There's nothing worse than a weekend without cycling...

Last week Andy mentioned he wouldn't be riding on Saturday, which was fine, but it left me with a dilemma: do I rest up or go out? I could have taken a ride over to mum's to enjoy a slice or two of fruit cake, or a trip to Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. Instead I switched off the alarm before going to bed on Friday night and ended up remaining in bed until just before 0900hrs.

Having around eight hours of sleep is fine and believe me I needed it. For God knows how long I've been getting to bed around 2300hrs – after sitting in front of the television watching Newsnight or Question Time (isn't  Fiona Bruce awful) or something – and then waking around 0600hrs, sometimes earlier. Once I'm awake I find it very difficult to simply lie there trying to get back to sleep, so invariably I get up, come down stairs, make porridge and tea and toast and sit on the computer writing something, like this, or scanning the BBC website for the latest news. With Brexit, however, it's all very boring and depressing.

It was destined to be a lazy weekend of doing very little. It was so lazy that I've forgotten what I didn't do, if that makes sense. I remember watching TGD – The Greatest Dancer in the evening. How depressing can you get? Cheryl Cole with her festering arse tattoo and that bloke from Glee who looks like 'Jock', an old associate who I used to think looked like a rifle. What the hell was I on? It all gets a little blurry after that as sometimes the TV is just on for no reason.

During the day, I've just remembered, I went to my old home town of Sutton. Now there's a place that's seen better times, but it's no worse than where I live now. If you live in the burbs you get used to mediocrity and it's even worse if it's been raining and everywhere is wet and dripping. Multi-storey car parks – wrong on so many levels, but soon I'm behind the wheel, heading home in the dark.

I had planned a ride today (Sunday) but the weather stood before me and the bike. After a strange dream (see previous post) I found that I couldn't get back to sleep after hearing something go bump in the night. I lie there listening to the rain and hoping it would stop before morning, but soon dawn arrived. I'd managed about 45 minutes of sleep before the alarm went off – the sound of birdsong on the iphone – and then I got out of bed, wrote up the weird dream (I like to keep a record) and noticed that it was still raining. An 'abort' text followed and that was it: no cycling for the entire weekend. The most annoying thing was that the sun came out and it was quite a pleasant day. I toyed (briefly) with the idea of a late ride to mum's, but the motivation had seeped through the hourglass and I resigned myself to no cycling – and I know I won't be going next week or possibly even the week after, we'll see how things go.

So it became a weekend of slobbing around, not even reading. Today, Sunday, was lazy, but not in a good way. Not going cycling always puts me out of kilter for some reason. I found myself in a DIY superstore, very depressing, especially as the light was fading and Monday beckoned. But now I'm listening to Joy Division. Transmission. That's the great wonder of streaming. Metal Guru by T. Rex followed. When I was younger I used get mixed up with Trex, the cooking fat, but the two were chalk and cheese, of course they were. Bolan's last hit was a tree in Richmond, Surrey, tragically, but his music lives on.

There's not much more to say, especially now that David Bowie's sad and depressing Blackstar has come on; I think it was written when he knew was going to die, but I'm going to let it run its course. I was never a great Bowie fan.

I wonder if my bike is nursing a puncture in the garage. The last time I used it I remember taking the off-road path along the 269, always a risk. Who knows what's going on in the garage? The bike's out there all alone, or rather it's out there with the Kona. They're probably chatting. The Kona is likely to be talking about its rich ride history – just check back over this blog pre-November 2016 and you'll see what I mean.

Blackstar is a long track, almost 10 minutes. It's still on now. "I'm a black star," sings Bowie.

There's nothing more to write about if I'm honest, although one of my favourite tracks has just sprung to life: A.M.180 by Grandaddy. What a band! The song featured in the movie 28 Days Later, a film I've never, ever watched all the way through. There was a great live version of this track recorded at Glastonbury way back when. Not that long ago, but I can't remember the exact date, was it the late nineties or early noughties? It matters not. What a great band and they're still around. I'd love to go see them next time they come over from Modesto, California.

Now it's Every Day I Write the Book by Elvis Costello, equally great and evocative of times long past. Happy times in the late eighties. 1989 to be precise – the magical year of trips to Suffolk and curries in Woodbridge. A small cottage in Kettleburgh, drives along country lanes, Framlingham Castle, Orford Quay, the Jolly Sailor, real fires and cornfields, long walks. Days of innocence in many ways. Swimming in the sea at Felpham on the Sussex coast, seaweed, the deep end challenge, Lyme Regis, pals. It was another world.

Babies by Pulp has just come on, the bass line is tremendous. Sometimes I wish I could play bass. I keep thinking about buying one and taking lessons. One day, perhaps. The trouble is there's always something else to spend the money on.

Now The Wizard by Black Sabbath is playing, another great track and nobody's complaining, which is good. The trouble with a lot of rock stars is they blot their copybooks. Ozzy Osbourne is a case in point. He could have kept his reputation intact, but he did that television programme – The Osbournes – and then his wife, Sharon, got far too involved with the likes of Simon Cowell. It's the same with Pete Townshend. I tried reading his autobiography, Who I Am, and found it pretentious and annoying beyond belief, especially all the stuff about how he fancied Mick Jagger. Seriously. And when I discovered that all that smashing of guitars wasn't spontaneous, but some kind of artistic statement and not just smashing up guitars for the hell of it, I thought, no. No, no, no! When myths are exploded, dreams are invariably shattered.

I've never liked Genesis, though. There's something 'real ale and Jeremy Clarkson' about them that I can't abide; and they always remind me, for some reason, of The Chequers, a pub in Tadworth, or was it in nearby Walton? Who knows? The only track I did like was the one that uses the phrase "Me, I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk." And it's just played.

I often wonder what happened to Phil Smith and Pete Jones, two old associates. I wonder if they're still alive, lots aren't. There's no point Googling them, nothing comes up and probably never will.

It's nearly 1900hrs. Outside it's dark, the curtains are drawn and some coloured lights in the fireplace are glowing. Icicle Works' Love is Wonderful Colour is playing, dinner is being prepared and my mood is changing, becoming more upbeat, which is good.

Dreamer by Supertramp has just come on. Now that brings back some good and bad memories. Good because it's a great track – but not as good as School – bad because of an embarrassing play put on by the college 'thespians'. Again, it's amazing the way certain associations can ruin things. Something that can never be ruined is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. I don't know why, it's just amazing, no matter what.

Mum's going into hospital on Thursday for a hip replacement. She's 89 going on 90 and I won't say I'm not a little worried about it. The operation is routine, she'll be in for about a week and after a spot of recovery she'll be fine. I went round there today for tea and fruit cake and she seemed fine about it. Of course I wish her well, we all do.

Let it Roll by UFO always reminds me of Keith Collins and it's on now. Keith died of a heroin overdose back in the early nineties. It was a track they always played at the Croydon Greyhound in between bands on a Sunday evening along with Nobody's Fault but Mine by Led Zeppelin, another track (and band) that will always remind me of Keith. We used to get the bus to Croydon (the 154) to watch all manner of different bands: Stray, Edgar Broughton Band, Thin Lizzy, Kokomo, Climax Blues Band, the list is endless.

All good things come to an end. The music is off (well, I've had a good run) and, sadly, Dancing on Ice is on the television. 'Pip' Schofield. Ugh! But now it's off and a documentary about Indian railways is on. Perfect. I remember taking a train from Mysore to Bangalore back in the late eighties (a year or two before the magical year of 89). I'm going to stop writing now and watch the television.

Another strange, but vivid, dream...

I remarked the other day that whenever I dream about the family or something to do with where I live, I never dream of the house I'm currently living in; it's always my old house in Milton Avenue, Sutton. Until last night.

Last night I had a very strange dream. It involved lying in bed and awaking to find a man trying to exit the house – my current house – through my front bedroom window (the room is double aspect, we don't have a 'back bedroom'). The man in question was a murderer and was trying to push the body out of the window too. The odd part of the dream was that it kept recurring. I think he did the same thing a handful of times until I woke up and reassured those around me that all was fine, he'd gone. But he hadn't gone. He was coming back in through the front door and making his way upstairs, and this time he was not alone. I heard myself making it clear to the man and his cohorts that I meant him no harm – an odd thing to say considering he had invaded my house – but the next thing I knew we were all in my bedroom standing in front of the window and chatting about this and that; there was about six individuals, one of whom was wearing a boiler suit with the name of the company he worked for printed on the back.

When that part of the dream simple ran out of power and stopped, it transpired that whatever the men were up to had something to do with the whole road. The dream resumed further down the road in, I think, number 21, which now seemed to be where I lived. There were a lot of people from the road saying things, covering things up, it was hard to comprehend, but then I woke up and heard a loud thud downstairs. On awaking I remembered the dream and started to think it might all happen for real, but after searching around downstairs and finding no sign of an intruder I went back to bed, but left the bathroom light on. I didn't sleep too well. In fact I was still awake at 0506hrs and must have eventually nodded off, only to be awakened by the song of birdsong, it was 0600hrs and my iphone's alarm was tweeting at me. Time for a ride on the bike.

A strange but vivid dream...

I was a policeman with a flat-top hat and high-viz clothing and I was accompanying a woman who I'm guessing was in her 40s to a house called Twigs. On the outside it looks like a pretty normal house, it's mid-terrace, there is a front garden with low, evergreen hedges and a path leading down to the front door. There is a porch with a tiled roof and the front door has a large window through which it is possible to see the rest of the house. It is a very pleasantly decorated house and as I approach the front door I spot somebody, possibly the homeowner walking from a room to the right of the hallway to a room on the left hand side of the building. I've pressed the doorbell, but he hasn't answered and I turn round to look at the woman who has brought me here. There's concern about the kidnapping of a child. The next thing I know I'm inside the house and moving through the hallway towards the back of the premises. I'm amazed at the size of the house. It opens out towards the rear into a huge function hall with high ceilings, like those found in old social clubs, and here I find a lot of people celebrating. I move forward as I am looking for somebody, possibly the owner of the house, who might be in the garden. It's a summer's day, the sun is shining and I find myself amazed at the amount of land attached to the house. There are fields ahead and a vast expanse of lawn on which people sit and enjoy the sunshine as they might in a public park. I find who I am looking for: a man in his 50s or early 60s with a full head of hair and a squarish head, he has a five o'clock shadow and isn't showing many signs of greyness. He's quite pleasant and somebody asks me about nearby schools. We appear to be in North Wales as Liverpool is mentioned and I say that it's too far to go for school. We move to the left and I turn around to see the back of the house, which has been rendered and then painted a deep mustardy yellow colour. There is another vast expanse of grass to the left of the house. The man tells me it's all part of his property and talks of the many times he's been asked by developers to let go of some of the land for a new housing development. He is standing in front of a roughly cut hedgerow that separates his land from the road across which I can make out another street and more houses.

Then I'm with my dad and we're discussing the dream. I tell him about the policeman's uniform I was wearing. I'm with other people I don't know and for all intents and purposes I'm in a pub garden, but there's no grass, just concrete and I'm sitting at one of those wooden pub tables with integral bench seats and a hole for an umbrella in the middle. Those around me are suspicious. They think I'm a policeman. The sun continues to shine and then, from behind a wall, somebody I know but can't identify, appears wearing a fleece, it's similar to a Christmas present from my mother-in-law, but a different colour.

I'm taking a wash, naked, in some kind of baths but I have an audience of 'mumsy' types and have to continue as best I can, keeping my back to the audience. I soap myself and want to simply wipe off the soap and get changed, but I can't do that and instead pour water over myself to get rid of the suds. Then I put on a strange-shaped, mustard-coloured tee-shirt. At this point the clock radio alarm goes off, it's 0600hrs and time to get out of bed before I have to listen to George Osborne, who is being interviewed by Simon Jack in Davos.

Freezing cold as we head for the bus stop...

I didn't ride Saturday, needed a lie-in after Rome, but I was up at 0600hrs on Sunday and soon found myself on the bike. It was cold out and I didn't have a balaclava or a scarf, which had somehow disappeared. When I say it was cold, it was brass monkey weather and it made my face ache.

On a solo ride on Saturday, Andy finds Bullbeggars Lane...

We rode to the Tatsfield bus stop, the slow way, but decided against riding down Hesiers and along Beddlestead mainly because of the risk of slippery roads and, of course, the high chance of falling off the bikes, like Andy did a week or two ago. Instead we followed Beech Farm Road to the 269, turned left and continued on our way, passing Botley Hill and then turning left on to Clarks Lane. Soon we were sitting down and drinking tea. I've decided to avoid biscuits, but not forever. Why munch biscuits after eating a big breakfast of porridge, tea and toast?

Flytippers closed this road, but not to bikes!

En route we stumbled across a Road Closed sign. It normally doesn't affect bicycles and we pass on through, as we did a week or two ago on Ledgers Road. This time, as last time, the reason behind the closure was the same old story: fly tippers. Basically, people come along, probably in the dead of night, and unload a pile of rubbish on the road – they're too stingy to pay for its disposal. It could be anything: old fridges, seat cushions, you name it. Once dumped, the rubbish in question then stops other cars from using the road, hence the Road Closed sign. It's becoming a common occurrence and it's very annoying to see. Sadly, of course, it sums up the UK mentality.

We relaxed at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

We chilled at the bus stop, sitting on our gloves in order to keep warm and in the process warming our gloves up for when we put them on and head home.

Andy was going back via The Ridge and he won't be riding next Saturday. After saying goodbye I sped along the 269, using the off-road path. The council has recently cut the hawthorn bushes along the way, so I was risking a puncture. Fortunately nothing happened, but who knows what state the bike is in right now, in the garage? I might have two flat tyres out there, but I won't find out until next week.

A point worth noting is that signs have sprung up stopping us from reaching the cottage. Last week we found gates shut and on my way home along the 269 I noticed that our usual entry point to reach the cottage now has a sign reading 'No Bikes'. We've been rumbled!

After a ride in the icy cold weather, this is what I needed most...

I was so cold as I rode home along the Limpsfield Road that I started saying, out loud, but when nobody else was in ear shot, "Fucking cold! Fucking brass monkeys! Sausages! I want sausages!" I don't know why, but it makes things better. I couldn't wait to reach Sanderstead, I needed to get home and fast, I needed a hot cup of tea, and most of all, I needed sausages! I don't eat sausages from one month – or year – to the next, but this week I visited the Flowers Farm shop to buy some food (a roast chicken, the aforementioned sausages and a few vegetables). I knew that when I got back I'd make up a Full English breakfast and that I did. It was incredible and later in the day I made the roast chicken dinner – we ate really well, that's for sure.

The weather is getting colder, as promised by the TV weather forecasts. When I woke up this morning there was a frost on the ground, just like yesterday. We cycle throughout the year so at this time it's not as pleasant as the summer, for obvious reasons.

In Rome (day two) – mooching around...

I met the international man of mystery in the hotel's opulent reception area and out we went on to the rainy streets of Rome. Rain characterised the trip, but the weather was changeable. One minute it was bright and the skies were blue, and the next it was driving rain.

It's not Nelson's column, alright?

The International Man of Mystery commented, as we ambled along a narrow Roman street, that we could be anywhere in Europe, and he was right. All European cities look the same and Rome was no exception. In fact, virtually everywhere looks the same unless you find yourself in, say, Morocco, the Middle East or the Far East. Restaurants with seats under awnings, tourist attractions beseiged by Chinese tourists and people touting their own excursions (10 euros for a guided tour around the Pantheon). We stood outside the Pantheon looking up at the pillars and I think we were both thinking the same thing: 10 Euros to look around something that was going to resemble the tourist attractions of countless other European cities, we would be ambling about with Chinese people holding out selfie sticks or following somebody holding up an unopened umbrella. It turned out to be free entry and, it seems, we missed a treat. But did we? I know how I would have felt. I would looked up and thought, yes, yes, yes, all very nice, let's move on. And move on we did. The Trevi Fountain was the same, in fact we saw it before we arrived at the Pantheon. The Trevi Fountain was overrun with Chinese tourists with selfie sticks. I wasn't impressed, put it that way, and started to wonder why everybody makes such a fuss of it. To be honest, it would look good in my back garden. We moved on, after a cappuccino, and headed for the aforementioned Pantheon – I almost wrote 'Parthenon'. Next up was what we thought were the Spanish Steps. They were definitely steps, but not the Spanish ones. It was raining as we headed, unimpressed, towards the Colosseum. Again, the same hordes of tourists, tour guides and what have you. We thought we'd have an early lunch (it was around 1130hrs) and found a smallish restaurant nearby, with a view of the Colosseum. Tortelloni and ragu sauce and a Pellegrino. The rain stopped and we headed back towards the hotel. 

Yours truly at the Trevi Fountain...

I've never been a 'tourist'. It doesn't matter what the attraction is, I'm not impressed. The Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, give me a pastry and a cup of tea and I'm happy. It's the same wherever I go. The Palace of Versailles, no, I'm not interested. The leaning tower of Pisa – leave it out! Stonehenge, it's fucking boring! I could go on, but I won't. You get the gist of what I'm saying. I'm a philistine. I don't mind natural tourist attractions, like the Grand Canyon, Niagra Falls and such like, but not for long. Once I've seen it, I'm happy. Time for a cake and some tea, or a decent meal. I like to mooch around, that's my specialty, I don't want to stand in front of whatever it might be and put on my 'impressed and awestruck' face, I don't want to lie to people about the way I'm feeling towards a pile of old rubble – I'm not bowled over, I'm not impressed, I don't care, I'm not awestuck (I'm thinking: 'now there was a nice little café across the street, can't wait to get there!'). I live to mooch around, I want to bury my face in a book in the mellowed-out atmosphere of a coffee shop, preferably independent, and, yes, sit there looking out at the Colosseum, perhaps, or the Palace of Versailles, but I don't want a history lesson, I don't want to hear about how King Henry the Vlll used to do this and that and lived in a small room at the top of wherever it might be. Personally, I like the sea. I want a lonely beach, crashing waves, the sea air, sand and seaweed and, of course, a café, like the Lobster Pot in Felpham. I want the woods and the fields. I don't mind a riverboat trip or a stroll around the grounds of a National Trust property (as long as there's a visit to the teashop built in). But don't expect me to tour 'the house'. I don't want to see some 17th century bedroom or living room, with a harpsichord in the corner, or a load of ivory-handled brushes on an ancient dressing table. So what? Where's the café?

'Impressed and awestruck' enough for you?

Eventually we wound our way back to the hotel to await a minibus to the airport. All airports are the same too. I bought an elaborate sandwich, a bottle of mineral water and a small square of cake and awaited my flight. It was dark by the time we took off and headed towards Gatwick, but the skies were clear all the way over and soon, after a long two hours, we began our descent. Getting through passport control was easy, there was no need for baggage reclaim and soon I was on a train heading for East Croydon. Rome is better than Croydon, so are most places. There are no tourist attractions in Croydon, nothing worth putting on the awestruck face for.

Turning my back on the Colisseum...

The best part of the day – lunch!

A Roman statue...

We thought these were the Spanish Steps...

In Rome...

I've never been to Rome before and here I am, sitting at a very small desk in the corner of room 510 in the Savoy Hotel, a polished establishment in the centre of the city. I didn't sleep well. I awoke around 0300hrs and then again at 0500hrs and then I slept on until being awoken by the iphone at 0730hrs. Fortunately, because I don't drink, there was no hangover and as I wasn't planning to shave I simply cleaned my teeth, threw a few handfuls of cold water over my face and headed for the breakfast room, which was in the basement.

View from room 510, Savoy Hotel, Rome...

The Savoy is a very grand hotel with marble walls and floors and rooms with sturdy wooden doors. I have a large double bed, a full minibar – clearly, the hotel trusts its guests – and all the usual stuff, such as tea and coffee making facilities, a television, storage space, a safe and a reasonable bathroom, complete with bidet and a shower that looks good, but doesn't actually work that well. Put it this way, it was no way as refreshing as the shower in my room at the Act Hotel in Tokyo, which was three months ago. Time flies.

Yesterday in Rome we had driving rain. In the UK it was clear skies and sunshine, but as the plane got closer and closer to Rome a bed of cloud appeared below us and made our descent a little bumpy. It was all a bit rushed and after dinner, the raining hammering down, I headed back to the hotel and hit the sack. Now, having enjoyed breakfast (yoghurt, cornflakes, orange segments, fruit tea, a couple of small pastries and, of course, some cooked vegetables with rice) I'm back in the room, considering another shower before heading out for a walk around the city.

Room 510, Savoy Hotel, Rome

Because it's all been so rushed (this particular trip, an annual event, always is) there's little to say about Rome. My plan is to head out and see what's happening. I'll try and see something I'm supposed to, but normally I just mooch about until I find a coffee shop. In fact, I've got to pack and check out by 1000hrs so I'd better get a move-on.

We fly back later today and have to be ready to catch a bus to the airport around 1530hrs so there's not much time. As I've said, these trips are always rushed, which is a shame on one level, but on another I just want to be home.

The flight time is roughly two hours. Fortunately, we return to Gatwick airport, which is only a short journey from where I live, so I'm hoping to be home around 2000hrs if not earlier.

Might abort Saturday's ride and take it easy, but not sure yet.

Breaking new ground (again!)

Having slept for eight hours I was up with the lark and sitting downstairs in front of the computer at just gone 0600hrs writing the post that precedes this one. I went on a bit about 'stuff' and then I made the tea, jumped on a very clean bike, following yesterday's jet clean, and rode to the green where I met Andy.

Close to where we stopped for tea. Pic by Andy Smith.

Where to go? Yesterday, I had suggested riding the lanes towards Beech Farm Road, but taking a track on the left leading down to an area known as Cony Crook. It's the track that takes us down to the so-called 'stile with no purpose'. The idea was to turn right at the stile and follow the continuing off-road track towards the Cottage, stop there for tea and then continue off-road towards the 269 before heading home in the usual fashion. This we did, but when we reached the stile with no purpose we noticed that a gate giving us access to the next field was shut and there was a sign stating 'no footpath'. We'd never seen the sign before, but rather than throw our bikes over the gate and continue on our journey (which we probably could have done, there was nobody about) we turned round and followed the track back towards the stile and onwards, bearing right and travelling across a couple of large fields until we found more gates blocking our way. There was nothing left to do other than stop, have tea and then head back the way we came. Not a problem.

I found myself indulging my ridiculous sleeping rough fantasy as where we had stopped looked like the perfect place to set up camp for the night. If I was homeless, I'd definitely get myself a tent and a sleeping bag and head for the woods rather than sleep on the street and this morning I found myself surveying the woods behind where we had stopped: it was, in short, perfect. I couldn't think of anything better than waking up and hearing the birds chirping and very little else. Fortunately, of course, I'm not homeless, so it's not something that is immediately (if at all) on my agenda. Mind you, I wouldn't mind trying it for one night.

Our bikes, Sunday 13th January 2019 – pic by Andy Smith.

It was a very pleasant ride to a very pleasant place. There's nothing better than peace and quiet and nothing but the sound of birdsong. Everything was still, there wasn't a soul about, the fields were empty as far as we could see and no Lycra monkeys either (their bikes are incapable of traversing such terrain). So we leisurely drank our tea and took in our surroundings before heading back along the track that had brought us here. The wind had been behind us on the outward journey, but now it was hitting us face-on as we rode back towards Cony Crook. Looking at the map, there's a lot of paths and tracks close to where we were and one that goes through Lumberdine Wood (worth exploring). It comes out on the 269, but I think it's the same track that takes us from the 269 to the cottage, but either way Lumberdine Wood looks interesting.

What we could see as we drank our tea. Pic by Andy Smith.

Andy rode back to the green and we stopped at the garage to jet clean the bikes. Mine needed it, but not as badly as Andy's Blast. We rested the bikes against a wall and blasted them with water, getting off any excess mud, of which there was plenty. Then we said goodbye and rode our separate ways back to our respective houses. 

I got back in time for the Andrew Marr Show. It's going to be an interesting week in politics. May's Brexit deal will probably be rejected by Parliament (here's hoping!) and then there's the possibility of a general election. Either that or a second referendum.

For fear of missing out...

Right now, at this very moment, I'm listening to John Martyn. Arguably, Martyn is the most laid back you'll get. I'm listening to the album Bless the Weather – in fact, as we speak, the title track is playing. It's great if you want some peace or if you want something murmuring in the background, helping you get along. I first got into John Martyn during my troubled teenage years, although I don't ever recall buying an album by this great musician, who is sadly not with us any more. It was always put on the turntable round at somebody's house and we'd all simply chill out – in fact we'd get so chilled out we'd fall asleep, which was nice. For a long while I didn't listen to John Martyn. I don't know why, but it's difficult as I don't possess any material of his – but since it's been possible to download music from operators like Spotify, my life has changed and now the man is back in my life, albeit at the crack of dawn. You can bet, certainly over the next few days at any rate, that I'll be listening to John Martyn at around this time in the morning. And if you're interested, one of his best albums was entitled Solid Air, an album title I can understand.

A clean bike at last! It was getting to look a bit like Andy's Kona!

So here I am, it's 0632hrs now, dark outside and I've enjoyed eight hours of sleep, which is rare for me. I normally hit the sack around 2300hrs and sleep badly, waking around 0430hrs and then having trouble getting back to sleep. Last night, not so much fed up with the quality of British television, but simply feeling too tired to stay up and watch Manchester by the Sea, which I really wanted to watch, I hit the sack at 2200hrs and after listening to the news on Radio Four, none of which I can remember, I switched off just as Joan Bakewell was about to embark upon a programme about death – not the sort of thing I wanted to listen to last thing at night. Why does Radio Four do that? I've often put the radio on at night, with a view to distracting myself from the fact that I can't sleep, and there's something miserable on, like programmes about disease or death; and it's not just in the dead of night, often it's at 2100hrs. Depressing.

I'm going to make a point of hitting the sack at 2200hrs from now on because there is nothing worth watching on television these days. Why is James McAvoy ALWAYS on Graham Norton's show? That man must be making so many movies. Norton is always on after the news on a Friday night and invariably I sit there and watch it, because Norton is probably the best thing on television when it comes to 'entertainment'. I love the big red chair, but invariably don't like the musical bit, it's invariably the lame part of the show. I mean, Cheryl Cole was on the other day. That said, Cole is one of those people who is so bad she's good. She mimes, she's not a rock and roller, there's a lot wrong, most of all the huge tattoo on her arse. I don't know about you, but that would definitely put me off. Just knowing that tattoo exists would annoy me, but it's not something she's going to get rid of easily, meaning it's there for life. Imagine lying in bed next to her knowing that her tattooed derriere is festering under the bedclothes, just inches away. I hate tattoos and would never have one done. It's a bit like scribbling in Biro on your exercise book: you start with one squiggle and soon the cover is peppered with drawings of some sort – ruined in other words – and I guess Cheryl Cole has ruined her arse. If ever I interviewed her it's the first question I'd ask: "How do you feel about ruining your arse?" Or, "Don't you think you've ruined your arse?" She's looking in need of a good meal too, somebody give her an ice cream, anything, a Belgian bun (like the one I ate in Morrison's in Reigate yesterday afternoon). What she really needs, of course, is a roast dinner: chicken, roasties, greens, gravy, apple pie and custard, that's what I'd offer her if I saw her in the street.

So I went to bed early and managed to get eight hours' kip. Fantastic. Cycling takes it out of me, I've noticed. Yesterday we rode the slow way to the bus stop. We were going to ride to Westerham and visit the Tudor Rose for breakfast, but I had stuff to do and couldn't really afford to be back late. I stormed up Beddlestead Lane and felt great on my return, using the off-road path on the 269, talking to myself here and there, as you do when you find yourself alone in a wide open space, nobody around for miles, as it seemed to me yesterday morning. When I reached Warlingham, having said goodbye to Andy at The Ridge, I stopped off at the gas station to jet clean my bike. The bike is clean. Very clean. And I don't want to get it dirty on today's ride so it'll probably be the long way to the bus stop again.

One reason I stay up late is the fear of missing out. The truth of the matter, however, is that I won't miss anything. In the same way that nothing is that funny, nothing is that good either, so I'm going to try and set myself a new rule: hit the sack at 2200hrs. I mean, Fiona Bruce presenting Question Time, who's idea was that? It's the BBC and it's awful political correctness. Have you noticed how Doctor Who is doing its bit for diversity? There's a white, black and Asian assistant for the female Doctor Who. PC is everywhere at the BBC. Didn't they get rid of that long haired bloke on Countryfile to make the programme more diverse? I think they did. They couldn't get rid of Craven because that would have been ageist. Is that how you spell 'ageist'?

Anyway, I'd better go and make a flask of tea for the ride. See you later...

Sunday 6th January – to the bus stop, the slow way...

No riding on Saturday, I needed the rest and Andy was out of action, so instead, after a late start, I headed for the south coast for a walk and, of course, a visit to the Lobster Pot café on the front at Felpham, a great caff.

Sunday I was up at 0600hrs, although I was strongly tempted to send an abort text to Andy. We rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – of course we did! – and we went the slow way. It's less of an ordeal these days for some reason.

Warlingham Green on a wintry morning over the festive break...

At the bus stop we engaged in our usual activities of chatting and watching passing Lycra monkeys and joggers emerging at the top of White Lane. Around 0900hrs we headed for home. Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and I used the off-road path all the way along the 269.

Weatherwise it was cold. Not biting cold, but just cold. I'll need a balaclava one of these days.

I reached home around 0945hrs, locked up the bike, closed and locked the garage door and got on with my day.

It's now Monday morning, 0711hrs and I'm listening to That's Entertainment by the Jam. I had a broken night, or rather I woke up early, just before 0500hrs. I tried to get back to sleep but couldn't so when 0600hrs rolled past I got up. And now Road to Nowhere by Talking Heads is playing, kind of summing up the United Kingdom at the moment: knife crime is rife (Lee Pomery was murdered last week on a train en route to London) and let's not forget Brexit.

Better go and make my sandwiches or I'll be late for work. Here's to next week's riding.

New Year's Day 2019 – to mum's!

A later start than normal and Andy wasn't going so it was up to me to motivate myself. I'd had a late night by my standards, staying up and watching Hootenanny, a programme I despise because it's so corny and stuck in the 1980s. The music's not stuck in the 80s, just the people on the programme, they all seem to be people from that era; it's normally the likes of Jennifer Saunders and husband Ade Edmondson, but last night it was comedian and writer Alexei Sayle. Nice people, I'm sure, but, well, I don't really know, there's something about Hootenanny that I don't like. I switched over a couple of times to watch Madness on BBC 1 –  Suggs never seems to age. The BBC has replaced the word 'Christmas' with 'Oneness' and that annoys me.

I must have hit the sack around midnight thirty, possibly a little later, but I didn't sleep well and there were some pretty loud fireworks outside too, but I got there and suddenly it was almost 0800hrs and Radio 4 was blaring out, if that's what Radio 4 does. I suppose it doesn't really 'blare out', that's more for Radio 1 or Capital, but the clock radio is set to come on around 0700hrs, so I must have been sparko for a good 45 minutes after the radio had activated itself.

Purley playing fields on New Year's Day

I jumped out of bed, feeling fine as I hadn't been drinking. In fact, as avid readers of this blog will know, I haven't had a drink for 14 months. In fact, later today I found myself on LBC talking about this; I'd pulled up the car in a side street and dialled the number and then found myself broadcasting to the nation. What were the benefits of not drinking? Seemed like a reasonable question. "I get a better night's sleep, I don't make a fool of myself and I have more energy," I said, just before the midday news. I think it was midday, it might have been 1pm, I can't remember.

But let's get back to the morning. I had my usual porridge, grapes, blueberries and sliced banana (all in the same bowl) and accompanied by a large mug of tea in my favourite Kath Kidson mug. I was considering not going cycling, but it was later than usual, I felt strangely energised and decided to head for mum's. I rode down West Hill, left on to Essenden, right on to Carlton, left into Jarvis Road, across the Brighton Road and up Hayling Park Road to the roundabout. I crossed straight over and skirted the playing fields until I reached the A23 where traffic lights halted my progress, but not for long. I turned right and then left and emerged on the Stafford Road heading for the top of Wallington High Street. I rode up the hill and spied a Sainsbury's Local, open on New Year's Day. In I went having padlocked the bike outside. I felt as if I was dismounting a horse and tying it up outside the General Store, just like the cowboys do in the movies. I bought two bunches of bananas, two cartons of organic milk and one of those high-fibre nut bars and then headed out of the store having used one of the automated check-outs.

The ride continued. I rode up the hill and turned right into Crichton Road, following the road round to Carshalton Beeches station where I turned right and free-wheeled down the hill towards the Windsor Castle pub where I turned left at the lights. I sped round the corner while the lights were green and then turned right on to Shorts Road, a one-way street and I was riding the wrong way, but there were no cars and it saved cycling up the hill to Alma Road. Soon I was passing St Philomena's school, under the railway bridge, left and then left again – it was at mum's.

Christmas cake awaited me and a cup of tea. This year mum didn't make the cakes, but my niece made one for mum based on mum's recipe. It was good. Very good. And much appreciated. After tea and cake I munched the high-fibre bar and then bid farewell to mum. What followed was the same ride but in reverse, stopping briefly at the Cambridge Garage, now known as 'the BP garage', but only to see if they had a jet cleaner – they didn't, so I rode up the Cambridge Road, turned right on to the Banstead Road, through Carshalton Beeches High Street and then left and up the hill towards the Village Bakery and Crichton Road. I reached home and then went in search of a shop so I could buy bread and soup for lunch. The Co-op on Warlingham Green was open and soon I was enjoying lunch back at home – minestrone soup and bread. I had a shower and went for a drive, but the teashops were closed and we'd already enjoyed the delights of Chartwell just a few days ago.

It's now Tuesday evening and it feels just a like a Sunday night. Work tomorrow, but fortunately a short week, just three days. Can't say I'm looking forward to going back, but only because I've enjoyed slobbing around and now I've got to look sharp, be in the shower at 0730 and on the train by 0818. The slog begins, and it's going to be a busy old year.

It's been a good festive season of cycling. Andy and I have been riding alternate days ever since the weekend before Christmas, although we both took Thursday and Friday of last week off (Andy was working and I needed a lie-in). Check previous posts for further details.