To the bus stop!

The weather has been all over the place. Two weeks ago I reported minus 1 degree when I hit the road. Last week we had full-blown summer with temperatures around 24 degrees and yesterday (Sunday 28 April) we were back to cold and blustery conditions. There was, of course, storm Hannah on Saturday, but that didn't really bother us, although Andy reported a windy ride (I aborted).

I nearly aborted Sunday's ride too. When I woke up and peered outside it was raining so I attempted to rattle off an abort text to Andy, but the phone ran out of power. Once I'd charged it up the rain had stopped and it was game on, although I could have done with going back to bed, I'd had a busy week of decorating the hallway and running around all over the place. A lie-in would have been nice, but, as always, I was glad to be out in the fresh air.

Our bikes surrounded by bluebells south of Warlingham Sainsbury's

We decided to head for Tatsfield Village, the slow way, but I forgot and when we reached the bus stop, purely out of habit, I pulled over and stopped. We decided to stay put.

The main topic of conversation today was the abundance of wankers everywhere in the UK, nobcheeses, idiots, arseholes, whatever you want to call them; they're on virtually every street corner. There are bad drivers on our roads, bad neighbours, poor politicians, sharky landlords, fat bastard bankers, fat cat cunts, they've left no stone unturned in their quest for world domination.

On the return journey, Andy branched off at The Ridge and I almost followed him, but decided to ride along the 269 into Warlingham and then home. I'd brought my padlock along with me because I'd intended to stop at the store to pick up some porridge (Flahavan's Irish multi-seed variety, it's the best) but after stopping and padlocking the bike against a post (it was 0937hrs) I remembered that the shop opened at 1000hrs. Somehow waiting around for 20 minutes was wrong on so many levels so I headed home, but returned later in the car. 

Easter Sunday and Bank Holiday Monday...

I've got an issue with the text app on this machine. I'm sitting here writing this and wondering what will happen to it, not the app, but the text I'm writing. Will it be lost forever or will it be easily found? The answer is I don't know. All I do know is that I've written stuff here before and then lost it, so it's anybody's guess.

It's Easter Sunday and I'm not cycling today purely because we're going out for lunch. What kind of a reason is that? Well, we're leaving around 1100hrs so if I'm out on the ride and I get a puncture, I'll have to walk home and if I walk it'll take ages and I'll end up missing lunch and ruining everybody's day. And if you're wondering why I would have to walk home, it's simple: I've run out of leeches and need to buy some more.

So, not going cycling you'd think I'd lie in, but no, I was up at 0600hrs as normal. There used to be a time when I could lie in bed all day, or certainly not get out before 1100hrs. Breakfast became lunch, slobbing around was the order of the day and the very idea of getting up early made me shudder.

Heading home from the churchyard...

Then, one day, things changed and I don't know how or why. Alright, one has to get up early during the week for work and, I suppose, that conditions us all into a routine of sorts and it means we're capable of getting up early, but rising at the crack of dawn when we don't need to? Yes, I do get up early for no reason; as soon as I open my eyes I'm ready to jump out of bed and do something. If I wake up ahead of my alarm clock (which I often do) then I try to stay put in bed, I try to get back to sleep and sometimes I succeed. Other times I lie there for about ten minutes and then I give up and go downstairs, make a cup of tea and and a slice of toast, say, or even go for it big time and make porridge, official confirmation that I'm up and raring to go.

Normally, once I'm up I switch on my lap top and faff around, checking the BBC website first, then my emails and then I might glance at my blog, see how many readers I had the day before. Often a disappointing moment, I can tell you, although, sometimes, I'm pleasantly surprised.

Right now I guess I'm experimenting. It's not early, but I have been up since the crack of dawn, 0600hrs to be precise, although I was up earlier,or rather awake earlier, lying there, getting fidgety, thinking about getting up. Eventually the alarm, actually no, the alarm didn't go off because it wasn't in the room, it's normally in the room, on the ironing board, but not last night. I'd charged it downstairs in the conservatory and, sure enough, when I went downstairs and slid open the 'patio' door, the sound of birdsong rang out. It's like that thing about 'do bears shit in the woods?' Do alarms go off when they're not in the room and you can't hear them? The answer is yes, they do. I switched it off and got on with my day. First, breakfast. Porridge with fruit and a cup of tea, apple and cinnamon, new tea I found in the store yesterday. What is it with me and fruit or herbal teas? I love them. Beats the usual builder's tea.

Andy's Kona Blast at the churchyard

I put John Martyn's Solid Air on the sound system, arguably the most chilled out music around, ate breakfast and then messed around on the computer doing everything I mentioned earlier: the BBC website, email, my blog, you name it, and then, normally, I hit the road, but as I say I'm not going today because we're all heading into deepest Surrey, or is it Sussex, for a bite to eat, an Easter treat.

On the weather front, it's great for cycling; another amazing day with temperatures expected to be in the mid-twenties, probably hotter. I bet Andy's out there, he's probably taken a ride to Westerham or the lakes, places we both tend to visit only when we're alone, which is odd. I can't remember the last time I rode to the lakes, but I bet I was alone when I did it.

Actually, it turned out Andy didn't ride yesterday. He'd driven to Cornwall and back in a day on Saturday and felt very tired, so he stayed in,and probably started to wish he'd gone out, the weather being the way it was and, I hasten to add, still is.

The ride to Cornwall and back in a day seemed like a huge effort to me, a long haul. I would have been falling asleep at the wheel, but not Andy. He got there around 1pm and after doing what he had to do, headed home, arriving some time after 2100hrs. Americans think nothing of driving such distances and more, but in the UK it's a different story. I know if it had been me I'd have stayed over somewhere, that's how much of a wuss I am, but then Andy needed to be home.

He told me about his mammoth drive when I reached the green after cycling from home. It is now Bank Holiday Monday, or Easter Monday, and for a lot of people it marks the end of the holidays. Back to work on Tuesday for what amounts to a short week. I've got the rest of the week off. Take four days leave and get a total of 10, that was my thinking. I don't see my desk until Monday 29 April.

We rode the slow way to the churchyard, passing the aromatic oilseed rape fields on the way and occasionally glimpsing bluebells in wooded glades. As I probably mentioned in my last piece of writing on the subject, the churchyard is a wonderful place in the good weather. I could sit there all day with a newspaper and something to eat and drink. The same could be said for any field in the sunshine.

The Tatsfield churchyard

After drinking our tea we lingered awhile, savouring the moment, perhaps, but then accepted that we had to ride home to live out the rest of our day. Andy had shopping to do, but my chores had been done on Saturday so I was in the clear.

You find me now sitting in the garden at just before 1700hrs, it's still warm enough to be relaxing alfresco in a tee-shirt, there's a warm breeze, the sound of a distant light aircraft and, of course, the tweeting birds. I have an apple and cinnamon tea on the go and behind me to my left the wind chime plays its chilled out tune. I'm looking at a bed of tulips to my left, a lawn directly in front of me and a flowerbed on my right full of what I call The Devil's Forget-Me-Not. It's a weed and it covers my garden at this time of year and later becomes unsightly green leaves secured by a huge root. I've tried digging them up, but they always return so I've surrendered to the futility of gardening.

Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon...

People often ask me why I call my brother Jon, Bon. Well, there's no answer to the question, other than 'I don't know'. Seriously, I don't know, I just call him Bon. Next time I see him I will ask if he knows the answer. He'll probably say it's something to do with both words rhyming, Jon and Bon. It doesn't matter to be honest, I just call him Bon, a term of endearment, perhaps.

So it's Saturday and temperatures are going to soar to 24 degrees. In fact, to give you some idea how wonderful it's been today, I'm writing this in the garden, sitting under an umbrella and its 1841hrs, not far off 1900hrs. The sun is still out, the wind chime occasionally chimes and the trees sway slightly in a summer-like breeze. The main reason I'm sitting outside, however, is because I have a new lap top. It's an HP Chromebook and the battery life is ridiculously good. Normally I have to thread my charger through the kitchen window and use the extension lead in the garage, but I no longer have the old MacBook, it died. Or rather I still have it, but it simply doesn't work.

Library shot of Woodmansterne Green

Chromebooks only really work when there's a WiFi connection, but my WiFi is strong enough to work outside of the house, which means it's easy for me to sit outside in the garden blogging, as I am right now.

Andy aborted today's ride last weekend and I'm not going tomorrow (Sunday) but today I thought I'd ride over to see Bon on Woodmansterne Green, it's roughly 12 miles all in. I left the house later than usual (around 0800hrs) and rode the usual route, via Foxley Lane, where they are knocking down a lot of the big houses that line the road and replacing them with ugly (yes, ugly) flats.

It's a straight ride from Foxley Lane all the way to the lavender fields where I turn left, pass the gypsy encampment that's a permanent fixture (in the USA it would probably be known as a trailer park) and within a few minutes I'm on Woodmansterne Green. Bon rode down the road to meet me and then we both rode back to the green and our usual resting place by the big tree trunk that has been carved artistically into rough seating. Out came the tea and we sat there for a considerable time, enjoying the warm sun and discussing this and that, mainly family stuff, but also what we would do if we won the lottery and, of course, Felpham, our childhood holiday destination. It was almost 1000hrs when I checked the time and soon we were bidding each other farewell and heading off in different directions: me to Sanderstead and Bon to Epsom.

I followed my outward route home, but in reverse, riding along an off-road path and then joining the road just before the roundabout that takes me on to Foxley Lane. It's a pleasant ride, apart from having to climb the South Face of West Hill, but once I'd cranked the Rockhopper into a low gear, I sailed to the top and was soon heading downhill towards good old 'Barny'.

When I reached home (around 1030hrs) I sat in the garden and drank tea and then enjoyed a fish finger and mayonnaise sandwich on brown bread. Later, I drove over to mum's for fruit cake and tea in the garden, two bits, which I regret, and let's not forget the Fox's chocolate biscuits. It's got to stop. Seriously.

Anyway, right now it's still not 1900hrs - seven minutes to go - and I suppose I'd better go inside and think about dinner.

It's Easter Sunday tomorrow and I won't be riding, but I'll be back in the saddle on Bank Holiday Monday.

A change in the weather, so we head for the churchyard...

The worrying thing is the speed of time. It's flying by. I was talking to Bon about when mum went into the hospital for her hip op, back in February - January 31st to be precise - and it seems like only yesterday, but it's not, it was ages ago, the beginning of the year. And now, seemingly days later, she's out of hospital and, it would be fair to say, has made a complete recovery.

Suddenly, the warmer weather has arrived, along with the blossom trees being in full bloom and Andy wearing shorts again on the ride. Even last week the weather was the complete opposite to what it was on Good Friday (yesterday). Last week it was minus one degree when I left the house. Yesterday, it was 23 degrees, sunny, summery, tee-shirt weather.

Andy and I met at the green and decided to head for the churchyard, a summer location if ever there was one. It's not the sort of place you'd visit if there was a chance of rain, put it that way. It's exposed, there's no shelter, so it's a summer location that always brings back pleasant memories. It's a place to chill out under blue skies where silence rules the roost and the smell of freshly-cut grass is never far away. Occasionally, from beyond the trees, you might hear the shouts of Lycra monkeys, but, by and large, you're on your own, concealed from view.

We sat there 'doing the usual' - drinking tea and munching biscuits, although I've given up the biscuits and made do with tea (decaff). The topic of conversation was the short-sightedness of managers, the arrogance of the businessman and the amounts of money bad managers are losing their bosses through all the usual shenanigans: short-changing their staff, shafting them, being petty and micro-managing. It goes on everywhere and it's all down to poor recruitment decisions from above.

The Tatsfield Churchyard...

I found myself reminiscing about a past job in which I spent an inordinate amount of time travelling the UK in search of the perfect pub meal (and often finding it). What a great job. Sitting on a train with a book, en route to some distant location where I had nothing else to do but pull up a chair and enjoy the cuisine of some of the UK's finest pub chefs - and then repeating the process the following day and the day after until it was time to go home.

It was soon time to hit the road, so we made our way out of the churchyard, down the steps and on to the road to begin the ride home. It's an uphill climb towards Botley Hill and, as always, I found myself in the wrong gear. Following last week's two punctures (see previous post) I almost considered taking the long way home or joining Andy and riding along The Ridge, the latter being the better option as Slines Oak Road is not as steep as Hesiers Hill, but time was of the essence so I decided to risk the 269. It wasn't too bad. I didn't want to use the off-road path for fear of a repeat of last week's disastrous morning, so I stuck to the road.

I reached home around 1020hrs and discovered that my lawnmower had given up and died. Smoke was visible, the blade wasn't turning, it was time to visit the mower store.

"It's either the capacitator or the motor," said a man in a red tee-shirt from behind the counter. He knew a lot about mowers. "If it's the capacitator it'll cost £30 to repair; if it's the motor you might as well buy a new mower," he added.

Something tells me I'll be buying a new mower later in the week. But the good news was that I didn't have to mow the lawn, although, in all honesty, it didn't really need it as I'd given it the first cut of summer last week. I think the good weather prompted me to get out in the garden and do something so why not mow the lawn again, get it in shape for the months ahead. But no, it was not to be and in a way I was relieved.

The trouble with early hot weather is you know it's not going to last and that, sooner or later, there will be rain, but hopefully not over the next few days. They're predicting another sunny one today (Saturday 20 April). It's currently 8 degrees outside, according to my iphone, which is predicting a high of 24 degrees. The plan is to meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green and possibly ride over to mum's for tea and cake. Let's see what the day has in store.

Punctures dog our ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Saturday 13 April: This is a deceptive time of year. In fact, what time of year isn't deceptive? Well, I suppose, June, July and possibly August, but in every other month, there's no excuse for being 'caught out' in the rain. Prepare for the worst of anything and you might be pleasantly surprised. On some days last week, some might have argued that the weather was too hot to wear a certain type of coat, that it was getting close to the time when we won't need such heavy coats. Fair enough, it is 'getting close', but we're not there yet so beware.

Blossom on the tree, but it's still very cold

Why was I surprised to note that it was just 1 degree this morning when I was preparing to ride to Warlingham to meet Andy? It's April! It snowed in April in 2008 and Andy and I were caught out in it. Clearly, we didn't expect snow otherwise we wouldn't have been so surprised. I remember how we loved it for the first five minutes, but then, after a while, we began to feel cold and shivery and wished we were at home in the warm instead.

A little exposure to a bit of sunshine at the beginning of the year and we all start thinking it's mid-summer. It's not, it's April, we haven't had Easter yet! And there was me this morning, surprised and, I must add, a little indignant when my iphone calmly informed me that it was just 1 degree outside. I peered out of the window and noticed frosted windscreens and sparkling frost, but there were blue skies so why was it just 1 degree?

But I wasn't treading anywhere near 'abort' territory; it would have to be raining for that, I thought, as I pedalled towards Church Way. We decided upon the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Andy, I noticed, seemed a little subdued and in his own world. Earlier, he'd had a flat tyre and he suspected a puncture. As we wound our way around country lanes close to St. Leonard's church, he stopped to check it, but all seemed fine, although he knew, deep down, that it wasn't alright. He stopped again on Beddlestead Lane, having raced ahead of me; in fact, he stayed ahead of me for most of the ride, which was half to do with me being stuck in the middle cog at the front. I'm sure there's a more economical way of writing 'in the middle cog at the front' but right now, I can't think of it.

I managed to change up and raced along the road to catch up with Andy who was still having issues with his front tyre as he approached the bus stop. He got to work fixing the puncture and admitted he was tired, very tired. But after a couple of cups of tea and his Belvita biscuits, he felt a little better. I was making a lot of mess today. When it came to packing up, I emptied my cup on the concrete floor of the bus stop. Normally I drink all the tea first, but not today and things looked a little untidy as a result.

Making a mess on Warlingham Green around 0945hrs, Saturday 13 April

Eventually, we moved off. Andy said goodbye at The Ridge and I carried on along the 269, risking the 269, but sticking (foolishly, perhaps) to the off-road path. The risk is getting a puncture and while it's certainly possible not to get one, I noticed a wobble as I approached the green. The front tyre went flat in seconds, which might have meant that I rolled over a nasty thorn in the road, although it's also possible that one attached itself to my tyre on the off-road path and decided to bide its time before penetration. Either way, I had a puncture and it was going to be one of those bad ones.

I got to work. First I turned the bike upside down, then I released the front wheel and then I set about getting the inner tube out. All pretty straightforward. But the thorn was enormous and very sharp, as I discovered when I ran my hand along the inner surface of the tyre. It was impossible to tweezer it out so I snapped it and tried to render the remaining piece of thorn harmless by blunting it with the aforementioned tweezers. It wasn't looking good. Add to this the fact that the wheel was playing up too: a small spring had fallen out and I was having difficulty getting it back on the front forks. I couldn't figure out what was wrong and in the end, I figured the best thing to do was put everything back together again, unfixed, and walk the bike home. Four miles. In all honesty, it didn't bother me. I'm a walker, I could handle it.

Having reached the green around 0940hrs, I left around 1015hrs and got home at 1146hrs. To be honest, I can't remember what time I left or how long I faffed around on the green trying to fix the puncture. The whole episode stressed me out a fair bit, and worst of all, the problem wasn't fixed. It would bug me all afternoon until, with the sun now shining, at around 1600hrs, I got to grips with it.

There were, in fact, two punctures, but now they're both fixed. I reckon I could have a flat tyre in the morning and if I do I'm going to Cycle King because it might well be that my attempt and blunting the thorn stuck in the tyre was unsuccessful. I didn't know there was a second puncture at first. I thought that the thorn, stuck in the tyre, was causing the original puncture to open up again, but no, there was another hole in the inner tube and no evidence left on the tyre to suggest it was another thorn. Of course, it could have been the same thorn, the original needle sharp bastard that punctured the inner tube just yards from the green, but I won't find that out until the morning.

All very annoying. And what an awful day! The weather was bad. My ride along the 269 was piercing cold and there were hailstones, on and off, throughout the ride. Just prior to that puncture, I was looking forward to getting home and out of the cold, but the puncture put paid to my cosy plans and set me up for the rest of the day. Thinking back to the way Andy seemed to be feeling earlier, I was now feeling the same. Here's to a ride tomorrow.

Sunday 14th April: As we passed St. Leonard's Church, the bells rang out. It was 0800hrs. The last chime coincided with the start of a humungous hailstorm that got worse and worse as we wound our way around the country lanes leading to Hesiers Hill and, of course, Beddlestead Lane. The hailstones were small and snow-like and the landscape around us, combined with the cold air, made everything seem very wintry.

When we reached the bus top, the temperature was minus 1 degree. That's MINUS one degree as I stood in the oilseed rape field behind the bus stop taking stock of my surroundings and answering the call of nature.

We drank tea. Andy munched his Belvitas and soon, things brightened up but didn't warm up. Andy was heading home via The Ridge and I was heading for the 269, except that this time I wouldn't be on the off-road path. The thought of another puncture like yesterday put me off, but in all honesty, I might have to consider going back 'the slow way' even if it does mean going up Hesiers Hill. The 269 is dangerous whichever you look at it, and if the off-road path means punctures, which it invariably does, then I'd better get used to the hill.

It was very cold. My face was numb and, like yesterday, I wanted to get home quickly. 

No cycling Saturday, but a ride to mum's on Sunday...

I aborted on Saturday due to a broken night of sorts, or rather a late night caused by various disturbances - or rather one in particular, but I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I was keen to ride on Sunday, although Andy had other ideas: a late night for him on Saturday prompted an abort text that I picked up the following morning. When an abort text is received, there are often mixed feelings. First, there's that thought of 'good, I'll chill out and not go out'. This is highly tempting, especially if I've made myself cosy, sitting at the table, blogging while listening to music. Then there's the complete opposite feeling, that of getting out there regardless, although this is often tempered by a sense of bewilderment in terms of wondering where to go: Botley, the Bus Stop, a longer ride to Westerham and so on. Often, bewilderment leads to no ride at all and a kind of resignation that it's best to simply take it easy and leave any form of cycling until the following week. But I knew what I was going to do, I was riding to mum's, or possibly Woodmansterne Green to see Bon. I emailed Bon to say let's meet on the green, but got no reply and decided to ride to mum's. It wasn't until I reached Wallington that he called me. Bon was also riding to mum's and I was only 10 minutes away so I said I'd see him there. I rode down to the mini roundabout on Boundary Road, up the hill, past Stanley Park school and into Carshalton Beeches, hanging a right on Crichton Road and riding down towards the Village Bakery where I turned right and sailed down the hill to the lights at the Windsor Castle, bumping on to the pavement as the lights turned red and continuing along the Carshalton Road until I reached the Alma Road turn-off. There are speed bumps on Alma, but they're more fun than irritating if you're riding a bike. I swung left on to Shorts and into Westmead Corner and then up the hill to mum's.

Blossom trees in bloom on Purley Playing Fields early Sunday morning

As always the house was in good order and mum was too, her recent hip replacement operation a complete success. I made myself a cup of tea and cut myself a slice of fruit cake and then headed to the living room and sat down. Mum and I chatted about this and that and then Bon arrived. The light conversation continued and was followed by a stroll in the garden where Bon had uprooted the last of the two conker trees at the top (and showed me a video of mum helping out, demonstrating her amazing recovery). I had another piece of cake and eventually Bon and I headed off together and rode all the way to the Croydon Road together along the off-road path that flanks the Oaks Park. I then continued off-road until I reached Foxley Lane in Purley, making my way through the backstreets and then tackling the South Face of West Hill, a short but strenuous climb that rounds off any ride to mum's or Woodmansterne. I was home by 10 o'clock and 12 miles better off than I would have been had I decided not to take a ride. Until next week...

A misty start - another view of Purley Playing Fields early Sunday morning

At Schipol Airport...back to Brexitland

Getting from central Amsterdam to Schipol airport couldn't have been simpler. No, I didn't walk it, I simply didn't have time and besides, I've got a heavy suitcase, it would have taken me ages and I would have missed my flight. I took a train from the Rai station and about 10 minutes later I arrived at the airport. The check-in was very smooth. I didn't even have to take the lap top out of the case. Passport control was good too, although I've noticed how the officials are being jokey about Brexit, saying stuff like, "Even British passports accepted." Ho, Ho, Ho!

View from a train window

If the truth be known, I don't want to go home to England, it's a horrible place, full of the wrong kind of attitude, there's a lot of inequality, a lot of horrible people, I just hate it, and it's much more pronounced after spending time outside of the country. Tories and Brexit are the root cause. People have a go at remainers and say they're too aggressive, but I find that leavers (not all of them, but, perhaps, the stereotypical 'Brexiteer') is kind of annoying in a Mark Francois sort of way. What a horrible man. He's like the boss you hope you never have to work for: irritating, arrogant, clueless - we all know a boss like that, always trying to screw you over, not pay you what you're owed, underrate your contribution to the business, the sort of person you dream of whacking around the head with a splintered piece of timber pierced here and there with rusty nails.

I found myself at Bread, a bright and breezy food establishment beyond passport control and security, offering panoramic views of the tarmac and the planes on it. A huge KLM jumbo jet being pushed out by one of those airport vehicles I always fancy owning myself. I imagine it parked on the drive back home. Totally unsuitable for shopping, but fun to drive with its huge wheels and tiny cab upfront. Just room for one more inside. I remember a movie about that phrase, and the premise was simple: the person who took up the offer of the bus conductor or whoever, ended up dead, be it from a plane crash, a bus crash, any kind of crash you can think of. It was an old movie, but I can't remember the name.

Wandering around the airport...

I ordered a ham roll on crusty bread with plenty of other stuff thrown in: salad, honey mustard, tomato, you get the picture. I also ordered a yoghurt bar and some weird tea that was very tasty indeed. After phoning home, I took out the lap top, the one I'm using right this minute, and started writing the opening paragraphs to this blogpost. I kind of got carried away and nearly missed my flight. There were some English people sitting close by and when they got up I asked them if they were on the Gatwick flight. They were, but the flight hadn't been called yet. Fair enough, I thought, I'll stay put for a while longer, but soon I figured I ought to make my way to the gate. Except that I got confused. I looked at the destinations board and saw a flight for London Gatwick going out of Gate H5 and headed in that direction. I was conscious that time was running out and quickened my pace only to find, on reaching said gate, that people were queuing and I hadn't missed the flight. Except that I was at the wrong gate. H5 was the easyJet flight. I started to panic inwardly. Where, then, was the BA flight? Perhaps if I'd looked at my boarding pass I'd have known it was Gate D8 - which was miles away. Literally miles. I'd forgotten how big Schipol airport was and really had to hoof it. I think it took me longer to reach the gate than it does to fly from Amsterdam to London. Perhaps that's a slight exaggeration, but time was ticking by, the flight was due to take off at 1920hrs and it was now 1905. I was cutting it fine, but I made it with time to spare, although I was sweating profusely.

Looking for the plane home...

Once again it was a full flight, except that this time I was further away from 'Club' - or whatever BA calls its poncy upper class section of the aircraft. On the flight out I started to experience status anxiety. Why should I be stuck in pleb class while some fat bastard gets given hot towels and treated like a member of the royal family? It annoys me. But fortunately I wasn't up close and personal with the nasty little grey curtain that is drawn across to separate those in cattle class from those who can afford a bit of luxury. I mean it's nothing special, but they don't pay for their food, it's all free (although if you believe that, you'll believe anything). Nothing is free. They might not believe it, but they are paying for their hot towels indirectly and their 'free' food is also included in the price. I'm reminded once again of the first Clash album and the song, Garageland. "They think they're so clever/They think they're so right/But the truth is only known by...gutter snipes!" Something like that.

The flight home was smooth, just like the flight out and it was still light when we landed. Summer is well and truly here, folks. The plane made its way to the terminal building and once off of the plane and through passport control I picked up my bag and headed home. As I say, I wasn't glad to be back having enjoyed a relatively chilled out time in Amsterdam, wishing that I could somehow get Dutch citizenship, but knowing full well that it was out of the question. Sadly, I reflected as I left the airport, I was English through and through.

On a completely different subject, I've never been one for taking a photograph of the plane that's going to fly me home. Somehow it's tempting fate. But on this occasion, I did just that: I took a shot of the plane that would fly me home and this is it. Some say it's bad luck and, to be honest, I agree with them. Fortunately, I'm still alive to tell the tale.

My flight home awaits me...

Ramada Amsterdam Centre...

I ought to say a few words about the hotel, the Ramada Amsterdam Centre, from where I write this blogpost. The words 'Amsterdam Centre' are a bit misleading. In essence, if I was comparing the location with London, this fantastic establishment would be in Croydon or Sutton, but certainly not in the centre of town.

The view from room 514, Ramada Amsterdam Centre

Now I would be foolish to say that it's out on limb because it took me two hours to walk from here to the Novotel and then another hour to reach the very hub of this great European city. For a start there are good rail links into the centre. In that sense, the hotel is 'well connected', but then again, no, it's not well connected. From the nearest Metro station, Postjesweg, it's about a 15-minute walk, if you hoof it, so, arguably my assertion that this place is nowhere near the centre of town is correct.

Other than its location, it's a wonderful hotel. In fact, I have nothing really to moan about. I'm staying in Room 514 on the fifth floor in a spacious room with a decent desk and even a sofa. There are wooden fittings, which conceal a 'wardrobe' - better make that 'space in which to hang stuff' - and there's a decent-sized television, albeit a rather complicated piece of equipment that takes an age to switch off. I resorted to calling reception, as you might have read two posts back. The trick, I was told, was to keep the red button on the remote pressed down for at least 15 to 20 seconds and sure enough it switched itself off. The only other real gripe I have is the WiFi and that's because I have to re-log-in every day. It was fine yesterday, but for some reason today there's been a problem, which only the guy on reception could fix. Still, it's working so all is well.

Inside room 514, ignore my coat on the bed!

The bathroom all works fine too, which is good. The shower is perfect, the sink too, and the view from my hotel window is very pleasant. Sometimes views from hotel windows can be not so good, just take a look at the panel above this post, press 'Hotel Views' and you'll see what I mean.

I forgot to mention the safe. It works fine, just like all hotel safes, so there's nothing to grumble about.

The view from the 17th floor restaurant at breakfast this morning

Fortunately, considering the location, there's a hotel restaurant, and it's located on the 17th floor offering guests panoramic views across the city. There's a central bar, seats surrounding it and tables dotted around the place, all offering decent views (see above).

The food on offer is 'trendy' but very nice. There's a selection of 'signatures' and a note advising you that the staff will be able to offer you their matching skills. This put me off slightly because that fact that matching was involved probably meant small portions, tapas style, so I avoided that part of the menu and went for what seemed to be more traditional. On day one of my stay I enjoyed the trendy F17 burger, an architecturally challenged construction, but very tasty and accompanied by a bowl of chips (as an extra). I started with a brocolli soup and finished with an apple tart and ice cream. I ordered a large bottle of mineral water too and a Solero 'mocktail' and rounded the lot off with a real mint tea, meaning there were mint leaves aplenty in a glass of hot water that remained hot for a considerable time.

On day two I ordered bell pepper soup followed by a mushroom risotto and a couple of Heineken 00 non-alcohol beers. Again, fine, absolutely fine. Similarly, on day three (today, Wednesday) I started with soup (celeriac) and then a Skyburger, which I think included duck liver (possibly foie gras, which I abhor, not just because it means awful things are done to the duck, but also because I spent a few years editing a fine dining magazine and found foie gras on my plate very often, along with the odd King scallop, another comestible I can no longer stomach as a result. I know, I shouldn't be moaning, but there you have it. One thing I discovered today was that the hotel charges 4.50 euros for a bottle of Heineken 00, which is the same price as a 'normal' beer containing alcohol. Something not right about that.

The 17th floor restaurant is trendy and vibrant and always packed. On Monday night I managed to get a table, but since then I've been offered a seat at the bar where it is more likely that you'll end up in conversation with a stranger. Fine, if you don't mind, but irritating if you're comfortable in your own company. I can take it or leave it. I've always been a reasonably sociable person.

Breakfast is also on the 17th floor, but not in the restaurant. The morning offering is good, there's everything you could possibly want and if you're not in a hurry it's worth finding a table where you can admire the view.

Because the hotel is generally very good I can forgive it for being out on a limb and I can quietly forget about the minor wifi problems and the television that takes an age to switch off. It's a great place and I would definitely return.

The check-out was as smooth as the check-in and, as always, I found out that the hotel was more connected than I originally thought, so ignore what I said earlier. The girl on the front desk told me that there was a tram stop behind the hotel (well, I didn't know that!) and I could link with a train to Rai station. She also told me that I could catch a train from Rai to Schipol Airport so rather than leave my case with the concierge, I took it with me and left the hotel without buying a fridge magnet from the shop in the lobby. I'd have to get one somewhere else, probably the airport.

I trundled out of the hotel and headed for the tram stop and soon I was waiting for a train to Rai. Now, I'm working, soon there is lunch and after that I'll be working again, until 1600hrs when I'll head for Schipol airport and a short 40-minute flight home to London Gatwick.

Psychogeography - walking through Amsterdam...

I resolved to get up early, have breakfast - fresh fruit, yoghurt, Coco Pops, green tea with lemon and and a small croissant - and then attempt to walk to the conference hotel without the aid of a map. The event registration was at 1330hrs so I had the time to get some exercise. I walked through the Rembrandt park until I emerged on the streets and then followed a canal, which in turn seemed to follow the flight path of aircraft into Schipol Airport. Every minute or so a plane would fly over, undercarriage down, approaching the runway.

The walk started at Rembrandt Park

I passed a number of nice looking houseboats and began to wish that I was living in one, enjoying a much more chilled out existence than I'm living in the UK at the moment where there's a knife crime epidemic, rising homelessness and inequality and, of course, Brexit. Good old Tories.

The houseboats gave way to modern, often ugly, office buildings, which continued all the way to the Novotel where I will be spending all day Wednesday and Thursday before flying back to the UK.

Having reached the Novotel and checked things out for the conference, I decided to head towards the 'centrum'. It would add another hour or so of walking to what had already been a punishing walk. Not that I was feeling it. When I reached the American Hotel - somebody once told me it was Gestapo headquarters during the Second World War, but I don't know for sure - I went straight to the restaurant, ordered a Heineken 00 and a club sandwich and relaxed. The food was of a reasonable standard, although somehow I was expecting it to be slightly better than it was. I don't know about you, but I can't stand it when I order sandwiches and they arrive with a pile of crisps (or potato chips as they call them in the USA). Not that my disgust for crisps stopped me eating every single one of them. I polished them off with aplomb and even considered dessert, but eventually decided to head back to my hotel, this time in a train. I walked all the way - or almost all the way - to Amsterdam's Centraal Station where I intended to pick up a train to Postjesweg.

Cycle lane early on the walk...

I followed signs to the station, but found a metro stop and bought myself a two-day ticket. The nearest station to the Novotel is the Rai stop. There's a big exhibition centre in Amsterdam called the Rai Centre. It's been there for years and I've never, ever, been inside it. I hope I never have to. Prior to reaching the Metro station I found an American bookshop and spent an inordinate amount of time picking up books by Chomsky, Joyce, Mailer, you name it, but didn't buy anything. Ideally, I wanted something on 'psycho geography', but there was nothing. The first train took me as far as Zuid where I changed to the M50, or M51, it didn't matter, to Postjesweg. There was a short wait. The train was packed, but I managed to get a seat and spent the time looking out of the window to see if I could spot some of the landmarks of my outward trip. It was a bit like fast rewind on a tape recorder.

When I got off the train I needed to ask directions for the hotel. I don't like asking for directions, who does? But I eventually did ask and soon I found myself back in Rembrandt Park as daylight faded, for what amounted to a short walk. I was tired, but I had work to do before moseying on up to the 17th floor for dinner. There were no tables, but only space around the bar, which I accepted and struck up a conversation with a retired Finnish gentleman who used to be a civil engineer. He was on holiday with his wife who must have gone to bed. Him and I talked about many things, including Brexit. I ordered a bell pepper soup followed by a mushroom risotto and a couple more of those Heineken 00 beers. I passed on dessert, said goodbye to my new Finnish friend and now I'm back in the room looking out at the darkness and longing to hit the sack.

Crossing a canal...

Walking is good and in total yesterday I walked 18 kilometres. It's liberating to view the city from a different perspective and not just from a taxi rear window. I expanded my knowledge of Amsterdam's geography and didn't feel dictated to by 'the man'. Walking is little subversive too as I found I wasn't subjected to advertising billboards as I might have been on the train or bus. The establishment wants us 'in our place', it wants us to consume the goods of the capitalist system and spend our money on proscribed routes from A to B. They certainly don't want us to be using our own initiative, finding short cuts (or long cuts) where 'they' might not be in control. I was intrigued to discover, whilst watching a lecture on YouTube given by Will Self to Google employees back in 2007, that the wide boulevards of Paris were so designed not only to aid troop movements, but to oppress the masses should the need arise, so it's good to know the back alleys, the short cuts, the different routes in and out of the metropolis. Not that I have any intention of rising up and bringing down the Government, I'll leave that to Brexit. I voted remain, by the way, just in case I haven't said so before on this blog.

Houseboats - a pleasant place to live, I thought...

Signs proved useful occasionally...

There were bikes everywhere...

A well-earned beer at the American Hotel

At Heathrow Airport...and then Amsterdam

I'm flying British Airways to Amsterdam and it's only a short flight, something like 40 minutes, but the flight is full and I had to go to the desk close to Gate A10 to secure a seat. I asked for a window, but I've been given seat 8D, which is an aisle seat, and I'm happy with that because it's not a long flight so it doesn't really matter. Had it been a little longer, I would have been happy with an aisle seat, so all is well.

There's not enough time to chill out with a cup of tea and a Millionaire's Shortbread - or something of that ilk - so I thought I'd start blogging early. Normally I can't do this because my old Macbook was, well, old, and it wouldn't have the battery power, but my new Chromebook is a different kettle of fish. The battery's been going since yesterday morning and there's still loads of power left, so I can sit here, at the gate, blogging until the flight is called. I'm now at Gate A2 and the crowds are gathering, not to watch me blogging, I hasten to add, but to get on the plane.

It's currently 1532hrs and outside it's bright and clear skies, a complete contrast to yesterday's drizzly, cold day. And now that I'm sitting here writing, I realise the reason (apart from the poor battery on my Mac) why I don't normally blog prior to arriving at my destination: there's not much to say. The journey here was pretty uneventful and, look, I'd better go as they're boarding the flight, we can continue this conversation later.

Later...
The flight was packed. So packed that there was no room for my suitcase. I stood in the aisle next to seat 8D as I knew there were people destined to sit in seats 8E and 8F. They eventually arrived, but I remained standing, my suitcase on my seat. When the steady stream of passengers filing in to the plane slowed to a trickle, I went in search of a member of the cabin crew to tell him or her there was no room for my suitcase. A male steward moved a few bags around, placing them in other overhead lockers and then invited me to place my case in the vacated space. At last I could take my seat.

The plane trundled out of the gate and made its way to the runway. The pilot said it was excellent flying weather and he was right. I ordered a peppermint tea and a KitKat and shortly after I finished my tea and had read John Simpson's column in High Life (the only piece of writing in the entire magazine worth reading in my opinion) the pilot announced there was 10 minutes until landing. We hit the tarmac with a thud and made our way to the terminal building and then I went in search of the hotel shuttle buses.

Having listened (watched) Will Self giving a lecture at Google HQ on the subject of 'psychogeography' I looked at the taxi rank with suspicion. Taxi drivers, says Will Self, are the arch enemies of the psycho-geographer and I knew what he meant. I was reminded of a quote that appears in Fahrenheit 451, something like "if they give you lined paper, write the other way'. So I waited for the hotel shuttle bus, which rolled up after about 15 minutes of hanging around. I was the only passenger. It didn't take long to reach the hotel, but I was a little concerned that it was closer to the airport than Amsterdam's downtown, where I'm guessing my conference hotel is located.

It's a good hotel - so far. The check-in was quick and friendly, the room is very good: twin bed, flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a desk looking out on the city (I'm on the fifth floor of 18) and there's even a sofa, a safe, a telephone, tea and coffee making facilities and a few magazines, everything you might expect, including a bottle of mineral water. But no minibar. Not that I want one. And no wardrobe either!

Time was moving on and I needed some dinner. The restaurant is on the 17th floor and it offers panoramic views of Amsterdam and an interesting menu. I opted for brocolli soup, an FL17 burger (basically a beefburger with bacon, lettuce, cheese) and an apple pie with ice cream - or rather a kind of 'tart', certainly not a pie. I ordered a bottle of mineral water (sparkling) and a Solero 'mocktail', which was more ice cubes than cocktail. I had a side order of chips and a mayo dip and just sat there, alone, people watching and listening to the loud music that played throughout my time there. Not my kind of music if I'm honest.

I headed back to the room to get my credit card (I wasn't allowed to put the meal 'on the room') and then returned to the 17th floor to pay the bill. Now I'm back in my room, the Brexit documentary is on the television (I can get BBC1 and BBC2 here) and I'm feeling tired. And there's nothing worse than feeling tired and not being able to switch off the television. Yes, there's a big red button and I know it's the power-off button, but it doesn't work so I spent an inordinate amount of time faffing about pressing different buttons and getting nowhere. Eventually I resorted to calling reception. "Press the big red button at the top of the remote," said the guy on the other end of the phone. "Thanks," I said, and hung up. I then spent a good 15 seconds, maybe longer, possibly 20 or even 25 seconds with my finger pressing down the red button before, suddenly, the screen went blank. Now, I can get some sleep. And yes, you're right, I re-logged in just to write five sentences.