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.