Saturday afternoon...

Well, I've tested negative, twice, and that's positive. All I have to do now is get out on the bike in the morning. I've checked it out, the puncture I fixed is holding firm, the bike's fairly clean and, weather permitting, I'll be heading for Westerham in the morning for a 22-miler. I've had a couple of walks around the block, I've eaten a bit of coffee and walnut cake from Waitrose, I've even bought a lottery ticket - who knows, I still might be able to buy that remote cottage in the Outer Hebrides, there still might be time to stare at the sea after all). Listening to music, all sorts. Rocks by Primal Scream, Temptation by New Order, Land of Confusion by Genesis, Who by Numbers, all the good stuff in other words. It's the first time I've felt like listening to music in a while and now that I'm testing negative, well, I feel good about it. School by Supertramp, that whining mouth organ, it's on now, it's dark outside, gone 5pm, wailing saxophone, piano, what's not to like? There's something weirdly pleasant about wintry Saturdays, like wandering around malls or IKEA, muddy footprints on terrazzo flooring, or visiting fireplace shops or sitting in a cosy coffee shop with a mug of tea and a slice of cake as it starts to get dark and you can see into people's houses as you pace the streets wishing you were home, in the warmth, chilling, safe behind that double-glazed, triple-locked door. 

It's different in the summer, lighter for a start, and the grass is green, the shadows long as evening approaches, but it has it's own charm. There's no need for coats and scarves, hats or gloves for a start and there's often the distant sound of Greensleeves playing from an invisible ice cream van. Or there used to be when I was a kid. I always remember the bell ringers in the local convent school, now that was a magical sound coming from the other side of the railway track, not far from where I lay in bed as a child listening to the day calming down, evening setting in, dad yet to come home from work, rapping his familiar rhythmic rap on the front door as we lay in bed staring at the ceiling tiles, longing for morning, which was a long way off, far over the horizons of time, it wasn't even dark and the daylight still seeped through the curtains. I haven't heard those bells for a long time and I often wonder whether I'll ever hear them again. I wonder if they're still there or whether they are long gone, cast adrift forever from those who listened to them back in the day. Where are they now, I wonder? 

COVID - the novelty's worn off...

Last Saturday, when I first noticed I was a little under the weather, I remember going to bed in the spare room accompanied by my radio and feeling good. Good? Well, good inside. The idea of feeling tired and weak and cosy and glad to be in bed was, in itself, kind of comforting. I had a sore throat and a dry cough, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I slept well, the curtains drawn apart to reveal the lunar glow of the streetlight across the road. I know, you've heard all this before in my previous post. The 'cosy' feeling at night continued for a day or two and during the day I got by. In a sense I was thinking 'this isn't as bad as everybody is making it out to be' (perhaps I'm right about that) but I had received three jabs and perhaps that was why it all seemed relatively okay. Anyway, put all that aside, it's getting a little tiresome now: today is what? Nine days since I started feeling unwell, the day I drove over to South West London. This time last week I was wandering around IKEA and Dunelm (mask on, of course) but I hadn't yet tested positive. In fact, this time last week I tested negative, it wasn't until Monday last week that I tested positive, so right now it's seven days since I tested positive. I feel fine. I've felt relatively fine since around Tuesday of last week and I just want things to go back to normal. I've lost my sense of taste and smell, which is no fun as I love food and can't abide just getting by on 'texture' and my imagination. Today, Sunday, around 1130hrs, I'd normally be getting back from my ride to meet Andy in Westerham. It's now been two Sundays missed and, more than anything, I need some fresh air and I'm fed up with the spare room, really fed up. The depression I feel over having the virus is only trumped by the feeling of depression I have for living in a country presided over by the current Conservative Government, a motley collection of arseholes who haven't a clue. I won't go on about the Downing Street parties other than to say that the entire country will be very angry if that fat cunt Johnson is allowed to get away with it; we don't need Sue Gray to tell us he's guilty and everybody knows that, it's a delaying tactic, and let's briefly talk about intimidation and the stories that the whips are threatening MPs with the withholding of funds for MPs' constituencies. This scandal reeks of Johnson and I'm glad that Wragg has brought the matter to the attention of the police, although I have no confidence whatsover in Cressida Dick's Metropolitan Police, the force that brought you Wayne Couzens and the innocent shooting of a Brazilian man wrongly mistaken for a terrorist. Dick, incidentally, was awarded the Queen's Medal after that little incident. 

In the world of crap where we all live, there has been some good news: Djokovic was deported from Australia, leaving just Johnson and "Prince" Andrew to be dealt with; as for the latter, well, his judgment cometh and that right soon! I'm starting to wonder whether Johnson will pull it out of the hat, but I sincerely hope he won't, we need three results on this one: Djokovic (deported and out of the Australian Open); Johnson (he must resign); and "Prince" Andrew MUST be taken to the cleaners. Here's hoping.

On a personal level I just want to test negative and get my taste and sense of smell back. I'm fine otherwise, bar a runny nose. When I think of the shit we've all been through it makes me depressed. It kind of started with Donald Trump and Brexit, Johnson getting elected by the bigots with a huge majority based on the Brexit lie, the whole Brexit thing and how it's slowly being proved that leaving Europe was a big mistake (we are now a little country with limited influence in the world, governed by a bunch of idiots (Johnson, Gove, Raab, Patel, Truss, the list is endless). I heard (and I hope it's fake news) that Gavin Williamson, the former defence and education secretary (think, for a moment, he was in charge of defence) was going to be given a Knighthood - that, in my opinion (if true) kind of sums it all up. Johnson is easily the absolute worst PM we've ever had and his motley collection of cabinet ministers are terrible, there's not one of them I'd trust with anything and the sooner they all go, the better. Can't the Labour Party put forward a vote of no confidence in the Government and trigger a General Election? Oh, that would be good news as the thought of another three years of Johnson... I don't think anybody can face that.

Lastly, of course, to make matters worse, we had the virus that eeked its way out of Wuhan back in early 2020 and continues to bug us all. Just think about it all for a minute: Donald Trump, Boris Johnson, Brexit, Prince Andrew, COVID-19, all of it 100% avoidable. Anyway, we're in this position and we've got to get on with it. 

'Make it go away' Kate Bush has just sung on my Sonos, from the track This Woman's Work, and I would second that emotion, make it go away.

It's COVID time ... and that means no cycling!

When I looked out last Saturday morning at the frosty pavements and roads I knew that plucking up the enthusiasm to go out was going to be difficult. It was cold out there! But after breakfast and a little bit of hesitation I decided that I would ride the Weeble and get back in an hour. Out I went into the garage and what did I find? A puncture that's what! And to make matters worse, a rear wheel affair. I always have difficulty putting the rear wheel in place as I tend to forget how it works with the chain. I resolved to go out later and fix it, but when I did I realised something else: that I really couldn't be bothered for some reason. I found the whole thing tiresome in the extreme. The very thought of unbolting the wheel (thank heavens for quick release) lifting it out and then prising the inner tube from the wheel using levers was more than depressing. I normally use one lever to start the process and this I did relatively successfully, but I was feeling tired and seemed to be lacking energy. Eventually, however, I managed to free the inner tube and set about what needed to be done to fix a puncture. With the hole plugged, the culprit thorn removed and the inner tube back underneath the tyre and on the wheel, I pressed most of the tyre into place with my hands but wasn't finding it at all easy. I couldn't work out why I was feeling so tired, so drained, and after giving the bike a clean (a much needed one) I shut the door and quietly looked forward to my ride with Andy on Sunday morning.

Later that day I drove over to South West London and I felt shivery. Partly, this was because it was cold out, but also there was something afoot, although I knew not what. On my return I almost went to bed immediately, in the spare room, as I figured I didn't want to give whatever I had to my wife. Oddly, I felt strangely comfortable once under the covers, the curtains drawn back so I could see the branches of a tree illuminated by the lunar glow emitted by the streetlight from across the road. I developed a sore throat and a pretty severe one at that; furthermore there was a cough, a dry cough, and I figured that, for the first time in years, I had the flu. Although I think I suspected something more was up because I texted Andy early on Sunday morning, 0414hrs to be precise:

"Not feeling good: sore throat and dry cough. Will test later," said I, meaning I would test for COVID. I went on to say that I wasn't up for the ride. When I did test myself I was negative and this was a huge relief, but a day later I tested again and was positive. It wasn't a great surprise to be honest, but prior to that second test I was convinced I only had the usual flu-like symptoms of the standard variety. Once I tested positive my inner attitude towards my illness changed a little. I felt annoyed because somewhere along the line I had been careless, but also a little anxious about the course my illness might take, although I think I knew that things weren't going to change drastically and I comforted myself with the knowledge that things would only get better. As it turned out, they did. For three days, that's all, I had a sore throat and a cough. It hurt when I swallowed like all sore throats do, and that was really it. By Tuesday, things had calmed down. I'd been filling up on Lemsip (the blackcurrant variety, so Blacksip, not Lemsip) and I was off work, although I did answer a few emails in between reading chapters from Tenement Boy, Bobby Gillespie's excellent memoir on how Primal Scream came into being. I still found time to get angry with Boris Johnson, No-Vax Djokovic and, of course, "Prince" Andrew. So far, I thought, it's one down (Djokovic) and two to go (Johnson and Andrew). It was good to see that the Royal Family disowned him and had stripped away his titles. At the time of writing (1741hrs on 19 January 2022) Johnson is still in place, but David Davis told him 'for God's sake go', words that would have made me seriously consider my position had I been the buffoon.

So, exercise wise, everything has come to a stop. All that riding around the block hasn't happened for almost a week and during that time I've sent back a rear bicycle light, USB-chargeable, which kept cutting out mid-ride. My £40 has been refunded and now I can simply go out and buy another one, from a proper shop this time and not on Amazon. Forty quid is quite a lot for a rear light when you think about it, although I'm now thinking about buying a new helmet with an integral rear light, but let's see how it goes, perhaps I'll look at that later.

It's odd sleeping in the spare room. I'm doing so to protect my wife, obviously, although on Saturday, when I first started feeling shivery, we shared car journeys so perhaps it's inevitable that she'll get it, we'll see. So far, so good. Last night I took the radio to bed with me and awoke mid-morning to the dreamy sounds of BBC Radio 3, it all felt strange and surreal in the darkness, the lunar light from across the road illuminating the room, and I must admit that I liked it, especially being tucked up under two duvets knowing there was a while to go before I had to get up. On Tuesday morning, around 0430hrs, I got up and had breakfast (tea, orange juice, a slice of bread (or was it toast, I can't remember) and a glass of water before returning to bed and sleeping on. There have been strange dreams, one involving the Grosvenor House Hotel in London, which was dark and empty except for me. I walked around the Grand Ballroom in front of the stage remembering past extravagances and slipped off into a darkened side corridor. The rest of the dream is sketchy.

I've been house bound all week, no fresh air, no cycling, but I know that a clean bike without punctures awaits me in the garage for when I ride out hopefully this coming weekend. Today I was looking back lovingly on my coverage of the 2020 summer lockdown, and the more I read the greater it all seemed to have been: all that cycling, that lovely weather, and these were the pre-vaccine days when the only variants of the virus were the deadly Delta and Alpha varieties - or, of course, the Indian and Kent variants, which more accurately pinpoint where they originated. I wrote thousands of words on the 2020 lockdown and looking back I'm glad I did as it leaves me with a permanent record of what I was thinking and doing at the time. It wasn't a bad time by any stretch of the imagination: the heat for a start, the lack of cars on the road, even working from home took a while to lose its appeal. Home became a real home instead of just a pit stop between working.

Suffice it to say I'm alright. I've had the dreaded virus and thankfully the less severe OMICRON variant (at least I think that's what I had); and now I've just got to wait until the lateral flow test says negative. One thing I do know is that I can't wait for a cappuccino and a slice of cake...but it would be helpful if my sense of taste and smell returned.

To Westerham to meet Andy...

Last night I watched a great documentary on Netflix about the band Johnny Moped, all of whom hail from Croydon, not a million miles from where I live. The film starts with monochrome images of the Whitgift Centre back in the day of the Forum pub and the automated walkway that links the pub to the ground floor. Today, both pub and walkway have disappeared, but it's good to know that Johnny Moped lives on, or at least that's what I was led to believe by the last few minutes of the film, which shows the band playing a live gig somewhere 'today'. They're all older and wiser and some a little worse for wear, but I found the film joyful to watch, entertaining and very funny in parts. It's good to see a group of guys trying their best to make it in the world of rock n roll and to be able to say that Chrissie Hynde and Captain Sensible were part of the story. They managed to release an album, had a good relationship with the music press and at moments in their career were tipped for stardom, but the cookie crumbled a different way. Still, in many ways they were a success, a documentary was made about the band and I for one enjoyed seeing sights of Croydon as it was in the seventies (less cars on the roads, no pedestrianised shopping, just proper, old-fashioned high streets, Mk 2 and Mk 3 Cortinas and, of course, a lot less people.

Give or take, I left the house this morning around 0805hrs and was happy to be on the road, enjoying the uncharacteristically mild weather. There had been overnight rain that had left big puddles on the 269 but there was little in the way of traffic so I was able to ride in the middle of the road to avoid a soaking. As I free-wheeled down Clarks Lane heading towards my destination (Westerham) Andy appeared out of nowhere and we shared the last mile or two into town, stopping (as planned) at the Costa Coffee. Andy had some vouchers and stood me a cup of tea, which was nice of him, and because of the mild weather we sat outside and I confessed that I'd never seen The Blues Brothers. At one point in my life it was one of those films, along with Withnail & I, that I made a point of not watching because everybody else seemed to be talking about. Andy enthused about it and now I'm thinking I'll check it out, see what all the fuss was about. The reason we where suddenly talking about The Blues Brothers was because I had mentioned the Johnny Moped documentary and how Johnny Moped himself was often hard to pin down when it came to gigs or recording. He once queued outside the venue to attend his own gig. Andy said that John Belushi was equally 'difficult'.

Our friend the drummer, who we haven't seen for a few weeks, passed by the Costa and we chatted for a while about this and that; he said his Christmas hadn't been too bad and that he hadn't been teaching the drums for a while. He used to be in a band and he reminded me very much of the characters in the Johnny Moped documentary, that's why I mentioned it to Andy and that's how we were chatting about The Blues Brothers and then I mentioned Withnail & I, which Andy hadn't heard of before. I had a Wispa Gold in my pocket, which accompanied my tea and all was well with the world. Andy talked of how his 13-year-old granddaughter had made him vegan cup cakes (he was rightly chuffed) and no conversation would be complete if work wasn't mentioned once or twice. It was quite a wrench having to leave, but leave we did, heading back up the hill. I bade farewell to Andy and he sped off as I continued up the hill, turning left on to Pilgrims, then right into Rectory Lane, rejoining Clarks Lane further up and then heading for Botley Hill. There was very little in the way of traffic so I rode the 269 into Warlingham and then followed the road into Hamsey and then Sanderstead, getting home just before 1100hrs.

I didn't ride on Friday or Saturday, circumstances beyond my control. I don't like it when I miss a ride so I'll need to get my act together next week and try to ride my short six-milers daily. Last week I rode Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I really wish I'd riden on Friday and it would have been even better if I'd riden to Westerham yesterday (Saturday morning) but I didn't and there's no point fretting about it. The key is to get rides in as and when. Today is Sunday 2nd January and I've got tomorrow off work because it's a bank holiday. I might get up early and ride to Westerham again, which would be good, but let's not count chickens before they're hatched.