright, I'd already been there on Friday, mum's 89th, and had more than my fair share, but you can never get enough of chocolates, can you? Especially if they're Belgian. To be fair, there was a choice of rides: go to mum's or simply ride to Woodmansterne Green. We opted for the latter.

Woodmansterne Green...

I had my usual breakfast: multi-seed porridge with grapes, blueberries and banana and a mug of decaffeinated tea and then I got dressed, made the tea and headed out to the garage. Outside it was wet, the leaves were on the ground, some wet like soggy cornflakes and others clung to the branches of the trees. The sky was a deep grey and it looked threatening, but there was no rain. The iphone said cloudy, but no rain, so I headed off, taking Barnfield to the junction with West Hill, heading up and then down the hill and stopping at at the bottom where I turned right on to the 269 and rode about 200 yards before turning left, following the road past Purley Oaks railway station and weaving around until I found the Purley Downs Road. I headed in the direction of Purley but crossed the A23 and rode towards Pampisford Road as the rain started, but nothing heavy. In fact, it was fairly warm, around 6-7 deg C, so it kind of didn't really matter. I'm glad I was out and not stewing at home, put it that way. Normally in these conditions I send an abort text, but there's good reason for that: the reason is simple, it's because I don't want to risk being caught out in the rain. That said, it was fine and I made my way along Pampisford and then on to Foxley Lane where they're knocking down a lot of the large houses that have been there for years to make way for flats, huge blocks of them in various stages of development.

I rode past the garden centre where there was a huge inflatable Father Christmas towering over the mini roundabout and pushed on towards the lavender fields where I turned right and powered – yes, powered – along the road that leads to Woodmansterne Green. When I got there I found Bon sheltered under the gateway to the church, a place where he, Andy and yours truly sheltered way back in 2010. It wasn't raining on my arrival so I beckoned him on to the green where we set up camp under a huge oak tree. We chatted about this and that, mainly Brexit, and then parted company around 0900hrs. That was when it started to rain again. I headed back towards the fields and the cold air hit my face. By the time I reached the bottom, the rain was in full swing. So much for cleaning the bike last weekend, it would soon be muddy again, I thought, as I went off-road and the rain started to pour down. Somewhere just before reaching the mini roundabout overlooked by the huge inflatable Father Christmas, I rejoined the road and soon found myself on Foxley Lane again, looking at the various construction sites: luxury homes, retirement homes, they were all here (or about to be).

Back on Pampisford Road and the rain still fell hard. I was soaked through. Fortunately I was wearing a Peter Storm padded anorak, which kept me relatively warm. It was only from the waist down that I was wet. My jeans were soaked through, but it wasn't really that cold so I wasn't in expletive territory. I remember once cycling along the A23 heading for Purley from Coulsdon and it was not only raining but cold. I think I swore all the way home just to maintain some kind of sanity. Today, it wasn't like that. I just plugged away, knowing there was nothing else for it other than to get home and take off my wet clothes. Soon I was on the Purley Downs Road again, hanging a left into Norman Road, passing Purley Oaks railway station, taking a right turn on to the 269 and then braving the south face of West Hill, which, as always, I managed with ease.

At just before 1000hrs I was back home, the bike was in the garage and I was keying the front door. Soon I was in the warmth of the house, shoes off, Peter Storm anorak off and wet jeans off too. I found a clean (and dry) pair and then made a Marmite sandwich while I watched the Andrew Marr Show. Tony Blair was on and he was making a lot of sense. He wants a second referendum and for good reason: he believes that the deal on the table, known as 'Chequers,' isn't a good deal because it doesn't satisfy those who voted to leave the European Union or, for that matter, the likes of the remainers. Blair says there should be one more referendum so that people can make the right decision based on the facts (and not the lies that led up to the last referendum). He said that if the leavers get their way a second time, he will accept the vote and get on with it. But there are all sorts of reasons for not having a second referendum, the main one being that we're going away from 'democracy' and that could prove fatal for the nation. It's certainly going to be an interesting few days, but one thing's for sure, Parliament won't be saying yes to Theresa May's agreement, which has, incidentally, been passed by the European Commission today – it's a done deal in other words, and May believes it's the best for the country. But many think it's nothing of the sort and will vote accordingly in what is being called 'the meaninful vote'.

Pre-ride ramblings...

There are two early morning worries in my life: one is opening the living room door and finding a wild animal standing there; another is discovering a Brazilian wandering spider when I open a packet of bananas. So far, the wild animal worry is the only one to become reality – I once found a pigeon in the living room. He must have fallen down the chimney. Nothing worse than a pigeon with Father Christmas pretensions. Fortunately, then, no exotic arachnids.

It's 5 degrees outside and a cold spell is promised, but not today. Next week the weather gets nasty apparently, so I'd better dig out the balaclava and the warm jumper. Right now it's warm in the house and I'm listening to Morning Phase by Beck, arguably one of two of the most laid back albums around, the other being Sea Change, also by Beck. Perfect for 0600hrs.

In my dream, I was out there.

Dreams. I've had a few strange ones of late, but sadly they leave only a dim memory of what happened, so dim that there is but a residue, nothing more, when I regain consciousness, today at 0535hrs. I remember bits: waiting, with a work colleague, Martin, for a woman who had come to meet us, somebody we both dealt with in the course of our jobs, but I had not met her before. We were in some kind of venue, possibly a pub, but who could tell? We looked out on the road, we came out of wherever we were and spotted her walking a few yards behind another work colleague, who, for some reason was vaping, spewing clouds of badly scented smoke everywhere. The next thing we knew, the woman was a man and we were interviewing him for a job, which was probably his for the taking, but we had to deal with a few formalities. There was more, but I can't remember any of it, not yet at any rate, perhaps when I'm on the bike and heading for the green, something will jog my memory.

During the week I had a strange dream whilst on the precipice of nodding off, and then waking as a result. I was alone in the sea, roaring foamy waves coming at me, fast, furious waves rolling towards me, one after the other, never a break from the fury, and land nowhere in sight. I turned round and behind me was exactly the same. Frightening. Probably something to do with watching a video of Kate Silverton swimming back to shore from an inflatable boat off the choppy coast of Cornwall.

It turns out that I had two punctures last week, not just one, so I didn't go for a ride on Saturday, more's the pity. I could have forced myself out into the garage around 0600hrs to fix it, but no, too much of a rush first thing in the morning, so I aborted and later discovered I had two punctures. I originally fixed the bike last weekend, around 4pm on Saturday, but by the morning it had deflated and all week it's been that way in the garage, waiting to be fixed, but after a day at work, who wants to go into the garage and fix a puncture, not at this time of year, stuck out there in the dark wishing I was inside. So I fixed it yesterday and discovered that the puncture I'd fixed last week wasn't the problem, I had two to fix, which I did, and hopefully all is well out there. I'm hoping to God that the tyre hasn't deflated as that will mean another 'abort' text to Andy.

Morning Phase continues, the track Blue Moon – they're all good. I first heard Beck's Sea Change in Barista Parlour in Nashville and that led me to discover Morning Phase; they're both similar albums: laid back, smooth, calming, evocative of something, but I know not what, possibly simply great music to listen to around nightfall when the shops are still open, it's getting dark outside and I'm in a coffee shop, possibly one of the last customers of the day, drinking tea and munching on a pastry while reading a book, possibly waiting for a train, who knows? But Beck is playing Something Unforgiven and all is good in a strange but expectant way.

It's almost time to make the tea and prepare to head outside to the garage, but Beck is making things very comfortable here in the living room, although my tea has gone cold as Wave comes out of the speakers, it's worth hanging around for, just for a minute or two, get into the mood of the song, its dramatic strings and haunting, echoey vocal. As I listen I'm reminded of that terrifying dream of the waves and how isolated I felt out there in the rolling surf. I'd better make the tea.

The puncture was still fixed when I checked the bike, having made the tea, packed the rucksack and opened the garage door. It was solid. I rode to the green where, last night, Warlingham's Christmas lights had been officially switched on. The ground was muddier than usual because of the fairground attractions and the many people enjoying the delights of the small fair.

We headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the long way, and chatted about the First World War and how, these days, low respect for the political classes and the establishment generally would probably mean no take-up for a 'call to arms'. Well, I wouldn't fight if Bojo or Gove or Raab or Cameron or Mark Francois suggested I should, especially when I consider the after-care given to wounded soldiers. We hear so much about ex-soldiers on the streets, homeless, and mental health issues. No, thanks.

The weather was good, a little cold on the way out, but bright sunshine and blue skies as we packed up and headed home. I stopped at a garage close to the green and jet-cleaned the bike. Andy and I had parted company at The Ridge and instead of using the off-road path – I didn't want another puncture – I used the road, but in all honesty, I'd rather have a punctured rear tyre than a punctured lung.

What a calamity!

In the same way that it was obvious from the word go that we'd go into Iraq, and that Donald Trump would be President of the USA, AND that we'd vote out of Europe, it's pretty damned obvious that we're heading towards crashing out of the European Union without a deal. My theory, or formula, is that all you have to do is look at whatever the worst case scenario might be (on anything) and that's what will happen: Iraq, Trump, Brexit...you name it.

Theresa May's Brexit deal is being rejected by Parliament – or it certainly looks that way – and now, right now, Ministers are resigning from her cabinet. I suppose the big question is: who cares? Who cares whether these sub-standard politicians resign from the government or not? Esther McVey? Dominic Raab? Michael Gove? I can't understand Raab's resignation; he took over from David Davis as Brexit Secretary, negotiated the deal with Barnier and then resigned because he wasn't happy with his own negotiation. Gove, Raab, McVey, they're not exactly heavyweights, are they? I mean, a lot of them, Gove included, have already been disgraced in some way or other. Think Liam Fox. I can't remember the exact details, but a couple of years ago he was embroiled in some form of sleazy activity, he kept taking some bloke with him wherever he went and at the time he was defence secretary. How come he's now in the cabinet? Similarly Gove. Look at the way he stabbed Bojo in the back in a sorry attempt at becoming the leader of the party (and, therefore, the Prime Minister). And let's not talk about Bojo, we all know what a complete buffoon he is, and who really cares if he was stabbed in the back by Gove?

I voted to remain in the European Union mainly because I think it's better for the country to remain part of Europe – our biggest market and right on our doorstep – but thanks to another idiot (David Cameron) we were given an 'in-out' referendum which basically didn't take into consideration the complexity of the situation. Cameron easily goes down as the worst British Prime Minister in history; he will be remembered for selling his country (our country) down the river for the sake of his own party, purely because he was worried about UKIP taking away votes from the Conservatives.

Now we're in a very dodgy position: if, as is likely, May's deal will be rejected by Parliament, we're left with few options: no deal (now highly likely); a general election (enter Jeremy Corbyn) or a second referendum (meaning, I'd imagine, plenty of civil unrest). That last option sounds like fun, it'll be like 2011 all over again, perhaps worse! I don't know about you, but another general election? And as for 'no deal', well, who knows what would happen.

The problem with a general election is simple: Jeremy Corbyn. Who wants an extreme left winger running the country, getting rid of our nuclear deterrent, increasing taxes and so forth? That said, if we did have general election and one of the parties campaigned on remaining in the EU it would eliminate that problem of 'going against the wishes of the people' – but the only party likely to run a campaign like that is the Liberal Democrats, not that there's anything wrong with the Lib Dems, at least they have a decent politician at the helm, Vince Cable.

In a way, the prospects are quite exciting: rioting, motorways turning into lorry parks, an extreme left wing government in power, an aggressive general election, bring it on!

My view is that a general election is probably the best way forward, as much as I don't particularly want one, but it would be even funnier if one of the parties ran on a remain ticket and won. Although, to be honest, I think we need a deal. A no deal Brexit would be catastrophic.

Anyway, what can I do? Nothing. I'll just have to wait and see what transpires.

No cycling this weekend...

Monday 12 November: Last week, when I noticed I had a rear wheel puncture, the plan was to fix it, but what with one thing or another – mainly the thought that I didn't want to be in the garage, in the cold, after a day at work – it gradually dawned on me that I wouldn't be fixing that puncture and that I'd have to abort Saturday's ride. That's exactly what happened, and in many ways it's a shame because the weather was fine. I eventually fixed it around 4pm and to be honest, as I sit here, listening to Beck (something I haven't done for a while) I get a sneaky suspicion that it's still going to be a problem. Why? Because while I pumped it up to be rock hard, when I checked it on Sunday it appeared softer, meaning I either didn't do it properly or there's another puncture I hadn't picked up. Naturally, I blame the off-road track on the 269, which I've been using a fair bit, but let's be realistic, it could have been anything.

Sunday was characterised by one thing: rain. Through the night on, I think, Friday/Saturday, it really hammered down; and then on Saturday/Sunday, the same: roaring rain. When I woke at around 0600hrs it was still pelting down. I looked out of the window on to next door's conservatory roof and I could see stair rods creating a small puddle of their own making. Perhaps prematurely I rattled off another abort text and then jumped back into bed. Naturally, later, the weather looked fine and I started to wish I'd not aborted, but that feeling was short-lived as there were sporadic showers throughout the day, leaving roads and pavements with a damp sheen.

It's now Monday morning, 12 November, and I think I'll sneak out and check the bike later. My hunch is it'll be softer than yesterday. This won't necessarily jeopardise next week's ride, because it might be a slow puncture that, perhaps, I can deal with at the Bus Stop – or wherever we go. Suddenly, however, I noticed that my bike's 'honeymoon' period was over: it's looking a bit bedraggled. For a start the chainguard needs replacing and then I need to buy some touch-up paint and give it a decent clean. Once those jobs are done I'll be happy again. I can't afford to leave it as then things nose-dive into a situation where there's always something wrong with the bike. This week, I'll check out Evan's Cycles, see what they have to offer. I know I can get the paint on eBay, so perhaps that's the best bet. As for the chain guard, I'll have to see what's out there; I get the feeling that they're pretty standard, but again, we'll see.

Postscript, 14 November 2018: I still have a puncture.

To Westerham for breakfast, the slow way to the bus stop...and a puncture!

Tuesday 6th November: The weekend's weather was good, which is good news in November. We met at the Green and decided to head to Westerham and the Tudor Rose for breakfast. It was a repeat of last weekend's ride, except that I didn't have any decorating to do when I got back. We even had the same food order: sausage sandwich, scrambled egg on toast with mushrooms and a pot of tea. The restaurant was sparsely populated. I've noticed a regular customer and the rest of us were cyclists, although we were the only ones without Lycra.

Tudor Rose Tearooms in Westerham, Kent, Saturday

The ride down had been good, nothing to report, but good nonetheless. Although, having said that, I was forced to make a detour – down Briton Hill Road and up Sanderstead hill (the 269) – due to some sort of altercation at the top of Church Way. Two blokes plus one bystander were involved. There was a parked people carrier and two people, one I'm assuming was the driver, all wearing track suits, pushing each other around and I figured that I didn't want to get involved in any trouble at such an ungodly hour, so I diverted and had the pain of the hill to deal with before reaching the roundabout.

The delay was miniscule, but it was a little annoying.

We rode along the 269 to Botley Hill and then took a left at the roundabout along Clarks Lane, sailing down the hill and into the northern Kent market town, both pleased that we'd riden to Westerham two weeks in succession.

On Sunday, I felt a little tired, but I got up, had breakfast and then headed for the green again. This time we opted for the Tatsfield Bus Stop – the slow way. Always tiresome, but eventually we got there thanks to a positive mental attitude, a phrase Andy had used to drum up some enthusiasm in me; quite honestly I was thinking of a short run to the cottage via Botley Hill, but in all honesty, I'm glad we did it and, as always, it wasn't that bad.

We sat at the bus stop watching bad drivers wheel-spinning on the right turn out of Approach Road and then, having flicked our teabags on to the patch of grass in front of us, we jumped on the bikes and headed for home. Andy parted at The Ridge and I rode the off-road path to Warlingham. Perhaps I should have stuck with the road. Why? Because later in the day I found myself in the garage. I must have gone out there to bring in the step ladder (there was a small hole in the ceiling that needed filling and painting over). I had to move the bike and when I put it down I noticed a dull thud rather than the usual bouncy one associated with a fully inflated tyre. I couldn't believe me eyes. Only Saturday I'd been bragging to Andy that it's been two years and no punctures. Never tempt fate, that's all I can say.

Inside the Tudor Rose Tearooms – perfect!

* The date at the top of this post is wrong. I penned this report early in the morning on Tuesday 6th November.

To Westerham for breakfast – and then a weekend of painting

Warlingham Green around 0730hrs on Saturday

Wednesday, 31 October: On Sunday morning I walked across Warlingham Green in the cold. There was wind and rain and it was very unpleasant. I felt thankful that I aborted as I knew a soaking was on the cards. I was headed for the Co-op as I'd run out of milk. I was home alone and had been since last Thursday, although, as I write this, the wanderers have returned and normal living has been resumed. I don't like being alone. It's fine in a hotel room, when I'm away on business, because I'm sharing the hotel with many other people, but being alone in the house simply doesn't feel right. When I'm alone in the house, I don't like going to bed, but I know I have to so I lock up the house in the normal manner, switching off lights as I do so, and then make my way upstairs where I have a choice of three beds. It's a no-brainer: my bed is the best, so I climb in, switch on Radio Four, listen to the 10 o'clock news and fall asleep, waking later in the night and noting the radio has switched itself off. I always leave the bathroom light on, mainly because, since childhood, I prefer to have a light on at night.

The weather is cold and while there's nothing wrong with our central heating, something is definitely up: one of the four nights I was alone I went downstairs to check it out and found it was off, so I switched it back on and returned to bed. On another night I slept almost fully-clothed, even with the heating on, it was freezing.

The reason I was trudging across the green around 0800hrs, possibly a bit later, was that I had aborted the ride late on Saturday night. The reason was simple: I'd committed myself to decorating the living room, a job that needed doing. I'd started around lunch time on Saturday having visited B&Q and buying the paint and brushes and white spirit. I sanded and washed the paintwork and then made the decision to go straight for the ceiling, a job I was dreading.

From Saturday through Monday I listened virtually non-stop to Radio Four, listening to a dramatisation of DH Lawrence's Women in Love and a spoof of The Archers, The Wainwrights, which was one of the funniest things I've listened to in a long while. Mix in Woman's Hour and a few comedy shows, including Just a Minute, and you'll get a fair idea of my extended weekend.

Andy at the Tudor Rose, note pot of tea...

A ride had been on the cards. Having spent a week in Tokyo, I had missed two weekends of cycling, so I vowed to go out on Saturday. With nothing much to rush home for I suggested breakfast at the Tudor Rose in Westerham so Andy and I got our heads down and rode there. A sausage sandwich, scrambled egg with mushrooms on granary toast and a pot of tea was most welcomed. The ride had been good, although I did lose half of my chain guard. It just snapped and fell off. Now I need a new chain guard and some touch-up paint for the frame.

The breakfast was good, it always is, but the ride home loomed large and neither of us wanted it. Riding out of Westerham is hard. It's a long hill all the way to Botley and we hate it. Who wouldn't? But when we reached the top, Andy took The Ridge home and I cycled along the off-road path of the 269.

It's weird arriving home to an empty house, but on this occasion it wasn't just returning to an empty house, it was also the prospect of decorating the living room that was nagging at me. Let's be honest, I didn't have to do it, but I'd been thinking about doing it for weeks, it seemed so straightforward. However, the prospect of doing nothing was shouting at me too. I could have a lazy weekend, go and see mum, then, perhaps, a stroll to Sutton, a browse of Waterstone's and then a mint tea and a cake in Caffé Nero. And who know's what after that? But the decorating nagged and nagged so, after visiting mum, I headed for B&Q in Sutton and bought all the stuff I needed: a huge tub of brilliant white Matt emulsion, two large tins of 'Timeless' – a colour that looks very much like brilliant white, but isn't – a few brushes, white spirit, sandpaper and a roller.

Scrambled egg, mushrooms and granary toast at the Tudor Rose, Westerham

Even when I got home I didn't want to do it, but I pushed myself and by the close of play on Saturday, I'd sanded and washed the skirting board. On Sunday, the prospect of painting the ceiling hit me hard, but I did it and then, on Monday, it was time to paint the walls. My aim was to finish by Monday evening, but I was about a wall and a third out and had to take Tuesday off to complete the task. It looks good, if I say so myself and now, of course, I have caught the bug. I'm viewing rooms as flights: the bathroom is a short haul flight to Dusseldorf, while the living room was most certainly long haul, like my recent trip to Tokyo. The hall way is probably akin to a flight to Greece or Moscow, not quite a long haul, but borderline. Anyway, it looks like the hall is next, but I'd rather do it alone, meaning I'd rather not have others in the house, it's far easier when I'm alone and don't have other people saying "you missed a bit" and so forth. It's also nice to listen to the radio. Actually, it's quite relaxing painting the house. The key is to keep the house well ventilated. On Sunday, I didn't bother opening any windows and ended up with a bad headache. On Monday, all the windows were open and it made a big difference. Another key is to keep things tidy, clean up as you go along and wipe up any paint spills immediately.

Decorating finished! A great job, if I say so myself...

The living room looks good and I feel good as a result.

Andy did go out on Sunday, but only for a short ride and he escaped a soaking, he told me. We're both on for a ride next weekend.

In Tokyo...Day Six – at Narita Airport

Checking out of the hotel and the journey to Narita airport was simplicity in the extreme: a short walk to Roppongi's metro station and then a train to station number 17 (Roppongi is station number 4). I was back on the Hibiya line all the way to Ueno and from there I followed signs towards the Skyliner train (Tokyo's equivalent to the Heathrow Express). I purchased a ticket and was allotted seat 11a in coach three – all the seats on the Skyliner are reserved and details of my reservation is on the ticket itself. This didn't stop me sitting in seat 3a in coach 3 and having to get up when the real occupant showed up at the next station. I apologised and shuffled along the coach to my rightful seat and then spent the rest of the 45-minute journey looking at the passing fields and houses as the train sped along the track towards the airport.

I could have flown to Vladivostok and taken the train...

At the airport, security was straightforward. It was so simple it was almost pleasurable. I unloaded my lap top in the usual manner, placed it in a tray (a very small tray compared with those you get elsewhere in the world). Nothing untoward happened with the scanner and soon I was heading for a brief stop at passport control. It all went smoothly and suddenly I found myself in the awful world that exists beyond passport control, where all the boring brands are waiting and where everybody thinks you're a wealthy bastard. I found myself getting irritated by this thought, I hate rich people at the best of times and I hate the big brands too – the perfumes, the watches, you get the drift. They didn't have the sports car raffle, which seems to be a permanent fixture at Gatwick airport in the UK. Again, the assumption is that everybody pines for an Aston Martin DB9 or something similar. Not me. Once you're in the driving seat, it doesn't matter what car you're driving as all you can see is a dashboard, a windscreen and the bonnet (and the road ahead). Give me the money instead and I'll buy a house on the south coast and paint it white and then just sit there looking at the sea – that's all I want from life: a beach, a sea breeze and a push bike.

I'd love to go on the rampage in Duty Free, smashing bottles of whisky and perfume and stamping on expensive watches, throwing Toblerones at the police, but of course this is little more than a fantasy, but one I would like to become reality one of these days. It's probably worth going to prison for, but I wouldn't want to pay back any money for my blatant, intentional and highly enjoyable criminal damage.

I ordered chicken with rice and noodles at the airport – the food offering at Narita leaves a lot to be desired, or is it something to do with the fact that I'm becoming a bit of philistine, expecting to find a Starbucks so I can enjoy a large mint tea and a piece of cake? I've just added another tea and a banana to my breakfast. The chicken noodles were consumed in Café Avion, or something like that, and the additional tea and banana in Bowl Bowl, a larger establishment. Café Avion was a little too cramped for me; Bowl Bowl was bigger and brighter and I sat at one of their Formica tables enjoying a last bit of relaxation before heading for the gate – gate 72.

That whole idea about taking the long way home: a boat to Vladivostok then the Trans Siberia to Moscow, another train from Moscow to Brussels and then the Eurostar to London took on a whole new life when I noticed that it was possible to fly from Narita to Vladivostok at 1540 with S7, a Russian airline. I was looking over from a galleried walkway at passengers waiting to board my flight, BA0006 to London Heathrow, when I was approached by an old man who was conducting a survey on why people travel to Tokyo. There was link to Tokyo 2020 when Japan hosts the Olympic Games. He ran through various questions and then gave me a tiny plastic model of Mount Fuji.

What never fails to annoy and unnerve me about flying is that whenever I head for the airport, the weather starts off fine, but gradually deteriorates as my departure draws closer. This morning as I sat on the Skyliner looking out at the Tokyo suburbs that whizzed past me, there was sunshine and relatively cloudless skies, but as time progressed the cloud thickened. Very, very annoying especially when a 12-hour flight awaited me. I'm glad to be heading home, but I wish I was there now and didn't have to bother with the flight bit. And when I arrive back in the cuntry, of course, I'll have to deal with the racist cab drivers or the crappy cab drivers who can't drive to save their lives or the useless cab drivers that have been known to take their customers to the wrong airport, not forgetting the taxi drivers that stop in the fast lane, get out of their cars and proceed to kick the tyres of their taxis before jumping back in and simply going the wrong way to the airport. Brexit has made all the racists who voted for it a little bolder. They are quite happy nowadays to express their views and always make the assumption that we're all racists at heart, without stopping to question that other people are not scumbags like them. Anyway, I must not work myself up into a lather over the issue. 

In Bowl Bowl, Live and Let Die by Paul McCartney and Wings comes on the sound system. "You used to say live and let live (you know you did, you know you did, you know you did...). But in this never-ending world in which we live in..."

Perhaps that's what I should do: live and let live. 

The flight home was smooth. Smooth, but long – 11 hours and 40 minutes to be precise. We chased the sun for a while, across Siberia, but then the night time caught up with us until we were almost in the UK when we were briefly greeted by the early evening twilight. During the flight, to pass the time, I watched Incredibles 2 and Unsane, which starred Claire Foy. Both movies were good. I then watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, not to mention an episode of Family Guy. The rest of the time I spent at the back of the plane, standing up, stretching my legs and chatting to the cabin crew, munching the occasional mini Fudge bar, a couple of chocolate digestives and a Miniature Hero Mars Bar. So much for healthy eating.

The flight was late taking off and we reached London Heathrow Terminal 5 just before 7pm – we should have landed at 5.20pm. I thought about a taxi, even called my racist cab company, but there was nothing doing. The only options were a black cab or the train and I knew how much the former would cost me so I headed for the Heathrow Express, took the Circle Line to Victoria and then the East Grinstead train, getting off at Sanderstead where a much needed lift awaited me. 

I slept well from around 10.30pm until 6am, got up, had breakfast and then thought I'd finalise my blogposts on Tokyo, this one being the last.

In Tokyo... Day Six – saying goodbye

It's 0620hrs on Saturday morning and I've been awake for about an hour. My mouth is dry and, fortunately, there's a bottle of mineral water in the room, left by the housekeeping staff. There's some kind of kerfuffle going on. I think it's outside of the building, but I can't be sure, somebody shouting, raised voices, some kind of altercation, but that's not what woke me up; for the past week or so I've had a dry mouth and a sore throat, not to mention a dry cough too, nothing a sip of mineral water won't cure. Either way I'm not ill – meaning I don't feel ill – and I don't appear to have a cold on the way, so all is well.

Friday (yesterday) was my last day in Tokyo. I had some business to attend to in the morning (in Osaki) but then the rest of the day was free, my job done.

A last chill-out in Precious Coffee Moments

Breakfast was at a coffee shop on Ebisu station, a quaint place, where I had a French toast and a mint tea, both very pleasant if a little unhealthy, the latter being dusted with icing sugar. When your hotel doesn't do breakfast, the only option out on the streets is to eat 'rubbish'. I say it's rubbish, that's not strictly true, but what I mean is this: I normally eat fresh fruit and porridge (as I'm sure I've mentioned in a previous post) but with that out of the question here, I'm reliant upon the delights of coffee shops, which don't always offer the most nutritious of breakfasts. That said, the French toast was really tasty and a little over-indulgent.

I was early. Very early. I left Ebisu around 0830hrs and arrived with plenty of time to spare in Osaki. It could only mean one thing: a visit to the Gate City Starbucks for something a little more substantial for breakfast. But again, it had to be 'rubbish' – in this case a cheese and ham roll heated in a microwave and accompanied by a mint tea (a 'grande' mint tea, meaning really large, but needed). I sat there reading Michel Houellebecq's Platform and writing a few notes, but also people watching. Nothing much to report as everybody was behaving themselves just like I was, sitting there with something to eat and drink, waiting, no doubt, for when the working hour kicked in. I wouldn't mind working in Gate City – basically, it's a huge building, a massive building, with offices and a central area where people can enjoy the delights of Starbucks and other facilities, including an Italian restaurant, or simply chill out at tables in the central area, eating their own lunches.

Hibiya Park, Tokyo...

Oddly, Gate City Ohsaki, as it's called, has an added letter H. Back at the train station it's plain old 'Osaki'. Earlier, at Ebisu, I nearly weakened again. I walked into the McDonald's opposite the station and seriously considered a McDonald's breakfast, but opted instead for that French toast in Antico's, the coffee shop.

Meeting over I headed back into town, not that I'd left the town. I now had free time and to be honest I wasn't really sure what to do with it; one thought was simply to hit the sack, get some sleep. I've noticed, all week, that if I sit still for a few minutes I fall asleep. The other day, actually it was Friday morning, I'd switched on the television and was watching a movie starring Owen Wilson and Eddie Murphy (dubbed over in Japanese and amusing for that only) and the next thing I knew I'd fallen asleep. For a split second I was in a blind panic, thinking I might have missed the meeting, but I must have nodded off for all of five minutes.

I dropped off my case at the hotel and then hit the streets again, taking the metro to Hibiya and checking out a small park with a lake and fountains. The skies were overcast and it was 'trying to rain' – to borrow an expression from dad. It eventually did rain, but I must have been back on the metro because when I emerged the pavements were damp, but that rain itself had all but stopped. In all honesty I was tired, I could feel it in my eyes, a kind of weariness that hit me in waves as I walked along the streets. I wasn't really that bothered about my surroundings. There were lots of people milling around, looking in shop windows. I was in another shopping district of town – there are many –but it was all passing me by, I simply couldn't drum up any enthusiasm. I wasn't far from Roppongi so I jumped back on the metro and headed for one last visit to Precious Coffee Moments where I sat and read Platform after ordering a cup of tea and a small chocolate, which was wonderful. In fact, I sat there for some time, just chilling out and wishing I could simply curl up in a ball and sleep with the jazz music in the background.

The shower in room 302 – best in the world

Just before 1800hrs I headed back to the hotel and called home and then I dragged myself back on the streets to find a decent restaurant for dinner. The thought did cross my mind of returning to the Hard Rock Café, but I found a really good Italian restaurant, Sicilia. It was down some steps. Once at the bottom I was met with a bustling restaurant and I had to wait for a table. Then I was sandwiched between two couples. I sat facing a wall and perused the menu, eventually choosing a shrimp cocktail followed by Canelloni and, of course, a Suntory alcohol-free beer. It was a pleasant meal, especially the shrimp cocktail, but also the main course. I considered dessert, but there was only vanilla ice cream and I kept thinking about that awful apple cobbler the night before (see previous post). After paying the bill, I considered a mint tea at the Starbuck's close to Precious Coffee Moments, but in the end I went back to my room, too tired to chill out, and started packing things away for tomorrow's journey home.

It is now tomorrow: Saturday morning and nearly 0700hrs. I unpacked the computer and charger just to write this post.

A few thoughts on Tokyo: it's a great place, a friendly city with an efficient metro system and friendly people too. Those who say the metro is complicated or complex must be a little thick. When I arrived at Narita Airport last Saturday I went all the way to my hotel in Roppongi in next to no time and I've been using the metro a fair bit since I've been here. Being in Tokyo is a bit like living inside a fruit machine, complete with the electronic music. Everything is colourful, but the signage – in Japanese – makes everything strange until, that is, you read the English translation (normally available at the metro stations). English translations aren't always offered and then I'm reliant upon the Japanese people and only some of them speak English to a level that means they'll understand me. But listen, it's not a problem. I've been here all week and while I did have trouble in one restaurant ordering a mint tea (again, see previous posts) by and large my time here has been trouble-free and I've managed to get around and get by.

The hotel has been fine too, apart from not offering any catering bar a bottle of mineral water left by the housekeeping team. However, if breakfast had been offered, I might never have found Precious Coffee Moments.  I still don't know if I've got to pay for the mineral water*, but I'll find out in a few minutes when I check out. Not having breakfast in the hotel has been a bit of a hassle as I've had to get up early, get dressed and head out in search of something to eat. Fortunately, I found Precious Coffee Moments, which was fine, and there are plenty of Starbucks floating around too, not to mention McDonald's, but I've managed to resist a McDonald's breakfast.

Antico Caffé in Ebisu for a French toast...

The food has been good too. I've eaten two Italian meals, three if you include the pizza restaurant, and I've tried Indonesian food too and dinner in the Hard Rock Café, which was great except for the dessert. I'm beginning to think I'm a bit of a philistine, sticking with pizza and pasta and seeking out Starbucks.

Tokyo is a safe city. At no stage have I ever felt threatened by anyone or anything. There is no sense of danger, not even late at night.

I've been here one week, to the day, not really enough time to fully appreciate Tokyo. I'd like to come back and spend a fortnight travelling around, not just the city, but further afield using Japan's highly efficient rail network, which is clean and punctual.

While my hotel room is limited for space, it's been fine, and as I've said before, I prefer small rooms to large ones. A wardrobe would have been nice, though, and a window that offered a view of some sort. Frosted glass is not a good idea. I wish I could have worked out the air con system, but instead I simply opened the window to get fresh air, but this caused the wind to whistle throughout the night, although nobody complained and I got used to it. If there was a big bugbear it was the 'no breakfast' thing – that was a real pain as it meant I survived on tea and toast or mint tea and some kind of rubbish food item, like a cheese and bacon roll or a French toast, although Precious Coffee Moments did the trick on most days even if they had difficulty understanding what I meant by 'mint tea'.

The absolute best thing about the hotel was the shower. I'll say this now, and I mean it: the shower in room 302 of the Act Hotel in Tokyo is the best EVER; it's so invigorating it beggars belief and I'm looking forward to having my last shower in a few minutes from signing off on this post.

... and here is that French toast. Tasty, yes, but not particularly healthy

I'll sign off now as I need to find somewhere to eat breakfast (perhaps one last visit to Precious Coffee Moments or there's always that Starbucks – or perhaps I'll head for Uedo and get breakfast there or at Narita Airport.

You know what I'd rather do? Take a boat over to Vladivostok and then catch the Trans Siberia Express to Moscow and then a train to Brussels and the Eurostar home, but that would take a week or two and at some stage I need to be back in the office.

* the mineral water was free-of-charge (I figured as a kind of compensation for not offering breakfast). But remember one thing: nothing is free, I would have paid for that water somewhere along the line.

In Tokyo... Day Four and Five – A few ramblings

Do you ever get those days when you stop and think about the most mundane aspects of life and find them incredible? Big questions about the meaning of life take second place to thoughts about bananas. I found myself sitting in a Starbucks for breakfast – one banana and a mint tea – thinking about the fact that I was on the other side of the world (compared to where I normally reside) wide awake while most of those living in the UK were fast asleep and what's more, I was eating a banana. I eat bananas in the UK too, but here I am eating one in Tokyo. Now I know it's really no mystery how bananas get around (by ship mostly, I'd imagine) but I suppose it's amazing that wherever you travel, however far away from home you are, you can still get a reasonably good banana – and find a decent Starbucks too. Perhaps it's not good, it's bad. The fact that here in Tokyo you will find all the big brand names (Apple, Zara, Gucci, they're all here, even Stella McCartney, and let's not forget McDonald's and Subway) is testament to the success of something we're all now starting to reject: globalisation. In all honesty, if globalisation means flying for hours on end and still running up against a Claires Accessories, then I don't want it either. Although, that said, when it comes to eating out in Tokyo, there are plenty of local, Japanese restaurants. Today, however, I did find a Hard Rock Café and a Tony Roma's. I ate in the former and I can't say I've ever enjoyed ribs, they're insubstantial and they make your hands sticky.

The streets of Tokyo on Thursday afernoon...

Back home, a lot of our bananas come from the Windward Islands in the Caribbean, which normally means St. Lucia, but where the Japanese bananas originate I don't know and, quite frankly, I don't care. I'd say the fact that bananas exist in Japan is amazing if it were true, but it isn't amazing at all; they were probably brought over on a container ship.

I'm sitting in Starbucks for a reason: I wanted a mint tea and something decent for breakfast instead of that slice of toast and a milky tea from Precious Coffee Moments. Although, in retrospect, that toast would have been most welcomed, but Starbucks don't serve toast. I miss Precious Coffee Moments, but hell, it's my day off, I'm not here for a rushed breakfast before heading into a conference hall, I'm getting ready to go check out a meeting venue for tomorrow, just so that I can be there on time. But more of that later. In a nutshell, I thought I'd take it easy, chill out, take a relaxed look around town, check out the shops and then visit some of Tokyo's sights (if there are any).

Today was the first day that I felt sort of ok. All week I've been waking up in the dead of night or simply not sleeping at all thanks to jet lag. But this morning and, indeed, last night, I got a decent night's sleep and not the usual broken up affair. The trouble with acclimatising is that there's no point, it's soon time to head back home and suffer all over again. I can't say I'm looking forward to the return flight. I wasn't too keen on the outbound flight and now I've got to repeat it all again. Still, it'll be good to get back to the UK and hail a racist taxi driver to take me home. In fact, talking of racist taxi drivers, I've given up taxis for that reason alone. I don't want to sit and listen to some idiot going on and on about immigration and Brexit. As Stewart Lee said, not all Brexiteers are racists – some of them are cunts.

Hard Rock Café in Tokyo...

When I get back home I'll have to restart my exercise programme (cycling and walking) and try and stop eating cakes and biscuits. I've given up drinking, so I'm darn sure I can sort out a few cakes. I've also got to repeat my old habit of eating well, certainly enjoying a good breakfast in the morning. For the past five or six days it's been toast and tea, so everything's gone out of the window in terms of the 'usual routine'. My multi-seed porridge and blueberries for breakfast are but a distance memory at the moment; and last night, after a relatively healthy day food wise, I went and ruined it by discovering that Tokyo has a Hard Rock Café. It started off well with Atlantic salmon, mashed potatoes, carrots and brocolli, but took a nose dive when I ordered the apple cobbler, smothered as it was in a caramel sauce and garnished with a blob of ice cream. Afterwards I found a Starbucks where I purchased a large mint tea and sipped it slowly while deep in thought about God knows what. For some reason, I felt that the mint tea would cure me of whatever ailment that apple cobbler might have given me.

I fly home tomorrow (Saturday 1255hrs) and, as I just said, I'm not looking forward to it. Twelve, possibly thirteen, hours on a plane: that's a meal and three movies and then around three hours of twiddling my thumbs. Let's just say I hate it. Fortunately, I've got an exit row, like on the outward journey, which means more leg room, but these days, when I have to fly for more than a couple hours, I start to get irritated about not being allowed to fly business class. It's a boring old saga so I won't bore you with it, not now at any rate, but suffice it to say that I'd like to get a decent sleep, but I end up not sleeping at all and when I get off the other end I feel like shit. Let's not go there, it's miles too boring.

A hearty meal in Hard Rock Café...

It's getting a little confusing. Yesterday (Thursday) I sat in a Starbucks with a mint tea and a banana twice: the first time was in the morning prior to a day of checking out the city of Tokyo, first a mission to Osaki to check out where my meeting was to be held on Friday (that's today) and then I found myself in the same Starbucks last thing at night, again with a mint tea and a banana, but this time it was something to do with that awfully unhealthy dessert I'd eaten in the Hard Rock. As I sat in the Starbucks yesterday morning, I felt bad about not being in Precious Coffee Moments where, ironically, I drink tea. The reason I went there for breakfast was to move away from the milky tea and toast breakfast and eat something a little healthier, hence the banana.

On Wednesday night, talking of unhealthy eating, I found a pizza restaurant that fitted the bill of what I was looking for: it wasn't a noodle bar, there wasn't any photographs of the food outside and it was more like the sort of place you get back home – there was music, a pleasant vibe and I could relax a little, which I did. There's nothing worse than trawling the streets looking for something to eat (I do this all the time, it doesn't matter what country). The truth is I don't really know what I'm looking for, or rather I do know, but finding it is the problem. I normally look for somewhere to chill out and relax. And here in Japan it's avoiding the places with the photographs of the food and places where there's somebody standing outside cajoling passers-by to come inside. Prior to finding the pizza restaurant I'd peered through many windows hoping to find the right place, but everywhere fell short of my requirements. I was looking for ambience mainly and a place that looked like it might offer decent food and service. I don't want somewhere too crowded and noisy or too cramped, I certainly don't want photographs of the food and I won't tolerate anywhere that's too dark. I want to be able to see what I'm eating.

Sadly, all the big brands are in Tokyo...

The street on which the pizza restaurant resided looked promising. It veered off from the main street at an angle. It was dark and illuminated here and there by lanterns. It had a certain inviting nature about it, so I took a chance and strolled past small noodle bars, slightly more inviting than those on the main drag, and right at the end of the street I found the pizza place. I knew it was going to be good and took a seat at the bar, but not 'the bar' – there wasn't any optics staring at me, no upturned bottles of whisky or rum, just an exposed kitchen, masses of stainless steel, an espresso machine and pizza chefs busily working on customers' orders – although being mid-week, it wasn't that busy. It was a Wednesday night and there was only a handful of customers. I ordered half portions of two different pizzas (based on the theory that variety is the spice of life) plus a couple of non-alcohol beers (Suntory appears to be the favourite here in Tokyo. It's really good and while I've considered taking some home with me, in retrospect, I think it would be a bad idea. Nothing's THAT good). Making a decent non-alcoholic beer is an art form that the brewers have yet to perfect, but Suntory comes pretty close and, it seems, have cornered the market here in Tokyo. It was only in the Hard Rock Café that they didn't sell it (I was offered a Kirin instead).

At the pizza joint, I made small talk with one of the guys working behind the servery area. He told me he owns a Harley Davidson 883 Hugger, my dream bike, but he wants to own a Triumph (why, I don't know, but he seemed to like all things British: Jaguar, Range Rover and so on). He studied politics at university, managed to get a good job in television, but quit to return to the pizza restaurant because he couldn't hack sitting behind a computer screen all day. He now intends to make a career out of being a restaurateur of some description, much to the initial dismay of his mum who, he said, remained silent about his decision for many days before finally being comfortable with her son's plans. But I'd imagine she was concerned for his future welfare (aren't all parents carrying around that mindset?).

Personally, I always feel envious of people capable of making such a drastic decision and sticking with it, having the courage of their convictions. I would have stayed at the television job and would have certainly taken my parents' advice. I can hear my dad now advising me to stay put and not to be so silly as to think I'd have a future in the restaurant industry. I would have been grateful to have been offered the TV job in the first place, I certainly wouldn't be jacking it in to work in a pizza restaurant. But that's me. I wish I had those sort of 'guts', the guts of a gambling man, the guts of somebody with bags of self confidence. I'm always firmly of the opinion that whatever decision I take, it will be the wrong one. Not that working in the hospitality industry is a walk in the park; it's hard work and long hours for very low pay and in the UK it is often regarded as a subservient profession. That's why the Brits prefer to leave it to migrant workers who regard the low pay as alright, although now we have Brexit, let's see if those Brexiteers who moaned at the migrants for taking their jobs are willing to roll up their sleeves at McDonald's and start cleaning the fryers at the end of a long shift.

Osaki – a kind of posh version of London Docklands

Technically – although there's nothing technical about it – Thursday was a day off. I'd tried to get on a plant visit, which would have taken up the entire day, but had been unsuccessful, so the day was mine. I did need to see how easy (or otherwise) it would be for me to reach the offices of a big company I was visiting on Friday, so I set off early, first for breakfast in a Starbuck's (the aforementioned mint tea and banana) and then I explored a bit of the city. I started off at Roppongi underground station, travelled a couple of stops to Ebisu and then switched to the JR line, which is not part of the metro system, more a kind of Overground train the runs in a circle around the city, meaning I had to pay separately. It was a couple of stops, possibly three, to Osaki, which was a bit like Docklands, but slightly more exclusive, and I made my way to the building I needed to locate. It was easy: an 11-minute walk from Osaki station, so that was dry run sorted, so to speak, now all that remained was the real thing on Friday.

Later, I resisted the temptation to eat Chinese in Osaki and instead pushed on to a place called Shibiya where I found an Indonesian restaurant for lunch. After what was an enjoyable meal of chicken curry with rice and a small cake for dessert, not forgetting a non-alcohol Suntory beer, I headed back to the station and stopped off at two guitar shops, one selling Fender Stratocasters and the other specialising in bass guitars. I was there for all of five minutes before pushing on further to Shinjuki, Tokyo's answer to Oxford Street. I checked out a few stores with no intention of buying anything and when I got back to my hotel I discovered that there was a Hard Rock Café close by and headed in the general direction. It would be good to have something a little wholesome, so once seated I chose Atlantic salmon with mashed potato, greens and carrots – that was the good bit, the bad bit was the dessert of apple cobbler, which might have been fine if it hadn't been drenched in caramel sauce. A little custard would have sufficed, but no, this was just awful. I say awful, I finished the lot, it was very tasty, but it was awful in the sense of not being very healthy. I might have given up drinking, but I've got to give up cakes and sweet things too.