Sunday – solo ride to mum's...

Monday 30 April: Last night a strange and vivid dream. It involved being in some kind of shop, or somewhere, I'm not quite sure. There was a large and very detailed model of a galleon and it cost £300, or just over, and I wanted it. But it was clear I wasn't going to get it, everybody around me frowned at the idea of me buying a radio-controlled model of a galleon. Dad was there and he quite rightly pointed out that one freak wave down on the coast at Felpham would trash the boat. He had a point and despite that I was disappointed that the boat wouldn't be mine. When I woke up around 0430hrs I noticed that the front door was open and ajar. Was there an intruder in the house? I went downstairs to check, but no, somebody (whoever was last in) must have forgotten to lock the door.

It rained all night and it looks as if it will rain all day today (Monday 30 April) and possibly all day tomorrow too, improving by Wednesday. Somebody on the radio said that a month's worth of rain will fall in certain parts of the country.

Saturday (28 April) was rained off, but Sunday seemed to be rain-free, just a little cloudy. Well, overcast and dull and probably quite a lot of cloud. It was also very cold. As I rode down West Hill and along Essenden Road a cold wind hit me square in the face. It was very unpleasant, but whenever I think about cold weather in April I'm reminded of the time that we (Andy and I) were caught out in the snow (see photo).

Like everything with cycling, the rider eventually gets used to it, be it sleet, rain or snow, and sure enough I soon forgot about the cold as I climbed Hayling Park Road and rode past the lonely and misty playing fields en route to the A23.

Botley Hill, April 2008... it was cold

As I rode through the industrial estate there were crowds of people waiting for some kind of 'factory outlet' to open. Later, on my return, I saw people leaving with large black plastic bags but I had no idea what they were carrying.

It was later than usual and therefore busier as I rode through Wallington and crossed the mini roundabout at the top of Boundary Road into Stanley Park Road, turning right at the top of the hill into Crichton Road, passing the Village Bakery and turning right on to Park Hill. I sailed down the hill towards the Windsor Castle, hung a left, then a right, then a left and then another left and I was 'home'. A cup of tea awaited me along with a slice of fruit cake and mum and I made small talk.

On the ride back I stopped at the BP garage, which now sports an M&S where I intended to buy a few things, but couldn't because I'd left my wallet and cash in a different pair of trousers and not the ones I was wearing. Mildly annoyed I jumped back on the bike and returned home following the outward route but in reverse. I reached home around 1100hrs.

Alcohol and me...

Today I can announce that I have not touched any alcohol for six months. To be honest, it's no hardship and, as I've said before, it's not as if I had to give up drinking: I'm not an alcoholic, I don't drink too much, there's no reason whatsoever other than what's the point in drinking? I can truthfully say, however, that alcohol has never been a friend to me, it's not something that in anyway makes me feel better. Now that I'm not drinking, for example, I've noticed I sleep better. I don't wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing – unless I have a bad dream, which is rare – and generally I feel good. Furthermore, I don't suffer from headaches or weariness in the morning (as I used to if I'd been drinking the night before). There are so many benefits to not drinking: I can drive a car without thinking how many units of alcohol I've consumed; if I go out anywhere I can drive and not have to worry about public transport late at night or having to get a cab home, and guess what? The chances of me making a fool of myself, saying or doing something I'll later regret or just simply looking awful (bloodshot eyes) is nil, it won't happen. I'll never wake up in the morning wondering what the hell I said to so and so or whether I really did shout obscenities at the boss, or surely I didn't make lewd comments in front of relatives, not me, surely? But in the past I can testify to doing much worse and all because I overdid the alcohol. Well, not any more. I'm through.

"Broken night, sir? Said something you shouldn't, sir?"

I'm saving money too. I'm amazed when I go out for a meal how low the bill is when it arrives. "How much?" Booze bumps up the price considerably. Take it away and virtually every meal is good value, but there is a problem. Not an unsolvable problem, but a problem nonetheless. In the days of alcohol, I used to look forward to reaching a restaurant (when on business abroad), ordering a meal and a large glass of Cabernet and just chilling. That moment when my lips touch the glass in the pleasant surroundings, say, of my favourite restaurant in Dusseldorf (Da Bruno on Karlstrasse) is priceless. I used to immediately relax and look forward to my meal. Well, not last week. I went back to Da Bruno roughly a year after my last visit and, oddly, I wasn't looking forward to it because I knew I wouldn't be drinking my large glass of red wine. Instead I ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water and found myself sitting there purely to go through the motions of eating, as if it didn't really matter where I ate out as long as I was, in a sense, refuelling my body because that's all I was doing. I wasn't enjoying the experience, I might as well have been in a coffee shop or a caff with a big mug of tea. In other words, not drinking changes the eating out dynamic considerably, almost to the point of there being no point. In many ways it's quite depressing because it takes away the enjoyment.

I am being extremely puritanical at the moment. Not only am I not drinking, I've also stopped caffeine, preferring decaffeinated everything and drinking a lot of peppermint tea when I visit a coffee shop like Starbucks or Costa. The problem here is that I compensate by eating cake (I have to have some vice) and now I'm thinking: perhaps I ought to give up cake too, and biscuits and bread, all of which I've stepped up a little over the past six months. In fact, even visiting a coffee shop is becoming a little boring and would become more so if I stopped eating cake, so I appear to be cutting off all avenues of fun and enjoyment in life. I'm now viewing things through a different lense, looking down (slightly) on those with a drink in their hands and longing for the solitude of my hotel room where I can write or watch television or just go to sleep, hit the sack early and feel refreshed in the morning.

The thing is, though, I don't want to go back to drinking. I've started to imagine how I'd feel if, for example, I'd ordered a glass of red wine in Da Bruno the other night: I would feel so disappointed in myself and I'd hate the notion that I had gone back six months and would have to revisit Day One again and wouldn't be in the position I am now until late October.

I'm also avoiding certain people and specific scenarios where I might be pressurised into having a drink – "Go on, a half won't hurt you!" – or simply avoiding people because I know they'll give me a hard time. Not that I'd crumble. I've already been in such scenarios and have been adamant that I'm not touching a drop, but there's always a lot of explaining to do and a real need to explain too, as if the act of announcing that I'm not drinking is not enough and has to be backed up with solid reasons in order to regain the acceptance of those who fully expect me to 'have a few beers'.

"What you drinking?"
"Nothing, I thought I'd lay off for a while."
"Not drinking? You? Bloody hell, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, just thought I'd give it a rest."
"How about a half?"
"No, thanks, just a no-alcohol beer will do."
"Go on, have a half, won't do you any harm."
"It's not that, I just don't want to drink."
"Well how about something different, a whisky, gin?"
"No, really, I'll just have a no-alcohol beer."
"I can't believe this; I never thought I'd see the day, my old mate not drinking."
"It's not forever."
"You're getting old, that's what it is, the slippery slope."
"Age has nothing to do with it, I just want to lay off for a while."
"You're getting boring in your old age."
"Fuck off!"
"No, seriously, you're getting old."
"Aren't we all."
"Yes, but why give up drinking? Come on just a half."
"No seriously, I'll have a no-alcohol beer."
"Gaylord."

The thing is, people don't accept it and I guess I've got to accept that fact, I'll be crossed off their Christmas card list and not invited to future events because I'm no longer 'one of them'. Some people say that's fine and at least you know who your true friends are, and yes, that's true, but 'not drinking' is viewed with suspicion. People don't want non-drinkers around them, remembering everything they do and say while under the influence and adopting a stance of superiority over them as if to say "silly idiot, one day you'll learn".

For now, though, I'm sticking with not drinking because I feel good and I feel free. I can drive a car when I want to, I sleep better at night, I don't wake up feeling weary and I certainly don't make a fool of myself in public and then worry about what I might have said or done. All round, the benefits outweigh the downsides.

I take a shower and worry that I might be part of some warped magic trick...

The bathroom in my hotel room is small. There is definitely not much room to swing a cat so I'm glad I didn't bring Tibbles with me – he doesn't like it when I grab his tail and take him for a spin.

It's a pretty standard bathroom in all but one respect: the shower curtain is bright red and it put me on guard as I stripped off and stood there having already been frightened by the magnified mirror that brought me up close and personal with myself. Nothing worse, especially when a shave is required. Now, however, there's a bigger threat, the shower cubicle.

I stepped in half expecting Debbie McGee to pull the shower curtain across for me, but there was nobody there but me so I had to do it myself. It was a pleasant shower, until I realised that the water wasn't escaping down a plug hole but slowly filling up on the verge of overspilling on to the bathroom floor. The last time that happened was in a posh hotel in the South of France, Cannes to be precise, and I had to use all the towels in the room to soak up the water.

It's brighter than it looks...

After a good old sprinkling of hot water and liberal splashings of shower gel, I prepared myself for the moment when I drew back the curtain and returned to the room. I turned off the shower, turned to face the curtain and hoped and prayed there wouldn't be an audience of women seated cross-legged outside awaiting my appearance. Fortunately I was alone as I searched for a towel to dry myself.

But then a horrendous thought: what if my room is the only one with a red shower curtain? What if all occupants of room 109 past and present are unknowingly part of some lewd cabaret act for the other guests? Perhaps they're all downstairs now watching on a flatscreen television fixed to the wall in the breakfast room as I exit the shower and faff around looking for a towel. I'd soon find out as my next stop was the breakfast room. I just hope nobody smirks as I walk in; if they do then I'll know the awful truth.

The breakfast room is on the ground floor and when I enter nobody says a word, nobody smiles. I'm in the clear. Or am I? Perhaps that's the deal. Perhaps the general manager briefs all the spectators not to give the game away when I come down for breakfast. I scrutinise the Japanese girl sitting diagonally across from me for any signs of mirth, but she's a true professional, probably a veteran of the hotel's shower room scam. She won't break that easily, I think, as I find and self-consciously serve myself some Sugar Puffs and brew up a peppermint tea.

"Room number?" says one of the hotel's breakfast room staff. Room number! As if she doesn't know! Perhaps that is the cue for when the other guests can let go and guffaw loud and heartily at my misfortune for quite literally being the butt of the joke. But there is no reaction. I continue with my breakfast; I gently sip the peppermint tea, I find some scrambled egg, make myself another peppermint tea, play with my iphone and then it is time to go. They really have only one more chance to let rip as I leave the room. But no, I hear nothing and conclude that the whole sordid affair is nothing more than a figment of my own warped imagination.

In Dusseldorf – once again...

There were problems and they could have upset the applecart. First, I could have missed my flight thanks to my lolling about at home, basking in time I didn't really have. It was a bit like Aviles, Spain, when I was staring at my air ticket for days without realising I'd got it all wrong. I won't bore you with the details, but the problems I encountered – which were all of my own making – are alluded to in previous posts.

So the same thing is happening. I'm upstairs, I'd even considered a haircut, but then I check my air ticket and realise I'm cutting it more than fine on getting to the airport on time. So I call my cab company and pay over the telephone using my credit card. Within five minutes a cab arrives and I'm heading to Terminal Five, Heathrow at double quick speed. And when I got there they hadn't even displayed the gate. I used the Fast Track access to security (I asked nicely, told her my dilemma, that I was running late) and soon I was flight side with a few minutes to spare before the gate was displayed, gate A17.

The view from seat 10F...

I got on the plane, took my seat (10F, the exit row, so loads more legroom than usual) and then it was just a matter of waiting for the plane to be pushed back from the jetty and off we go; except that the machine used to push the plane was a little too heavy-handed. I noticed it, but nobody else seeemed to, the judder, and soon the captain was on the intercom telling us that the plane had been jolted a little too hard and there was damage to the nose of the aircraft. With our safety in mind he decided that the plane needed to be worked on in the hangar so he found us another plane and we headed for Dusseldorf around 1730hrs – not the scheduled 1510hrs. It was fine as it gave me a chance to eat something (ciabatta with pesto and mozzarella, a cup of tea and a cookie). It also meant that I didn't spend any money on the plane. Instead I flicked through the High Life magazine, read John Simpson's column (which was on the fall of the Berlin Wall) and then skimmed through Business Life, the Shop magazine and the M&S food menu.

The flight took around 55 minutes, I sailed through passport control, took the train to the centre of town having first used the Sky Train to the airport's railway station, and then walked from Dusseldorf Hbf to the Wyndham Garden, which is alright. I nipped out for something to eat and after wandering the streets in the dark for about 15-20 minutes decided that Sofra Gastronomietetriebe on Graf-Adolf-Strasse would be alright: it was. Nothing to write home about, but just fitted the bill. I ordered Piccata di Pollo and a couple of Becks Blue (no alcohol beer) and then finished off Renegade: the lives and tales of Mark E. Smith. A great book and a truly great bloke.

The internet was down in the restaurant so I had to pay with cash (EUR22.10) which was fairly reasonable. Just as well I drew some out at the airport! I couldn't face a dessert so I left the restaurant and walked the short walk back to the hotel from where I write this blog post.

On the way back to the hotel I noticed that this weekend (29th April) is the Dusseldorf Marathon. There was a sign saying as much strapped to a pole.

Hot weather, just like a midsummer's day...

On Friday last week my senses kicked in again after almost a week of simply not existing at all. Not all my senses: I could still see and hear and feel things, but my sense of taste and smell had left the building and there's nothing worse than not being able to taste what you're eating. But as I was walking to work, the sun shining, the skies blue, my lost senses returned and I felt that I could smell everything: the flowers, the air, the whole lot. It was a great feeling as I wasn't feeling good at all last week and had to leave the bike in the garage – not this weekend.

Summer had arrived early...

The added bonus, of course, was the weather. It was perfect. On Saturday we rode the long way to the Tatsfield bus stop and on Sunday we headed for Westerham. Both rides were perfect in every respect. The slow run to the bus stop was good because it enabled us to chat about this and that as we made our way along Beddlestead Lane and you know what? I think there's some kind of secret bunker towards the end of it, on the left hand side. It has slide-back heavy-duty metal doors that presumably would be pushed back to reveal steps leading down.

Andy's tee-shirt...

At the bus stop we both discovered that we were wearing tee-shirts with silly slogans so a couple of photographs followed and then, having sipped tea and munched BelVita biscuits, we headed back along Clarks Lane and then the 269, eventually parting on Warlingham Green.

My tee-shirt...

Sunday it was Westerham. We'd decided to take tea and biscuits with us rather than sit in the Tudor Rose, which wasn't open when we arrived, but showed signs of life around 0820hrs (a young girl and an older woman arrived and set up the tables and chairs outside).

Vintage BSA motorcycle...

But we were too busy chatting to a white-haired man in a Belstaff jacket, the proud owner of a BSA motorcycle and side car that he'd owned since the late 80s. He was on his way to a café near Brands Hatch but had stopped off for a coffee at Costa and noticed us admiring his bike. Andy had already taken photographs, one of which accompanies this post. The man talked about how he acquired the bike, its history and so forth, claiming that Gloria Hunniford and Sir Cliff Richard had both been photographed on the bike. He'd even had Father Christmas sitting in the side car, he said. "He'd come all the way from Lapland, the cunt."

He asked us about our ride and we told him we started in Croydon and that it was a 22-mile round trip. We said we'd be riding home soon because we had stuff to do, giving the man a chance to moan about women. "They always want you doing something," he said, adding that it was not a problem he suffered from, which we took to mean he was a single man, probably a divorced man, I thought, but he was a nice enough bloke, somebody that might be described (by a woman) as a lovable rogue, perhaps, a bit of a cheeky chappy.

In truth he delayed us for about 20 minutes from sitting down and drinking our tea, which was waiting in my rucksack – the flask of hot water, the milk and the teabags – and Andy had our biscuits in his along with a few innertubes. Eventually he hopped on the bike, kick-started it a couple of times and then rolled off along the A25 towards Brasted. He was heading first for Eynsford and then on to Brands Hatch before riding back to Brockley where, no doubt, he would leave the bike and head for the pub.

We sat on the green, watching various classic cars and motorcycles rumble past and eventually we packed up, jumped on the bikes and headed up the hill towards Botley. Andy said goodbye at the Ridge because we were running late so I rode the 269 alone and didn't stop when I reached Warlingham Green. I reached home at gone 1030hrs.

Cold, cough, sore throat, Syria and Lost in Space

I've been battling to avoid a cold for some weeks. About a fortnight ago I was fine, but when I walked into the office a couple of Mondays ago I found I had a streaming nose, which cleared up after a couple of days. The following Monday the same thing occurred. I'd been fine, nothing wrong at all, but suddenly a streaming nose and loud sneezing. Somebody even suggested it might be hay fever or the office air con. There are a lot of people in my office (I'm not one of them) who moan about the air con and heating, claiming it's too hot or too cold. I never notice it.

Andy gets out on the road, but I stay home...with a bad cold

About five days ago, possibly six or seven, I started to get a sore throat, but I still felt fine. It got worse and became one of those 'painful when I swallow' situations and last Friday, after nothing more than being an irritation, I started to feel hot and bothered, I couldn't really concentrate, I felt weary and not at all well. On Friday night I kind of knew I wouldn't be riding, certainly on Saturday, although I figured I'd be alright for Sunday. I sent Andy an 'abort' text, made a Lemsip and then started to watch the first episode of Lost in Space on Netflix, but it was late so I resolved to watch it later (I ended up watching episodes one and two on Saturday night, it's good). I say it's good, I'm not overly keen on the robot. In the original series the robot is much more friendly whereas the new one is a little dark and gothic in a Batman/Alien kind of way, but overall I'm enjoying it, although they've made Dr. Smith a woman (in my opinion you'll never beat Jonathan Harris' interpretation of the role).

So, back to the cold, or the flu or whatever you want to call it. There was no way I could make any kind of early start at the green and while last week late nights held me back, this week it was being under the weather. I was feeling so down at heel that I didn't ride at all. Instead, I walked around 2.5 miles into Croydon to get a blast of fresh air. I checked out Waterstone's but lacked the concentration to read anything, I found myself in the Camden Coffee House in the Whitgift Centre where I had a lemongrass and ginger tea plus a slice of banana cake (with walnuts) and read an old newspaper, or tried to, and then popped my head into a few other stores. Nothing really made sense to me so I headed home, catching the bus rather than walking the same distance back.

I still had enough energy to mow the lawn front and back. I was basing everything I did on staying in the fresh air and sunshine (as always when I abort a ride, the weather is beyond fine). The back lawn was done perfect (I gave it half a dozen mows, clicking down the cut size so that I eventually had a low cut, but stepped down rather than an immediate low cut which tends to rip the grass and clog up the mower. That said, I need a new mower, or a new blade. The front lawn wasn't so good. I was feeling weary and I didn't want to run through the cut settings like I had on the back lawn, so I gave it one high cut and then changed down to a four setting for one more cut: it looks terrible, but I plan to get out there today.

Low-grade political figure Williamson

Last night I watched the remainder of episode one and the whole of episode two of Lost in Space and then hit the sack around midnight, without a Lemsip. I had a streaming nose, I was sneezing (loudly, I always sneeze loudly) and I just hoped I would sleep well. I didn't. I awoke around 0400hrs and eventually slipped downstairs to make a Lemsip. Whenever I watch TV in the early hours Click is always on. Needless to say I listened to the news about Syria. Look, my view on the crisis is simple: first, I don't rate any of our politicians in the UK, they're all low-rent people who lack gravitas and shouldn't be in charge of the country. Just the phrase, 'Boris Johnson, Foreign Secretary' makes me cringe, in the same way that one cringes at work when the general feeling is that somebody shouldn't be in a particular job, they don't fit, they don't deserve it. There are far too many imposters in my opinion, and there's an inordinate amount of them in British politics. Why is Gavin Willliamson defence secretary? Michael Portillo, yes, but Williamson, with his pet spider, he's SUCH a cock! And what did he say about the Russians? They should 'go home and shut up' apparently. Where's the gravitas? The Russians, quite rightly, derided his comments. And what about Boris likening Putin to Hitler, completely ignoring the fact that the Russians lost millions during the Second World War. Again, what a complete and utter COCK!!! So why would anybody trust these people with making decisions on invading another country? Invading another country? Isn't that what the bad guys do? Pardon? Oh, you mean we ARE the bad guys, it's just the BBC that tells us we're not.

This idiotic buffoon shouldn't be our foreign secretary...

Something else I can't abide is our arrogance, our belief that we are right and everybody else is wrong. There was a moment in the run-up to the air strikes when somebody on our side of the argument said that the Russians' were claiming that if there were casualties on their side, or any of their forces were hit, they would retaliate. The person, whose name I forget, said, as if surprised, that Russia's comments effectively meant that they, the Russians, were declaring war. Well, of course they are: we, don't forget, are the aggressors. If the Russians decided to drop a bomb on the Houses of Parliament (hopefully when it's in session!) then I would imagine we would retaliate militarily. Well, this is the same thing and what amazes me is how we think that whatever we do is right, even if we're invading a sovereign nation. The West was still referring to the chemical attack as 'alleged' and 'suspected' when they launched their attack.

Donald Trump came out with the best, and possibly the most self-damaging, quote of the conflict: "What kind of nation wants to be associated with the mass murder of innocent men, women and children?" You won't like the answer, Donald.

Anyway, it's happened, we went in, dropped a few bombs and came away and ever since there have been the usual shots on TV of Theresa May, putting on her stern-faced look (I can only assume they're trained to do this, they don't really care) discussing how bad the Syrians and the Russians have been and trying to keep everybody on side. They lost my vote ages ago.

It's odd, also, that two 'chemical weapons' incidents should happen so close to one another: first the Skripals in Salisbury and then the alleged Syrian chemical attack. That's slightly odd, don't you think?

What should have happened in Syria is this: fine, the West isn't keen on Assad, but then the West has been responsible in the past for nurturing other despotic tyrants in the region, like Saddam Hussein, a man known, of course, for his chemical attacks on his own people. So we're not entirely innocent on this issue. It's obvious why Russia supports Assad: he and his bombed-out country are of strategic importance. It was mentioned recently that there are monsters on one side of the conflict and maniacs on the other. Well, my view is we should have engaged with the Russians, possibly assisted them in returning normality to Syria even if that meant continuing Assad's leadership of the country. What was the alternative? In the process rid the region (and the world) of ISIS and then rebuild Syria. Why prolong the conflict any longer than necessary? But no, our blind faith in ideology – on this occasion 'the Russians are the bad guys so everything they say and do we must oppose' – has prolonged the conflict and increased the likelihood of a fast return to the bad old Cold War days. Who wants that? Nobody. If I was Donald Trump, I'd pick up the phone to Putin today and try and sort things out man-to-man.

I went back to bed around 0530hrs and awoke at 1000hrs and now, having enjoyed my usual breakfast (multi-seed porridge with grapes, blueberries, raspberries and sliced banana plus a mug of decaff tea) I'm sitting here blogging.

The original series was the best and much funnier...

The weather is perfect for cycling, but there's no way I could have made it. A lazy day lies ahead of me. I'll resume reading the paper at some stage, later I'll have lunch, there's the traditional Sunday roast this evening, which I normally make (I'll probably do it tonight) and then there's Lost in Space, episode three. One thing I tend not to like about modern remakes of past programmes, like Lost in Space or, indeed, anything, is that those who make the remakes (and this is across the board) think that that word 'modern' means they have to be more edgy. I hate it, for example, when there's a 'modern' version of, say, a Shakespeare play and whoever produces it thinks: we must have rap music and graffiti and make it more 'of the street', or, as in the case of Lost in Space, take the humour out of the programme and, especially where the robot is concerned, give him a darker edge. In the original series there was a lot of humour surrounding Doctor Smith and the robot, but not in the remake, it's all 'serious' and 'dark' and I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

Andy got out. I've just seen a tweet on Twitter. He went up White Hill Lane, a killer hill if I recall. Nice one, Andy, see you next weekend.

Solo ride to mum's on Saturday, rained off on Sunday

Nothing to report this week other than a late night on Friday leading to an abort text on Saturday. Andy went out alone, but I've yet to ask him where he went; he had a good ride, but that's all I know. As for me, well, I didn't want to waste the decent weather so I left the house around 0940hrs and rode to mum's where tea and cake were on the agenda. The ride there and back was good, I rode through Foxley Lane and along the off-road track leading to the Lavender field (no lavender yet).  From the lavender field I followed another off-road track into Carshalton Beeches, turning left at the Windsor Castle pub and then hanging a right into Alma Road, a left on to Shorts Road and then another left under the railway bridge to mum's.

Library shot of mum at home

The ride back was basically a repeat of the outward journey. I tackled the south face of West Hill and got back home some time after 1100hrs.

I awoke Sunday to rain and it didn't stop, it just went on and on all day, drizzling, so there was no riding, but I'd had yet another late night (an old mate's birthday party) and I aborted around midnight. In effect, I wasted an abort because the rain aborted the ride.

To the Tatsfield bus stop – the fast way...

"Something ought to be done about the drug companies. They hold the world to ransom. It's a prime example of what is wrong with capitalism. If anything needs to be brought under government control it's got to be the drug companies – and transportation, the railways. We're all being ripped off," I said as we rode along the 269. It was cold. Four degrees. And cloudy too, but there was no sign of any rain. My phone promised cloud all day, but little chance of a soaking.

I simply couldn't face riding the slow way. "I'd prefer the hill coming out of Westerham to Beddlestead Lane," I said as we reached the first incline. It was a struggle this morning, coming up Church Way, so the thought of that long, steady climb filled me with dread, just the thought of it.

"Do you reckon it's a mile from Botley to the bus stop?"
"Could be, not sure," said Andy.
"It's three miles from the green," I said.

Easter Sunday and not that many cars on the road. But I still opted for the off-road path towards the end of the 269 as it makes conversation easier. I say 'the end of the 269' but what I mean is the end of our bit of the road. The 269 starts down by old Red Deer pub and ends somewhere in Edenbridge. Once day I'd like to ride the entire length of it, but not today; it's too cold and there's plenty of Easter stuff going on.

There was talk of mission statements and business plans when we reached the bus stop. I said no to biscuits, mainly because I've been overdoing it: chocolate, slices of bread, the odd biscuit, well, make that a good half a dozen biscuits, daily, over the past week. A chocolate HobNob, a ginger nut or two and then some M&S white chocolate cookies (smaller than I expected them to be). I was content to drink tea and then fling my tea bag on to the grass in front of me. Andy did the same and while he normally wins, I think my tea bags had the edge today.

The road sign has disappeared. It used to have the words 'Approach Road' written on it, but now it's gone. About a week ago I drove past the bus stop and noticed the sign had been uprooted but was still in place – vertically. Now it had been taken away.

There were some big potholes in the road on the return journey, but swerving late to avoid them was not a good idea. "There's a big one coming up," I said, and sure enough there it was and we both managed to avoid it without drifting into the middle of the road.

It was cold. The temperature was roughly four degrees Centigrade throughout the duration of the ride and it never rose above six degrees during the rest of the day. Or so it seemed.

Me, in the snow, Botley Hill, April 2008...

On Good Friday we rode 22 miles and on Easter Sunday we managed around 16, that's assuming that there is a mile between Botley Hill and the bus stop. A total so far of 38 miles. Not too bad considering we've had three weeks out of the saddle through bad weather.

There are news reports suggesting overnight snow, which could mean no cycling tomorrow, but I simply don't believe it. It's a bit nippy, yes, especially this morning, but I don't envisage there being any snow. Not that there hasn't been snow in April. And you all know that I'm going to bring up 2008 when Andy and I were caught out in it, close to Botley Hill. At first we thought it was fun and made our way towards the bus stop in awe of the increasingly white-out conditions, but by the time we had to head home our giggles turned to grimaces, our faces froze and, well, we were so glad to reach our respective homes. Hopefully we'll get a ride, but I suspect that if the snow don't get us, the rain will.