New Year's Eve and I bump into Bill Wyman in a caff on the King's Road...

There is a saying that goes something like 'never meet your heroes', but sometimes you simply can't help it. Having engaged in a spot of shopping in Peter Jones I found myself wandering down the King's Road in Chelsea, en route to a place called Gail's, a small, but perfectly formed, cafe. As I walked in, I stepped aside to let somebody out and that person just so happened to be the former Rolling Stone, Bill Wyman.

Bill Wyman, what a guy!

The trouble with meeting your heroes, of course, is that you never know what to say to them until it's too late. I said I'd been reading a book about the Rolling Stones, to which he replied 'which one?' and I mentioned this large coffee table book round at my sister's house in Carshalton. I forgot to mention the book 1971 by David Hepworth in which the Rolling Stones' move to France (to become 'tax exiles') was discussed alongside the band's decision to set up its own label, release Brown Sugar and, in Mick Jagger's case, get married to Bianca Jagger, but there was no time.

Wyman, now 83, and the oldest member of the Rolling Stones (he left in the early 90s) lives in Gedding Hall near Bury St Edmund's in Suffolk, but I'm guessing he has a place in central London too as I can't imagine him driving home to East Anglia tonight.

What a guy! "Pleasure meeting you, Bill," I said and we parted company.

New Year's Eve - to Woodmansterne Green!

Everything is damp and dripping. The roads are wet and I decided to ride to Woodmansterne Green to see Bon. I packed a flask of hot water, four teabags and two mugs and left around 0740hrs, riding through Purley, along Foxley Lane and towards Carshalton's lavender fields where I turned left and rode up the hill towards the green.

Library image of Woodmansterne Green as my iphone lost power (again)

Bon was cycling down the road to meet me and turned when he spotted me. We set up camp on Jean Merrington's wooden bench that surrounds a tree, which was probably planted to commemorate her life, I don't know, but there are lots of benches on Woodmansterne Green devoted to the memories of local residents, like Joyce Lowther (1914 to 1994). It's all a bit depressing, especially when you add the dampness of the grass and the grey sheen of the skies.

We drank tea and chatted and talked about a possible ride on New Year's Day and then said our goodbyes. I cycled back the way I came, although I could have cycled into Coulsdon and then along the Brighton Road into Croydon. I stuck with the more familiar route that eventually took me back into Foxley Lane.

There's a kind of expectancy about New Year's Eve that I'm not comfortable with. Everything is still in anticipation of what? New Year, of course! Later there will be countdowns and then it will dawn on everybody that nothing has changed and they've got to go to work and make New Year resolutions to cut out this and to start exercising and it goes without saying that the capitalists will be exploiting the situation. Don't be fooled into starting up a gym membership, buy a push bike instead, far better value in my humble opinion.

I'm sitting in my conservatory looking out on the back garden. There's a pile of old branches on the lawn that need to be burnt or put away somewhere, but it won't be done today. It's a job that is staring me in the face and will continue to do so until I get out there and fix it. The futility of gardening springs to mind, but I'm not going there, not today.

I rode around 12 miles today and I'm planning a six-mile walk this evening, so I'm keeping things moving. If I did make a New Year resolution it would be to cut out biscuits and chocolates, but I think the best policy is to keep any promises to myself as once people know they pile on the pressure in both directions: there will be cake offered by some while others will goad me for not sticking to my guns. Information is power and it's best kept away from those who don't have your best interests at heart. Who does have your best interests at heart? Not many.

New saddle fitted badly by Cycle King...

I can't say I'm happy with Cycle King in Croydon. This is, I have to say, unusual, as normally the service is very good, but not earlier this week. The reason I was paying a visit to the store was simple: I'd set about fixing on my new saddle, but messed up completely, sending bits of metal falling to the floor and then wondering how the hell to fix the new saddle on to the seat post. It wasn't going to happen, I knew that much, so I picked up all the bits, put them in 'Matt's Biscuit Tin' - a secret Santa present from work - and rolled down the road on the bike, which didn't have a saddle. For most of the short journey I stood up on the pedals, walking bits here and there, and eventually reached the store.

The guy behind the counter took the biscuit tin, I explained my dilemma and said I'd be back in around half an hour. I walked into central Croydon, took a brief look at the books in Waterstone's (to be honest, I needed a wazz and couldn't stand still for long) and then walked back towards South Croydon where Cycle King is based.

When I arrived at the store I found the bike resting against the wall and was, I has to be said, a little concerned. Normally, when I leave the bike with the repair guys, they give me a little slip of paper so that nobody else walks in and takes my bike. This time they didn't do that, the whole thing was done on trust, so it was odd to see my bike just resting against a wall. Literally anybody could have walked away with it. Closer inspection was even greater cause for concern. The saddle had been fitted at a strange 10 degree angle pointing downwards. Now, Cycle King in Croydon has a lot of bikes for sale and they're displayed in rows all around the place, it's a big store. None. I repeat. NONE!!!!! of the bikes have their saddles pointing downwards at an angle of about 10 degrees. None of them. So why mine? "Should it be pointing down like that?" It was a straightforward question from yours truly. The man who fixed it answered. "Yes, that's right," he said as I grabbed the bike and noticed that the saddle was also pointing slightly to the left and not exactly straight ahead in line with the crossbar. I loosened the seat post and straightened the saddle and then left the store. "Nice saddle," said the man, I thought a tad sarcastically.

Saddles shouldn't dip down like that, surely?

I rode home, but I wasn't happy. I knew something more needed to be done and that I'd have to do it. When Andy and I rode to Westerham yesterday he noticed it immediately and said I needed to make a simple adjustment. But there's no such thing as a simple adjustment in my world and I envisaged the plates and bolts securing the saddle falling apart and hiding from me in the garage. Andy assured me it was only a case of loosening the front and tightening the back so on Sunday's ride, Sunday being the 29th December, I brought the Alun keys with me and fixed it on the green, making sure I'd taken the above photograph to tweet on Twitter later. It's fine now.

We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop where there was chat about luminous overshoes from Andy because he suffers from cold feet during the winter. I've found a simple cure: normal leather shoes. My Jeremy Corbyns are on their last legs and I'm now using them as walking shoes, gardening shoes and now cycling shoes and, by and large, my feet remain fairly warm.

The ride was painless, although I'm not a fan of Beddlestead Lane as you know. I think it's worse than the hill coming out of Westerham. After tea and teabag flicking (for a change, I put in a fairly decent performance) we headed for home, Andy branching off at The Ridge and me sailing down the 269, which wasn't that busy due to the Christmas holidays. Andy has no holiday left and is having to work all but the public holidays so we won't meet again until 2020 (weather permitting). I'm going to try to pluck up the enthusiasm to ride mid-week.

Saturday after Boxing Day - to Westerham!

It's the Saturday after Christmas and it's been a busy week as it was my turn to organise the so-called Boxing Day Bash, something that traditionally took place at mum and dad's house, but since dad's death (in 2011) and mum's old age (she's 91 in November) it's moved around a bit. Well, only over the last two years: last year at Bon's and this year at my place. It was a great success and now Christmas is over for another year, although we're now going through that lovely timeless period between the old and the new year and I love it. There's nothing better than a walk around the block at dusk when the Christmas lights adorning the front of people's houses are switched on and it's time to get a glimpse of other people's lives and to gain some kind of insight into the other players of the game of life.

Christmas tree in Westerham, 28/12/19

Yesterday (Friday) we followed the same route.

One of the only things I don't like about the festive season is the unnecessary eating, even if I do tend to do a lot of unnecessary scoffing at the office throughout the year, something I simply must stop doing - now there's a new year resolution. At Christmas time things come into the house that we don't see at other times: there's Garner's Pickled Onions, pate (I don't know how to put the accent over the 'e'), cheeses, biscuits, mince pies and other stuff that is essentially rubbish. Last night, while watching Worzel Gummidge (I never watched the Jon Pertwee series, but having watched Mackenzie Crook's Detectorists and enjoying it immensely I thought I'd sit down and see what transpired). Well, what transpired was a bread roll, some pate and a two pickled onions. I didn't really need any of it, but because it was there and because it was Christmas, I ate the lot, but I can't say I enjoyed the gluttony. So I've thought now's the time to stop this lunacy, although we have a large tin of Quality Street too and I keep saying no to myself and then breaking my promise. It has got to stop, but it didn't. As soon as I returned from the ride I helped myself to around half a dozen chocolates, although that was after a fried egg sandwich and two organic Weetabix.

We rode to Westerham, for a change. The weather was perfect, but there is a problem. Yesterday I went to Cycle King in Croydon to have my new saddle fitted. The reason I did this was because I dismantled the screws and plates securing the existing saddle in place and then forgot which way round it should all be reassembled. I left the bike in the shop and went for a walk into central Croydon (never a good idea at the best of times). After a brief wander around Waterstone's I headed back to the shop and noticed that the saddle had been fitted nose down rather than level. "Is that right?" I asked the man who fixed it and he said yes it was, but I noticed that none of the hundreds of bikes in the Cycle King showroom had their saddles pointing downwards. "Nice saddle," he said as a passing shot and Ieft feeling slightly disgruntled, but still holding on to the notion that he knew better than I. It wasn't until Andy and I stopped on Westerham Green that Andy said it was wrong and needed to be fixed. "Just untighten the front nut and then tighten up the back one," he said, that word 'just' was worrying. If I attempt to fix the saddle that's an 80% chance the bike will be in bits within seconds and I won't be riding; in fact, to avoid that, I'll take the alun keys with me and Andy can watch me make a pig's ear of the process while we're on the ride. At least that way we get a ride in. That said I might nip out there later and give it a try, it's just that I don't trust myself at all with any kind of DIY activity, anything that is deemed to be a 'fixing' exercise. I just lack the dexterity and the confidence to do anything in that ball park so count me out of fixing your car or putting up a picture frame, making shelves, doing any car mechanics, anything at all as the outcome will be negative in so many ways.

It was good to be in Westerham, although the thought of riding back up the hill was pretty terrible. Beddlestead was worst, said Andy as we headed out of town, passing a car that had somehow wedged itself in a roadside ditch. "It was there on Boxing Day," said Andy.

We parted at The Ridge and said we'd meet again on Sunday at the earlier time of 0730hrs. Today we met at 0800hrs.

Exactly four years ago to the day, this is what we were doing: click here!

Rained off...but here's hoping!

This weekend's cycling was rained off completely. It simply hasn't stopped raining. When I looked out at 0600hrs, the rain was hammering next door's rooftop puddle so I immediately sent out an abort text. It happened again on Sunday morning so I sent another abort text and ended up riding alone around the block - my short but hilly six-mile ride. The rain on Saturday was on and off, but mainly in the morning. On both days, I headed out mid-morning, around 1100hrs, and was back in the house 40 minutes later, managing to ride out during a lull in the rain.

This shot taken by Andy Smith on Church Lane, last week! Big puddle!

A brief comment on the above photograph from last weekend's ride: I was behind Andy and passed through the puddle when the car behind the one above reached the puddle. Fortunately he slowed right down and didn't make as big a splash, which was good. I remember cycling through the above puddle on the outward journey and my left foot was completely submerged in the water. All I needed was a clockwork motorboat and I could have spent the morning there messing around with a toy boat and having, quite literally, 'hours of fun'.

It is now Monday morning, 0842hrs, and I am planning to ride out every day until the new year. Might head off in a minute OR leave it until after we've completed our festive chores. It's important that I ride today and tomorrow and possibly even Christmas day too as my record for mid-week rides has been piss poor, something like 010 over the past three weeks. But right now I'm just sitting here and considering another cup of tea, possibly a fried egg sandwich, who knows?

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

Sometimes I have trouble with cycling on a Saturday morning, especially during the winter months. I think it's got a lot to do with having worked all week and wanting a lie in; although, just a later start would sort things out. Still, I got up, looked out of the window (hoping it might be raining so I could crawl back in to bed) and then got dressed for the ride. I checked my phone (perhaps Andy had aborted) and then, all that was between me and the cold air was a puncture, but both tyres were as hard as rock.

I was running late. I couldn't find the balaclava. This could have been a big issue as I've been wearing it on every ride and couldn't face the cold without it. In fact, it was likely to be an 'abort' issue. After rummaging around in the cupboard, getting, it has to be said, a little annoyed, I found it and basically, bar that potential for a puncture, had to ride the bike. But the faffing around had cost me dear and I wasn't going to reach the green until 0745hrs. When I got there I was still weary and dreading a long ride. Andy was tired too so my suggestion of St Leonard's Church was welcomed and we headed off on the two-mile ride (it can't be much further). I reckon, in total, it was a 12-mile ride, but 'that'll do pig' I thought to myself.

The weather was fine. It had been raining heavily overnight and there were some massive puddles, in some places spanning the road. I rode slowly through the first one and, indeed, the second, and on the return ride there were two cars coming in the opposite direction. I slowed to avoid a soaking. Andy had already gone through. The second car slowed and I waited. Then I rode through the water, the bike slowing as I reached the middle. There were waves, caused by the car, which made the whole thing childishly exciting. Normally, when I see a large puddle, I wish I had a small clockwork motorboat, but, as always, I leave it at home.

There's a robin in there somewhere!

When we reached our destination we chatted about our early rides and our inability to grasp the fact that having a puncture repair kit in our rucksack would have been a good idea now and then. We reminisced on our long walks from Westerham to Oxted pushing our bikes along the street listening to the squelchy sound of a flat tyre. In those days we only rode to Westerham, 22 miles in total and we used to stand outside the Co-op eating a Danish pastry, but we didn't have any tea as we hadn't worked out that we could bring a flask with us and sit somewhere, like the small bench next to the Co-op, chilling out.

The churchyard at St Leonard's is pretty sparse and damp. There was a recently made grave that still needed its headstone and all we could hear was the sound of paper rustling, the paper the contained the flowers. Graveyards always bring it home to me, my mortality, and thinking back just 13 years made me realise how long Andy and I had been doing this, getting up at 0600hrs every Saturday and Sunday morning, rain or shine most of the time.

"When I look at some of the photos my hair was blacker," I said. "I suppose I could always dye it."

We joked about it, although it was never something I'd considered. What's best, I often wonder, being bald or being grey? I suppose it has to be the latter because I could always resort to dyeing my grey hair, but if I was bald I'd have to get a wig.

As we stood around sipping tea, a robin arrived and flitted nervously from branch to branch of the bushes behind our chosen bench. It was too wet to sit down so I set about trying to take a photograph of the robin with my iphone. Andy tried with his camera, but the bird kept its distance and eventually hopped off.

"It's strange the way it all happened. A curry in Whyteleafe, a suggestion that we go for a ride at the weekend and we haven't stopped since, it's been 13 years," I said.

It had been six years since Phil started riding with us and for the past two or three years we've not seen nor heard from him. I often wonder if he's still riding. "For Phil it was therapy," I said as we started to pack things away and consider the shortish ride home. It was nice not being far, far away and it was nice not to be contemplating the dangers of the 269.

Andy rode all the way to the green where we parted company, vowing to meet on Sunday, weather permitting.

As it turned out the weather was fine and as it was Sunday and the sun was shining we headed for the bus stop. The thought of Beddlestead Lane dragged me down as always, but not for long. Overnight there had been heavy rain and those puddles from yesterday were even bigger than before. The big puddle on Church Lane was deep and as I rode through it my left foot was completely submerged and remained wet throughout the rest of the ride.

Riding side-by-side along Beddlestead Lane Andy asked an interesting question. "I wonder what the media will find to talk about now that the election is over."

I couldn't think of anything and instead suggested that there would probably be a natural disaster, like a tsunami or something to focus their minds. "What about that volcano in New Zealand?" I said.

The conversation edged round to adrenaline junkies. "I've never been interested in anything like that," I said as we passed the totem pole, riding side-by-side, and made our way towards the mobile phone mast and the final straight towards Clarks Lane. And that's when Andy said he'd jumped out of a plane and had bungee-jumped half a dozen times. The parachute jump was a two-day affair over at Headcorn in Kent. Day one in training learning how to land and then the jump from around 2,000 feet. The bungee jumping was with a pal who bottled out at the last minute, but not Andy.

At the bus stop we engaged in less dangerous activities, like flicking teabags off the end of a teaspoon and watching the Lycra monkeys with their luminous overshoes as they passed by heading east on Clarks Lane or west towards Botley Hill.

On the return ride I joined Andy on the route through Woldingham. Sometimes I can't face the 269 and even the hill on Slines Oak Road seemed like a better bet. I reached home just before 1000hrs.

Tatsfield bus stop on Saturday and St Leonard's Church on Sunday...

I was feeling uncharacteristically chirpy this morning despite a relatively late night, hitting the sack around 2330hrs instead of an hour earlier and waking up and listening to the wind and rain on a couple of occasions during the night. I was, however, up at 0600hrs eating porridge with fresh fruit and checking out the web for cycling shorts and a decent saddle, there's so much choice. Later, when Andy and I reached our destination of St Leonard's church in Chelsham, I found that I had the Small Faces' Lazy Sunday Afternoon in my head. "Wouldn't it be nice to get on with yer neighbours!"

Christmas tree on Sanderstead's 'Gruffy'

Yesterday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, which is our usual way these days, and when we reached it we pondered many things including the essay question: "Everyone is a cunt." Discuss. I was going to have a crack at it - and still might - because the level of general cuntery in the UK at the moment is such that I feel such an essay is warranted and way overdue. Perhaps everybody should have a go.

It was good riding the short distance to St Leonard's. We'd been here before, of course, although I'd have to go through the archives to find out exactly when; it's one of those places we go to when we've got to get back early and it suited us both today. It meant that I reached home at 0915 having stopped off at the garage to give the bike a jet clean and buy a EuroMillions lottery ticket, just for the hell of it. That and a plain chocolate Bounty bar which I should have resisted. But there's my weak-will for you; I can't resist a chocolate bar now and then, although, at present it's a little more frequent that simply 'now and then'.

There's a Christmas tree on the green at Sanderstead, which was a pleasant sight as I rode through the churchyard on both Saturday and Sunday morning, although I didn't go through the churchyard on Sunday, preferring to stay on the road, making my angle of approach towards the tree slightly different today than yesterday.

Time for tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

We're thinking seriously about the Pop Inn in Redhill next weekend, mainly because we're getting bored of the same old routes. The slow way to the bus stop is fine, but we know it off by heart and there is a need for variety, which we're not getting at the moment. There's no point, for example, taking the same shots week in and week out of our bikes leaning against the bus stop, it's been done many times.

The problem with St Leonard's on a December morning is that the benches are going to be wet and we're going to have to stand up and not sit down like we do at the bus stop, but we didn't care.

I was dressed in my usual cycling attire: the rust-coloured jacket that has seen better days, a heavy jumper, multi-pocketed trousers from Millets and my rather menacing green balaclava. I was wearing my walking shoes, which are now fairly muddy and all-in-all, going back to that essay question, I looked like a right cunt, albeit a chirpy one.

The sun is shining brightly and right at me as I sit in the conservatory writing this blogpost. The trees are bare and silhouetted against ther sun's rays, there's a jet circling somewhere overhead prior to making its final approach into London Heathrow and there's dew on the grass. It's not cold either, which is a relief as last week I never managed to get a week-day ride in because of extreme cold (it was around minus one). I must go out tomorrow morning as it looks as if the rain will return on Tuesday.

My Christmas goes up a week early!

Andy rode to the green today and we parted at the garage where I stopped to give my bike a much-needed jet clean. All I need to do now is oil the chain and it should be alright. As avid readers will know, punctures have played a central role in my cycling life of late (see previous post) but other than that, all is well. There are birds chirping outside, the grass flutters in the breeze and the light is appealing, it was even better this morning as we rode those country lanes close to the church.

I've still got my trousers tucked in to my socks, but I'll soon rectify that. Time, I think, for a cup of tea.

Dogged by punctures...

Tuesday 3rd December: Well, not in too bad a way. I mean I wasn't stranded miles from home or, to be fair, even on the bike or outside in the cold. No, I was in the house, but prepared to go out in the cold and ride the six-mile hill run. Last week I'd only managed one, I didn't go out yesterday (Monday 2nd December) as planned (miles too cold) but today it was a case of both trouser legs tucked into my trousers, no more than a cup of tea to fuel me and I was out there. Padlock undone, balaclava, scarf, jacket, the full outfit, but guess what? As I wheeled the bike out of the dark garage I noticed something. No, not a rear wheel puncture but how about this? It was the front wheel! Rare, yes, but it's happened. It's easy to fix, of course, but I don't have time, it's a work day, but later tonight I'll be out there. So I'm back in the house, it's almost a quarter past seven and that absolute bastard, Dominic Raab, is on the radio lying about the NHS and a trade deal with the USA. Anyway, enough of this.

Great ride Saturday, but late night prompts Sunday morning abort text...

Great ride on Saturday. We rode through Woldingham and then through the golf course en route to the Tatsfield Bus Stop where we drank tea and chatted before heading home again. There was a frost on the ground and the skies were clear, it was a pleasant day. Andy and I parted at The Ridge and I risked the off-road path. I still don't know if I've got a puncture waiting for me in the garage because I didn't ride today. I attended a birthday party and didn't get to hit the sack until around 0100hrs.

Cold weather on Saturday morning, great ride though!

I woke up around 0500hrs but stayed in bed, fell back to sleep and then woke up as the radio sparked to life at 0700hrs. The plan was to go out on the short six-miler, I even went as far as getting ready and walking around the house (for most of the day) with my right trouser leg tucked into my sock until I resigned myself to not cycling, for some reason I couldn't face it. I read the first chapter of a book by David Hepworth entitled 1971 and then I drove to mum's, ate some cake, drank some tea, watched Escape to the Country, drove to Sutton, drove home and now here I sit at the dining table with the television on, but I'm not watching it, I should switch it off, but somebody's switched over to the Harry Potter movie, the last one, where Harry and Hermione have their own kids and they're about to go to Hogwart's. Got to get my act together tomorrow. Dinner's on, I can smell it and it smells good and there's the Strictly results show coming up. Sundays are great, especially when it's dark and cold outside. It's almost 1900hrs and I'm wondering about the bike, perhaps I ought to take a look. I'd hate to have a puncture because that would throw me for the whole week. Another rear wheel puncture would be terrible so best not to think about it.

There's an election debate on. It's so boring. Really, it is. There are no candidates suitable for the top job. Farage? Nope. Johnson? Nope. Swinson? Nope. Corbyn? Nope. All the rest of them? Nope. They're all lying, none of them can be trusted. I've considered not voting, for the first time in my voting life.

London Bridge terrorist attack - once again the attacker known to the police

Once again, a London Bridge terror attack and once again, sadly, everything follows the same old pattern, commonly known as the 'standard establishment response'. Here is that response so you can use it in checklist format and tick off things as they happen.

1. After an attack, politicians feel obliged to condemn the incident with phrases like "There is no room in our civilised society for the evil and barbarism exhibited today and it is my duty to extinguish the terrorist threat from this land and bring together our country again."
2. Professional mourners. A shrine must appear on the spot where people died and the media must film complete strangers leaving tea lights and messages of sympathy.
3. Known to the police. Invariably it will be announced that the attacker was known to the police and under surveillance (but, as always, not being watched closely enough). In the case of the latest London Bridge attack, Usman Khan was released because in 2012 the coalition government scrapped Imprisonment for Public Protection (IPP) introduced by Labour's David Blunkett in 2008.
4. A quiet suburban house must be raided by the police, normally miles away from the incident, and later filmed by the media who will interview locals and be told that he, the attacker, was very quiet, didn't say much, he was very normal. 'Who would have thought it!'
5. Thumbnail images of the victims to be appear in newspapers along with condemnatory comments on the attacker revealing his strong links to terrorism and designed to make the general public wonder why he was at large.
6. The word 'community' must be used extensively, particularly by religious leaders, in relation to the attack.
7. A meeting of the COBRA committee should be convened (although it achieves absolutely nothing) and the general public are supposed to feel reassured and awestruck. "Oooh! The COBRA committee!"
8. 'In other news'. After seven days the entire incident must be relegated to 'other news' and quickly forgotten about.

Slow way to bus stop and thick fog...

Yesterday (Saturday) I should have gone out on the bike. Yes, there was rain forecasted and it had been raining (the ground was wet and there were puddles) but it wasn't actually raining, or if it was it was only the odd raindrop, nothing that would have caused any problems. I didn't go out. Andy had aborted.

On the off-road path coming home in the fog

Instead, I went on one of those Saturday afternoon shopping trips having spent most of the morning doing nothing but listening to music, mainly bluesy music, country music and a bit of Bob Dylan who kind of crosses the bluesy, country, folk divide. I love Subterranean Homesick Blues, but also Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. I finished off with This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us, by Sparks, which has nothing to do with any of the aforementioned genres.

After a lunch in the M&S cafe in Bromley I ventured off alone to Waterstone's where I looked at books in the travel literature, history and music sections. I would have bought Eric Hobsbawn's An Age of Extremes (it might have been The Age of Extremes) but they didn't have it. I considered a number of travel books, but eventually settled with Coal Black Mornings by the leader singer of Suede, Brett Anderson.

You can't beat Waterstone's. There's nothing better than a decent bookshop, I don't know what it is, but they're cosy places especially at this time of the year when the darkness of winter encroaches on the late afternoon and Christmas trees appear here and there. The only problem with the Bromley Waterstone's, which is in the Glades shopping mall, is the lack of chairs on which to sit and read.

Watching the fog from the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Sunday 24 November 2019

Later on. Much later on, I was coming back from Oxted in the dark and decided (as I had to kill a few minutes) to measure the mileage of my round-the-block rides. For some time now I've been riding around the block first thing in the morning during the week. It's a good circuit with enough ups and downs to make it worthwhile on a fitness level, but I had no idea how far I was riding. It turns out to be six miles on the nose, which is good as I try to ride the new route three times a week, meaning an additional 18 miles to my cycling. The ride takes around 40 minutes.

And now it is Sunday morning. Everyone in the house is asleep except for me. I'm sitting downstairs in front of the laptop, writing this and listening to classical music on Radio 3 before I head out to the green to meet Andy. When I woke up it wasn't raining and there have been no abort texts. The only possible stumbling block could be if I had a puncture.

Over-the-top florist on Warlingham Green

Well, I didn't have a puncture, but I was running late, although when I reached the green there was no sign of Andy. While I waited I noticed that a Christmas tree had appeared, but no decorations, not yet at any rate. In fact, later on I drove past after dark and there were lights. We rode the slow way to bus stop and as we approached the junction with Clarks Lane, we noticed the fog. It had swept in quickly and there were virtually white-out conditions. Cars disappeared within seconds of them passing and it was good to reach the bus stop where we did what we always do: drink tea and flick our teabags off the end of a teaspoon, seeing who could throw - or flick - their teabag the greatest distance. Today it was fairly level pegging, but Andy's better at it than I am. I reckon he practices in his back garden.

I considered going back via The Ridge with Andy, but in the end opted for the off-road track. Here's hoping I haven't got a puncture. I'll find out in the morning. I reached home around 1010hrs and sat around watching guilty dogs on Youtube, but there are things to be done and I need to get moving, although, to be honest, it's wet and grey out there, not exactly gardening weather.

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Another rear wheel puncture, so off to the shop I went!

What to start with this week? It's got to be Prince Andrew's so-called 'car crash' interview with Newsnight's Emily Maitlis. There's two things I simply don't get. First, when he was asked whether he'd shagged what's her name, Virginia something or other, he said he couldn't recollect doing anything, even meeting her. Now, let's be honest here: if you're asked a straightforward question like that, you give a straightforward answer and it's either yes or no. To say you can't recollect it implies that you might well have done the dirty deed, you just can't remember because you were pissed, although, I can't believe that anybody can have sex with somebody and forget it happened, unless they deliberately want to forget it ever happened. That's one thing. Another is that photograph. He was adamant that the shot had been taken upstairs at Epstein's gaff, but said he'd never been upstairs, making me wonder how he knew it was taken upstairs. Where there's smoke...

Warlingham Green - all the fun of the fair

What else? Oh, yes, the photographer Terry O'Neill has died. I bring this up because I have worked with him, directly, and he was a nice bloke. In a nutshell, I had interviewed the film star Terence Stamp and he insisted that O'Neill took the photograph.

Not much else to say on the news front to be honest. I'm a Celebrity is on the box so I'm kind of watching it out of the corner of my eye while typing this blog post. They've gone to the first break and there's loads of Christmas ads. How boring! It's only 17 November. I suppose they've got to start at some stage.

Ant and Dec are such wankers. There! I said it.

Anyway, moving on. Yesterday, Saturday, was a great ride. I left home around 0710hrs, met Andy at the green and off we went to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, chatting about Brexit all the way and then drinking tea and heading home. Great weather, but cold, so I wore the balaclava, which made all the difference.

But guess what? When I woke up on Sunday morning, after making the tea, I headed out to the garage to find yet another rear wheel puncture, so I aborted the ride and later pumped up the deflated tyre and rode to the bike shop. Then I walked into central Croydon, weird and desolate on a Sunday morning, and then walked straight back to the shop, picked up the bike and rode home. Effectively that was my day. When I got back I slobbed around for a while, messed around on the computer, the usual stuff, and then I drove over to mum's for some fruit cake. I sat there watching Escape to the Country with Aled Jones while sipping tea and munching cake and then I had a KitKat before driving home, messing around on the computer again and then eating a jacket potato and beans followed by a Tazo orange tea.

The Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 16th November 2019...

Right now there's another ad break on I'm a Celebrity and another sickly festive advertisement, this time courtesy of Tesco - 'delivering Christmas for 100 years'. Really. Who cares?

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Great ride Saturday, no ride Sunday, another puncture and a new watch!

I won't say I'm not very pissed off, because I am. Very pissed off. Over the last week I've had THREE rear wheel punctures. I got back after my ride yesterday and noticed that the rear tyre was, well, let's say softer than it was when I embarked upon Saturday's cycle to the Tatsfield Bus Stop with Andy. It's annoying for one reason, well, for more than one, but the main one being we were planning a ride to Westerham today and breakfast in the caff, but now it's not to be, and that's not only because of the puncture, which is bad enough, but also the fact that I simply couldn't face going out into the garage at 0630hrs to fix it. Look, getting up early is fine (just about fine) but year in and year out we do it and we love it, not so much the getting up, but riding the bikes; but fixing punctures BEFORE a ride? No. So I aborted.

Yesterday we rode the slow way to the bus stop and it was fantastic, a great work-out. But when I reached home the tyre was soft and I know that if (when) I head out to the garage in a few moments - right now I'm drinking me tea, my second cup of tea, but it's decaff so its alright, but as soon as I've finished it, I'm out there, I've got to take the rear wheel off, then do all the usual things that need to be done to fix it. I'm not going to moan anymore, in fact, I'm going to talk about something completely different: I bought a watch last week in Carnaby Street. Yes, a watch. Avid readers might recall that many years ago I was the proud owner of a Rolex watch. I'd bought it with some spare cash at the time and, well, there were issues when I look back. It never really kept the right time, probably because it was one of those perpetual motion watches and somebody in Brussels told me recently that they're not as accurate as quartz watches. That somebody worked in the Swatch shop in Brussels, not far from the Grand Place. I walked in off the street - I can't think of any other way of walking in, to be honest, it's not as if I could have parachuted in. Anyway, I bowled in, because that's what I do, I bowl in to places, I rock up, and was told that perpetual motion watches simply don't keep good time. Well, the Rolex people told me my watch needed a service, but guess what? It costs £400 to service a Rolex watch and it was starting to get a little ridiculous. To be honest, in the end I stopped wearing it. What was the point? And add to that the fact that it looked a little ostentatious, the sort of thing people rob you for, so it skulked around in a box upstairs, never seeing the light of day, until, that is, I found myself in debt. Time, perhaps, to sell the Rolex, which I did and I got double what I paid for it. Result, you might say, but it left me watchless. Not that people wear watches any more; instead they rely upon the clock on their iphones, I know I do. And then I bought a little Timex watch with a glowing face, but it was cheap and nasty and part of the brand's Expedition series. Yes, I fancied myself as Indiana Jones and whenever I travel abroad I take it with me and keep it on UK time. But it lacks finesse and, if I may say so, so do I. I lack finesse in so many different areas, one of them being sartorial elegance. I wear Jeremy Corbyn shoes and V-necked jumpers and cheap shirts and ties. I am man at Millets or Primani, and quite frankly I'm getting fed up with it.

Sekonda's Midnight Blue

I was watching Dave for some reason, I think it was Dave Gorman's Terms and Conditions Apply, and I noticed that the Sekonda Midnight Blue (it's a watch) sponsors comedy on Dave. What I great watch! Or so I thought. I started to obsess about it, like I do whenever I want something. I get like a little kid and start wanting it immediately. I found myself staring at it in shop windows, even getting the jeweller to let me take a look at it in the flesh; it was a nice watch and it only cost £70. Now, compared to the Rolex, that's cheap, right? Of course it is, but then a trip to Brussels changed things. I walked into that Swatch shop off the Grand Place and spotted the Casual Blue. It was a little more expensive (£135) but now I had a new obsession and it had to be put to rest so I bought it, not there and then in Brussels, but a week later in London. I should have bought it in Brussels because then there would have been a story attached to it. "I bought it in Brussels, you know". But no, I bought it from the Swatch UK shop in Carnaby Street and ever since I've bought it (it's now three days old at the time of writing) I can't stop looking at it. It's a got a blue face and it looks like the sort of watch spies or explorers wear in the movies, the sort of watch the camera cuts to whenever the time is brought up. It's stainless steel with a leather stitched strap, its perfect in every way. And it's heavy too. The last thing I want is light watch. In fact, before buying any Swatch watch make sure you see it in the flesh. When I arrived at the Swatch shop in London there were watches there that I'd considered buying (while browsing on-line) that were far flimsier than I suspected. The Casual Blue, however, lived up to everything I expected from it so I bought it there and then and left the shop feeling good about myself.

Swatch Casual Blue...

Ever since then I keep looking at it when it's on my wrist. Feel free to ask me the time, I say to people I know. Feel free, and if you do, I'll stretch out my left arm and tell you and you'll notice this huge chunk of stainless steel with a blue dial and a brown leather strap. It's cool, of course it is! And I love it.

So I've finished my tea and the sun is shining and I'm annoyed that I didn't get out on the bike today. Had I gone out, I'd be on the way back now, probably about half an hour away from my front door, but I didn't go out, I stayed in and there's a puncture in the garage waiting for me to fix it. Oooh! Is that the time? Better go.

A thorough drenching on Saturday and a puncture on Sunday

Tuesday 5th November: I thought there would be no riding at all this weekend due to poor weather. All week the forecasters had been saying that Saturday would be a wash-out, but when I checked the weather app on my iphone, the rain clouds of previous days had been replaced by a cloud without the blue rain underneath it, not until 0900hrs at any rate; that was when the rain was expected to fall, and, by and large, that's exactly what happened.

A pleasant and autumnal start to Saturday but later rain

Andy and I met on the green as usual and then headed off in the direction of Botley Hill along the 269. We'd decided to ride to the bus stop, the slow way, and while I felt sufficiently out of condition, having not enjoyed a long ride since 6 October, I soon found I was powering along Beddlestead Lane and was clearly not as unfit as I thought I was. We reached the bus stop and drank our tea while discussing Brexit and then it started to rain so we remained under the shelter of the bus stop until the rain stopped.

There was, I figured, a good chance that we'd escape a soaking. When Andy and I parted at The Ridge, I was thinking I could power along the 269 and get home before the rain starts up again, but no, it wasn't going to happen. A mild drizzle started and before I reached Slines Oak Road the rain was falling by the ton and I took refuge under a bus shelter opposite Sainsbury's, but not for long. I figured the rain was settling in for the long haul so I put on a brave face and headed for the green and, ultimately, Sanderstead. In the process, I was soaked, drenched, whatever other adjective you might care to use. but I was wet-through. The rain persisted and there was simply no point in taking shelter anywhere so I continued on my way, through the high street, down Church Way and when I reached home I had to peel my clothes off and hang them up to dry.

Fortunately, they were dry on Sunday morning and when I woke up at 0600hrs there was no rain, just a huge puddle on the roof of next door's extension. But when I headed outside to jump on the bike, having made the tea for the ride, I found my rear tyre was flat - again! I aborted and set about fixing the puncture a little later. It's ready to ride now, but there's no time as I've got a family event to attend and looking at the week ahead, it looks like more rain.

Christmas decorations spotted in Marks & Spencer, Sutton. Not long to go!

Feeling slightly depressed about the whole thing I left the bike in the garage and now I'm contemplating the week ahead and whether my early morning rides will be disrupted by the weather. Monday (yesterday) was fine and today (Tuesday) looks roughly the same, although rain is promised at lunch time. In other words, I will be going out shortly on a ride round the block. Unless, that is, I find a puncture. And the answer to that question is no, I didn't have a puncture, but I left the house late and decided to return and get to work on time. I'll go tomorrow morning, on time. I need to do at least three rides per week, so Monday, Wednesday and Friday is fine.

Leaving Brussels and heading home...

Breakfast in the hotel was fine, not the best, but not the worst either. I started with scrambled egg, mushrooms and one tiny sausage and followed up with a bowl of Coco Pops (I haven't had them for ages). Add a couple of paper cups of tea (I chose the paper mugs because they were bigger than the tiny cups) and a small pastry plus some yoghurt and another bowl of Coco Pops. You might think I was being greedy on the breakfast cereal, but I wasn't, the bowls were about the size of a teacup. I was tempted to have another pastry, but resisted, and soon, having checked out, found myself crossing town in a taxi.

6th floor, NH Hotel Brussels Grand Place...

Around midday I headed back to the Grand Place as I wanted to take a look at a watch, which I now intend to buy (it's better than the Sekonda Midnight Blue). But I didn't buy it, I just looked at it longingly and then continued to wander about looking for somewhere to eat lunch, until I realised that time was running out and I ought to be heading for Brussels Midi station instead and the 1456 Eurostar to London. I walked back to the hotel, feeling, it has to be said, a little weary and depressed having awoken around 0300hrs and not falling back to sleep. In fact, I  got up around 0430ish, or just before 0500hrs, and really need to sleep. The taxi meandered through heavy traffic, but got me there in time to have 'lunch' at a Pret a Manger on the station concourse (ham baguette, two bananas, cookie and tea). I sat outside the store watching people running around catching trains here, there and everywhere and eventually, of course, it was my turn to head for the barriers and, being an international train, the faff of security.

The ride home in seat 81, coach 13 was pleasant and I did fall asleep. Soon we were in the tunnel, crossing under the English Channel, and by just gone 1600hrs I was back at King's Cross St Pancras, annoyed that Hatchard's the bookstore had disappeared. I made my way to the London Underground, jumped on a southbound train to London Bridge where I jumped out and bought an inner tube for my bike from Evans Cycles. My weekly short rides around the block were brought to an abrupt halt on Wednesday morning when I discovered a rear-wheel puncture.

I got home to an empty house and decided to fix the puncture before anybody else turned up. This I did and then I sat and watched television. There's a General Election on 12 December, the first winter election for around 100 years. There's also been a fire on a train in Pakistan, England's rugby team plays in the World Cup Final this coming Saturday against South Africa, and Donald Trump is interfering with the English election by suggesting to Nigel Farage on his LBC radio show that he do a deal with Boris Johnson. Can you honestly think of two people less qualified to run the country as Farage and Johnson? I can't. In all honesty, while I know there's a lot of right wing press against him, I think I'll vote for Corbyn and set the cat among the pigeons for the next five years. Who cares if he taxes my back garden and lets in loads of immigtants, they're coming in anyway and that, my friends, is the irony of Brexit. A lot of people voted Brexit because of immigration and don't kid me they were frightened of Spanish accountants, they thought it would get rid of the bhurkas and all those nasty foreigners from Somalia and Eritrea with different skin colours to ours, those 'fuzzy wuzzies', but the racists were wrong and they were conned. Non-EU migrants are coming in droves and there's been no let-up by the Government. They reckon our population will hit 70 million in the not-too-distant future and I'm waiting for the bigoted Brexiteers to realise they've been conned and hopefully, in the North East, that moment of realisation will come shortly after Nissan has moved elsewhere and they're all out of work. "But how did you vote in the referendum, Mr Unemployed and On Benefits? Oh, you voted Brexit did you? Well, you only have yourself to blame!"

The weather is looking very poorly and I'm expecting some abort texts this weekend. There's rain setting in and that means no riding. Why I bothered fixing the puncture I'll never know. I hope we do get out, but normally if there's rain it's in the morning and that's when we go cycling.

Three years ago.

In Brussels...for one night and a day

I travelled on the 1258 Eurostar - a recently refurbished E300, said the guard over the intercom - and all was well. Fortunately, I had lunch at the Station Pantry having cleared security, so there was no need to trampse up and down the train with hot tea and extortionate snacks. Instead I just sat there playing with my iphone. We stopped at Ebbsfleet around 10 minutes after leaving St. Pancras and then I think Calais Frethun followed by Lille and then Brussels Midi. I took a taxi through the congested streets of the city and now I sit in the NH Hotel Brussels Grand Place Arenberg, which would have taken me around half an hour to walk. To be honest, I don't have my trainers otherwise I probably would have hoofed it over here. I'm only in town for one night and then I'm heading home so there's no room for walking shoes.

Room 610 NH Hotels Brussels Grand Place

In fact, talking of walking, I need to really get my act together - along with my colleague Paul in the office - and start up our round-the-town treks. We've given in a little bit to the caff and it's not the way to go.

Anyway, back to Brussels. I'm sitting here at the desk of room 610, a fairly pleasant room with two single beds, a decent-looking bathroom and a minibar stacked with various things, including a tiny Toblerone, which I've eaten. I know, I shouldn't have stayed well clear, and let's face it, I'm not a great fan of the triangular chocolate, but I figured that I was in Belgium so I might as well eat one. Furthermore, there's no restaurant here in the hotel so I'll have to go out later in search of somewhere to eat dinner. There's also no iron or ironing board so I've had to hang a shirt on one of the hangers provided and hope it loses the creases developed while stuffed in my tiny one-night-away suitcase, which is little more than a glorified laptop case. Still, it does the trick. What's the point of a huge piece of luggage for one change of clothes? None at all.

The room is rather cosy and it's got a lot to do with the lighting, which is pleasantly dim and perfect for this time of year. Although the room is fairly modern in terms of furnishings, a smouldering log or coal fire would add to the ambience. There's a flat-screen television on the wall opposite the bed and an office block across the street and because they're still working here in Brussels, I've had to draw the curtains as I don't want nosey office working spying on me.

About to leave St. Pancras Intl...

I'm going to take a wander around, although I know roughly where I am as I've been to Brussels many times before. I'm close to the Grand Place, that's for sure, I mean the hotel has the words Grand Place in its name so it can't be far, but where to eat? There's a great Indian restaurant around here somewhere, called the Spicy Grill, I've written about it before, or rather I've raved about it before and now I might have to seek it out (and risk bad breath in the morning). Which reminds me, I need toothpaste. I always need something. If it's not toothpaste, it's a razor or shaving foam, there's always something missing and it's very annoying as I don't have time to faff around on this trip, it's a whistle-stop visit, one night, a meeting and then home again. I might have a couple of hours tomorrow to do a bit of mooching around, but I don't have the footwear for any serious walking.

When I left the hotel in search of the Grand Place, it was dark. A lot of shops were still open but mostly only those selling fridge magnets, bobble hats and scarves, plus one or two waffle houses with, it has to be said, some pretty imaginative waffles on display. Unfortunately, I'm not a big fan so I passed them by, although I did stop off at the Hard Rock to buy a fridge magnet, adding to my collection of two from Tokyo and Pittsburgh. I wandered into a Swatch retailer and saw the perfect watch for yours truly. It had a blue dial and a brown leather strap and I want it so badly. Don't get me wrong, it's not expensive, not like that Rolex I used to own but was forced to sell to pay off a debt. In fairness, I never wore it and it gained time so it was always, in my opinion, a bit pointless. But that doesn't mean I don't want a decent watch to wear. I looked at it for a long time, prompting the saleswoman to try her luck, but I wasn't buying, not right then at any rate, although buying it in Brussels would give it a back story that it wouldn't possess if I purchased it online. "I bought this in a little shop off the Grand Place in Brussels, you know!" I might say if asked.

I needed to find somewhere to stop and eat dinner and chose Bocconi, a fantastic Italian restaurant where I have been a customer on two previous occasions. It's a very, very nice restaurant, it never ever lets me down and it's worth every penny. I skipped dessert and I don't drink so the bill was a modest 57 Euros and now I'm back in the hotel and will probably go to bed with my book by Laurie Lee. Yes, I'm still reading it, mainly because I don't tend to get a lot of time to sit and read and by the time I get home most nights I'm too tired and there's always something good on the box. Not tonight. Or perhaps there will be something good on, who knows? I'll check it out.

Awaiting dinner in Bocconi, Brussels...

A general election looms back home in the UK and I find myself wondering about all the political parties and how I don't really feel comfortable voting for any of them. Boris Johnson? Well, no, he's a buffoon and a liar and a pompous git and a Tory and they've messed the country up enough and certainly need some time out of power. Jeremy Corbyn? I'd like to vote him, but can I really be so stupid? The bastard wants to tax my back garden, for heaven's sake, and he's keen on letting all and sundry into the country when there's already too many people. Then there's Jo Swinson. She's more like a primary school teacher than the leader of a political party and no, I can't vote for her either. I think the problem is that none of our political leaders have any gravitas, they're not what I would call 'proper politicians' and, therefore, there's nobody worth voting for. I need to sit down and think long and hard about what I want before 12 December, the day of the proposed election, two days after my birthday.

Subterranean Homesick Blues
It's around 0300hrs on the morning of Halloween, when I wake up in the pitch dark and look around. Nothing much is happening, there's the occasional sounds of people talking as my room is right opposite the elevators so when people get back late from some party or other they stand around talking before heading to their rooms. I'm not saying I was woken up by the noise, I just woke up and tried to get back to sleep. But then, for some reason, I started thinking about Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues and found it on Spotify, I simply had to play it, even through the tinny little speaker on my iphone.

Johnny's in the basement

Mixing up the medicine

I'm on the pavement

Thinking 'bout the government

I don't really want to think about the government, not at 0300hrs, but I still listen to the track twice, it's that good, and then I try to sleep, but it's impossible. I got out of bed around five minutes ago and it's now 0511hrs, a great time to sit around writing something - anything for that matter. It's a long way to breakfast, that's all I can say. I'm looking forward to breakfast, there's nothing better than a hotel breakfast and that's for sure, although the restaurant is a bit of goldfish bowl down on the ground floor with windows looking out on the street. Is it worth going back to bed, resetting the alarm to 0630hrs and at least getting around an hour's sleep? Probably not. I can sleep on the Eurostar home.

View from a taxi window in Brussels...

Did I mention that I don't have toothpaste or a razor? I think I did. Oddly, I have a toothbrush and shaving foam so perhaps I should clean my teeth with soap and shave with my toothbrush, although somehow I don't think it'll work. Did I also mention that my room has two single beds pushed together? I might have done. Anyway, I fell between the two while watching the news. They must be on casters and as I was lying across both of them, trying to make myself comfortable, the beds simply went their own way and I ended up between them. Luckily, there was nobody around to witness the spectacle. In fact, talking of spectacle, room 610, and I'm sure other rooms in this hotel, has a toilet observation window, albeit frosted. This is very annoying because normally when I stay in a hotel I leave the light in the bathroom on and the door closed except for a small slit of light, but with an observation window this practice is impossible as the light floods through the glass and on to the bed. That's why I woke up in the dark.

To Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon...

I'd made the tea, I was dressed and ready to head outside and ride to the green to meet Andy when I decided to check the iphone. Andy had aborted and I nearly did too. Having woken up at 0500hrs thinking it was an hour later, I could have simply gone back to bed and it was tempting, but no, I texted Bon to see if he wanted to meet on Woodmansterne Green. He did, so off I went to meet him.

Our bikes on Woodmansterne Green, Sunday morning

Having not been on a ride for a fortnight, I was out of condition and found the ride a little sluggish, especially on the road leading to Woodmansterne Green. Bon met me half way and we both headed towards the green where I produced the tea. The weather was wonderful and we spent a long time drinking tea, wandering about, chatting about stuff and enjoying the warmth of a late October Sunday morning.

Bon and yours truly...

The ride from the green to the Croydon Road was freezing. My face started to ache, that's how cold it was, and I was glad when I made the right turn and headed, largely off-road, towards Foxley Lane. I decided to ride up the steep side of West Hill, which was fairly painless and when I reached home I went straight out again, but in the car, not on the bike. The bike, incidentally, needs a drop of oil. The car took me to mum's and all the way there I listened to Automatic For the People by REM.

It was good to see mum and eat some cake, but soon it was time to head home via the car wash. On the drive home I listened to Iggy Pop. "Here comes my Chinese rug...".

It was a lazy day, which was much needed.

Early morning thoughts on a Sunday morning

It catches me out every year and 2019 was no exception. I woke up, turned to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, noted it was saying 0611hrs and started to wonder why my iphone hadn't woken me up. Last night I had checked that it was set and while it needed charging, which meant I left it downstairs in the hall, plugged to the wall, I knew that I would hear it when it sparked up. Not today. So I got up, found my cycling trousers, jumper, socks and what have you and was about to head downstairs when I remembered: the clocks had gone back. It was really 0511hrs and I found myself with a dilemma. Do I undress and climb back into bed or simply carry on? After a moment's thought I decided to stay up, go downstairs and make some breakfast, listen to classical music and do what I'm doing right now, write this blog post.

It would be misleading of me to say we're 'well into October' because we're more than that: it's Halloween next Thursday and then it's November. Already the bad weather has set in. When the alarm went off yesterday I aborted because when I got out of bed I peered out of the window and noted rain falling hard on next door's roof. Then I climbed back into bed and didn't get out until gone 0700hrs. Saturday was one of those awful, drizzly days when the rain nagged at everybody all day. Everything was wet and miserable and I found myself in a shopping centre in a galaxy far far away looking yearningly at a Sekonda Midnight Blue watch and going as far as trying it on, but not buying it. There never seems to be enough money and that, added to the drizzle and the wet terrazzo flooring of the aforementioned shopping mall added to a cloud of depression that hung over me for the rest of the day.

Now that we're in November, of course, we're into what I've always called 'typical NoVisibleLycra weather'. Grey skies, the threat of rain, cold temperatures, although not that cold, reign supreme as Andy and I cycle somewhere with only the promise of a cup of tea at the end of it. Oh, and the prospect of cycling home again too. But we love it, although sometimes - particularly on Saturdays - I could do with longer in bed, or simply not hearing the alarm at 0600hrs.

Soon the mornings will look like this (if we're lucky!)

It's not yet 0600hrs and I'm sitting downstairs with just one light on listening to Radio 3. Classical music is good when you're writing something as it takes place in the background and never intrudes on the thinking process; in fact, it probably helps things along a little bit and so I sit here, the sleep banished from my head, an empty bowl of cereal and an empty mug on the table next to me looking at the hour stretching before me and the distant thought of being out in the garage, unpadlocking the bike and heading up the road to meet Andy.

It's dark outside, although now that the clocks have gone back, the mornings will be lighter for a week or two before the darkness takes over and Christmas becomes a dawning reality. Already the shops have sprouted Christmas trees, but most sensible people ignore them, for the time being, content to cling on to any last hope of summer weather. Sunrise today was at 0644hrs, roughly 15 minutes ago and the cloud and sun icon on my iphone's weather app means it's going to be a day of sunshine and cloud. Hopefully no rain.

Back home, but great memories of Monterrey...

The American Airlines flight from Dallas to London, while long, seemed to pass very quickly (and smoothly). I was sitting in seat 26L, an exit seat with a window, although the window was slightly behind me, which was annoying. The plane - a Boeing 777 - wasn't full. There were, in fact, 100 seats unsold, according to the female member of cabin staff who looked a little like Rudy Guiliani, former mayor of New York and now, I think, something to do with Donald Trump. I had the whole row to myself, which was fantastic.

I sat by the pool and took this image as I wrote up my conference coverage

After 'dinner' - it's always a choice between chicken or pasta and I always choose the former - I read a bit of my Laurie Lee book and then decided to watch Toy Story 4. It was good, yes, but somehow not as good as the others and the emotional ending described as such by many people, wasn't as emotionally troubling as I was expecting it to be. When Toy Story 3 hit the cinemas I remember going with my daughter and feeling, well, a little emotional at the end. Put it this way: I was glad that it was dark in the cinema and that nobody could see me. With Toy Story 4 it was a case of Woody choosing between a life on the road with a now racy Bo Peep or going back with Buzz and the crew to continue his life as a toy serving a child. He chose to, in a sense, ride off into the sunlight with Bo, leaving the toys we all know and love to head back home and do their thing with Molly. And everybody's saying it'll definitely be the final Toy Story movie, which is just as well as they'll start ruining it if they continue any further. That said, with Woody and Bo Peep 'out on the streets' so to speak, there's probably a story line there that could be expanded upon. Perhaps they find Buzz down on his luck after having decided to follow Woody on to the streets to freedom, but losing his way. How it would continue, who knows? There could be a wedding at the end between Bo and Woody and Buzz could be the best man, with the other toys as guests. I don't know. Or there could be another movie back at Molly's house where the toys realise they can't cope without Woody and go in search of a better life themselves and encounter Bo and Woody on their travels. There are many possibilities for a Toy Story 5. I mean, what if Bo and Woody have kids? What would they be? Bo Peeps or Woody dolls, but smaller, and would they be toys? Would they grow up? What would a cross between Bo Peep and Woody look like? It all starts to get a little complicated.

I also watched Pet Sematary, which was typical of its genre and a bit ridiculous in places.

Then time seemed to fly. There was little in the way of turbulence and soon we were flying over the Bristol Channel, along the M4 and straight into Heathrow (after following a holding pattern for a short while).

Room 2319, Real Inn, Monterrey

When I got home I went straight to bed for around five hours' sleep and then I headed off to a family wedding in Nonsuch Park. I eventually hit the sack around 0030hrs and slept for 13 hours. I got up, made some Weetabix with fruit (bananas, blueberries, grapes) and now I'm sitting here in the living room at 1852hrs, Miss Marple is on ITV3, it's dark outside (and cold) and next week the clocks go back.

View from room 2319, Real Inn, Monterrey

I keep counting back six hours and remembering Mexico. For example, right now it's almost 1300hrs, the sun is probably shining brightly and the hotel pool is flat calm. There's likely to be a mild breeze blowing the drapes hanging from posts surrounding some of the sun loungers and I doubt if there's anybody there, possibly one person on a laptop or simply sitting at the bar. The mountains in the background make for a picturesque backdrop while the skyscrapers close by remind guests that they're in the middle of the city. The music is good too: 60s, 70s and 80s original artists and I remember how it all took me back to the European pool holidays of days past where there was nothing to do but sit around in the sunshine, listening to music, reading Graham Greene novels while awaiting dinner. Next year, perhaps.

Another view from room 2319

I didn't wander too far from the hotel. Next door there was a huge shopping mall, which, I discovered, linked up with another equally large mall - it was weird when I realised they were one and the same. I'm not a great shopper at the best of times, but I walked for miles through the malls, occasionally stopping to check out the goods, but not often. I bought a razor from a supermarket in the depths of the mall along with other stuff (deodorant, shaving foam, shower gel and, of course, a toothbrush).

The Quinta Real, Monterrey, Mexico

Across the street from the Quinta Real hotel, where I spent most of Monday and Tuesday last week, was a Starbucks with outdoor seating. I remember sitting there with a mint tea and a chocolate coin reading, yes, you've guessed it, my Laurie Lee book, it's not a novel, it's a memoir, and I love it and there's nothing better than reading it in the hot sunshine, watching traffic and people while enjoying the heat and a refreshing drink.

Chicken, roast potatoes and greens - for breakfast!!!

Room 2319 is probably occupied by somebody else now, but for the past seven days it's been my home and in a way I'll kind of miss it, but life moves on and its good to be home. I'll certainly miss the Sunday roasts for breakfast, but equally, I'm glad to get back to eating porridge and fresh fruit every morning, as long as I keep off the sugary biscuits and buns.

London from an American Airlines Boeing 777

We landed at Heathrow at 0825hrs on Saturday 19 October.