Walking, riding, eating chocolate and getting on with life...

With the cold weather behind us - for now - I've settled into a reasonable routine: I ride to Oxted every Saturday morning, I chill in Costa (and Caffe Nero) depending on what takes my fancy, although if I go to Costa I can use my Costa card and that means I get a free drink somewhere along the line. I think it's every eighth drink is free, something like that. A couple of weeks back, maybe three, I can't remember, I rode to Oxted to meet my pal Garth. He rides from Redhill, along the A25 - not a pleasant road to ride on, he says - and we met in the Caffe Nero (see, I told you I visit both depending on what takes my fancy). When I got there, Garth had already arrived and he was in a pretty bad state. I shouldn't say this, but it's true: it was his own fault, a. for charging around and b. for going too fast, but also there was some bad luck involved too and I certainly sympathized. He'd taken the mini roundabout at the end of the road a little bit fast, hit a drain and fell off the bike, or rather the bike went down and he went with it. It wasn't a pretty sight, put it that way. His leg, I can't remember which one, possibly his right, was cut up bad, his shoulder had taken a beating too and he was taking it all pretty well, he even rode back to Redhill, took a bath, bandaged himself up and was fit for work on Monday. So, respect is definitely due.

Caffe Nero Oxted week ago

I met with Andy in Westerham the following day and so has been the routine these past weeks. I went today (to Oxted). Garth wanted a lie-in so I was alone. I went to Costa, ordered an English breakfast tea and a pack of two ginger biscuits and sat at the front of the store looking out on my bike. The place was empty and I remarked on the fact to the girl behind the counter. "You should have been here 10 minutes ago," she said, explaining how a particularly busy period had just ended. Just two people, possibly three, were in the store and it was peaceful. I hadn't brought my book or my glasses so I just sat there and not for long. Soon I was walking up towards the charity shop next to the Caffe Nero. I don't know why, but I quite like it in there. I wandered around for all of 10 minutes and then walked down the high street, taking a brief look in the Oxfam shop, not that I was looking to buy anything, there's just something nice about charity shops. 

I didn't switch the Strava back on until I reached the Costa. I figured it was best to reactivate it at the point where I switched it off earlier. I can't say the journey back appealed one bit. I wasn't looking forward to the hill, the huge hill that is Titsey Hill, but as avid readers will know, it's not that bad and once again I switched off and rode up the hill on automatic pilot, my mind far away, engaged in many conversations with many different people as the bike cruised upwards, minding its own business as I stared at the trees on either side of the road, looking forward to the moment when I saw the top of the hill, marked by a road sign. Once I get to the top I keep the bike in the lowest gear until I'm past the Botley Hill pub, then I crank it up as far as it goes and ride along the 269, hopefully not having to endure the rudeness of passing motorists. Last week some nobody with one of those builders' cars - you know the ones, Truckman Top written on them - he slows down when I was riding the other way heading south towards Oxted, he slows until his running parallel with me. "There's a cycle lane over there, you dickhead!"he says and then speeds up. I could think of only one word: cunt! My ploy is always to say nothing, ignore the bastards completely but never ever use the cycle lane, that would be to admit they're right and I'm wrong and I won't have that. Besides, the cycle lane the cunt was referring to is lined with hawthorn bushes and I know from experience that riding it means punctures.

Won't be long before summer comes

In addition to cycling I've been walking. I've always been a walker, but just lately I've been recording the walks on Strava. They're always roughly three miles (I only get an hour for lunch so it's hard to do much more, although sometimes I walk from Redhill to Merstham (just over two miles). In fact, a couple weeks back I did just that, having already walked three miles at lunch time - a five-mile day no less - and when I reached Merstham as darkness was about to set in, I sat in the waiting room where I found an old copy of Q magazine (April 2000). There was 'cash for questions' with Lemmy from Motorhead and what amazed me most about the magazine was how there are so many things that 'wouldn't be allowed' today, like 'sexist' and suggestive advertisements, photos of topless women (in the Lemmy interview) and, well, I loved it. I've still got it somewhere as it reminded me of the good old days of the 90s. I loved Q magazine and was a regular reader, I loved the writing and the attitude too.

We're heading towards March and longer days as the summer approaches, and that means I'll be riding to work a couple of times a week and getting fitter in the process.

Sunday before last in Westerham

Sunday morning

I awoke around 0300hrs. By 0400hrs I was still awake and when it past 0430hrs I decided to get up. I was tired and weary but I couldn't sleep so I made breakfast, two slices of toast with honey, and then I checked out the television, it wouldn't work...and then it worked and I sat at the dining table, lap top on, watching one of those real police programmes on Channel Five, proof if any was needed that there are plenty of nutters around. 

I was tired and considering an abort text, but then I remembered that I'd left my charger in the office, leaving me with two choices: try and reach Andy via Twitter or use my daughter's charger to fire up the phone and then make my decision. I think I'll go on the ride, possibly leave earlier than 0800hrs and then chill when I reach Westerham. That said, I'm still not sure what to do. I'm not sure I could face the ride, I'm so weary, perhaps it wouldn't be safe to ride in such a state. I kept thinking about the ride home and the very thought of it was horrendous. I could have done with the ride, but then I didn't want to overdo things. I'd have to make my mind up before 0800hrs. But then Andy sent a text suggesting a later ride to allow the frost time to thaw. Not a bad idea, I thought, and agreed, but in the back of my mind I knew I couldn't face it. So I texted back and aborted the ride.

Bike in Westerham week before last

The rest of the day I didn't do a great deal. I had a shower and a shave and went to see Natalie's uncle Robin, he's in Chelsea and Westminster hospital at the moment and I wish him well. Then, on my return, I made an amazing chicken roast dinner with pigs in blankets, plenty of vegetables, mini Yorkshire puddings, cauliflower cheese, the works. There was apple pie and vanilla custard for dessert and it rounded off the day nicely. At some time during the day I watched Columbo and I can't remember what I watched in the evening. 

That broken night did me no favours. Last night I awoke around 0400hrs, but instead of getting up I remained in bed and that was crucial. I'm not sure if I went back to sleep or not, but at least I was resting up. I started to wonder whether diet was having anything to do with waking up in the middle of the night. Possibly. I know I keep banging on about it, but I'm stuffing my face with a lot of sugar at present: A Kinder egg last Wednesday, a huge slice of Victoria sponge and a cappuccino in Bateman's on Saturday afternoon, a cappuccino mouse yesterday evening, a sneaky Millionaire's Shortbread in the Waitrose car park on Sunday, assorted chocolate biscuits at work on Friday and I'm always saying it, but it simply must stop. 

On Pilgrim's Lane week before last

I think I'll challenge myself during the month of March, which is coming up. I went through a long phase of not eating any wrapped chocolate bars. It went on for years and years, but now it's all gone to pot. I blame the pandemic, but in reality it's my own weak will and greediness. 

I made a lot of bad dietary choices during the lockdown. Well, not loads, I also ate very well, but I've restarted the chocolate bars is what I'm saying. Oh, I almost forgot, I've been munching sneaky Lindor and Cadbury's Caramel eggs in the Waitrose car park while listening to Radio Four in the car. 

So, March, a month of no cakes, no biscuits, no buns, no chocolate eggs, no cakes, nothing – let's see!

In Amsterdam...

Took a local train into central London around 0839hrs and then jumped the Underground, Victoria Line, all the way to King's Cross. Then, a shortish walk to St Pancras where I discovered a huge queue for the 1104 Eurostar to Amsterdam. Surely I would'n't have to queue! Why? Normally I simply check in, go through the baggage scanner and passport control and I'm there, in a kind of no-man's land, sipping coffee and munching on an almond croissant. Not today. "It's half-term," said a man in uniform after I'd retrieved my tickets from the machine. I skulked away and found the end of the queue; fortunately, it didn't take long and I was soon placing my suitcase into a large black plastic tray and walking through the scanner, just the same as when I'm flying. And was I glad I wasn't flying? Apparently, I could make a ridiculous amount of Eurostar journeys to Amsterdam and back and not get anywhere close to the amount of carbon I'd be emitting if I'd flown there. 

On the Metro, leaving Amsterdam Centraal...

I was in coach 7, seat 67, an aisle seat and the journey was, well, I wouldn't say pleasant, there's something rather unpleasant about travelling on the Eurostar and I'm not sure what it is; I suppose it's something to do with the cramped conditions, then it's the frosted (or are they dirty?) windows which mean you can't see properly, there's a kind of grey film over the windows which makes looking out pointless. So I sat there reading The Bear Comes Home by Safi Zabor (oh, please, let me finish it soon, I can't stand it!) I read a few pages, then stopped, then read a few pages and stopped. Around lunch time I made my way to the buffet car and bought a cheese and ham panini or baguette, a bottle of mineral water and a KitKat. I returned to my seat and then realised that my tray, the tray in front of me, was already laden with my beanie hat, glasses, book, notepad, phone and tickets. I decided to pick up the important stuff (tickets, passport, phone) and head back to the buffet car to eat my baguette. I didn't really want to subject the guy sitting next to me to that awful whiff of hot food. There's nothing worse than the smell of somebody else's hot food when you're not eating anything. Afterwards, I returned to my seat and in between sips of green tea and that KitKat I just sat there trying to work out why I seemed to be constantly down. It's a mixture of stuff: the country, the government, the future, and it's not good, it's almost physical in nature, but I won't bore you with it now. Suffice it to say that I need to chill much more than I am doing. I often wonder what other people see when they look at me and I'm guessing it's somebody preoccupied, somebody staring at something invisible, somebody with a look that says paranoia, a look that says I'm being attacked from all sides, nobody can be trusted (or very few people) and so on and so forth.

Postillion Hotel (centre)...

First we stopped at Lille, then Brussels, then Rotterdam and then Amsterdam, our final destination. All was fairly straightforward. I jumped off the train, found the exit, checked my phone for directions to the Postillion Hotel, jumped on the Metro, six stops, and then a walk, not that far, and a much-welcomed breath of fresh air. I love Amsterdam. I love Holland. The bike lanes, everything. As always, I wish I lived there, it would be better than the UK, mainly because everybody rides a bike, anybody can go anywhere in and beyond the city on a bike, it's safe, it's easy and everybody gets exercise, free exercise, no need for gym membership in Holland.

Inside room 915, Postillion Hotel

I checked in to the hotel. Room 915 on the ninth floor. A great view from the window. The room is pleasant, a twin room, decent facilities, nice bathroom, a flatscreen television on the wall in front of the bed, free wifi. CNN is on and of course it's nothing but depressing news about war and earthquakes.

I'll be picked up at 1900hrs and taken out to dinner. I'm looking forward to that. Tomorrow an interview then I'm back on the train at just gone 1600hrs and heading home. A whistle stop trip. I'll arrive back in the UK around 2000hrs tomorrow night and I'll probably get home around 2130hrs.

Being on the ninth floor of a tall building is fine if you're in Amsterdam; I'm just glad I'm not in Turkey where the recent earthquake has taken over 30,000 lives. The Postillion is a quirky sort of place. Check-in was easy and fast and, as always, I found myself standing in the lift wondering why it wasn't moving after I'd pressed the number nine for my floor. The answer was simple: I needed to use my keycard to activate it. Once I'd brushed the card over a specific area of the lift's control panel I felt movement and soon realised we were on the move, upwards, to room 915. I would have preferred room 918 as nine plus one plus eighgt = 18 and that's my lucky number (yes, I've resorted to superstition to relieve my constant anxiety). The number of the train was 9126, which adds up to 18, I was in coach 7 (lucky number 7 perhaps) and the other day I spotted a spider in the kitchen. It was early in the morning, I even wished him (her) – or perhaps it was a transgender spider or a spider version of Sam Smith, in which case I'd probably have to refer to my eight-legged pal as 'they' or 'them' or 'it'. Or in Sam Smith's case, 'nob'. Actually anyone who expects me to address them as 'they' or 'them' will be given short shrift. In my world if you have a dick, you're a bloke; if you have a vagina, you're a woman. But let's not go there as it's just something else to annoy me. The Brits were on over the weekend and Sam Smith arrived in ridiculous inflatable outfit. To be fair to the guy, he made me laugh and I think he was given a lot of (much needed) media attention as a result of what he was wearing, but I found myself wondering how he would manage to sit down and eat dinner, I've always been a fairly pragmatic person. Perhaps he'd dine alone (he'd need the space, otherwise he'd be invading his fellow diners' space, possibly knocking them off their seats).

View from room 915, Postillion Hotel

CNN's still on behind me and they're talking about the UFOs that American fighter jets have been shooting out of the sky. I say UFOs, it's more likely that they're surveillance balloons operated by China, but why? It's not as if they're not going to be seen and shot down. The Chinese are saying that the US has been doing the same, but the US denies the accusation. Four 'UFOs' have been taken out. It's very childish when you think about it. Childish and ridiculous, but let's see what transpires. The first one was definitely Chinese, let's see where the others come from, although I'm putting my money firmly on China.

The hotel room annoys me. It's one of those hotels that relies upon technology and we all know that technology simply doesn't work. There's a panel by the side of the bed that lets you control the room, draw the curtains automatically, turn lights on and off and so forth, but of course it was going to let me down. I went through the panel switching off the lights and then on again to check it all worked and, to be fair, it did work, except that I couldn't turn the bathroom light off. The television came on unexpectedly and eventually I worked that out, although it was easier to simply use the remote control. When I woke up early in the morning I used the bathroom having gone to bed wondering how I could possibly turn the bathroom light on again as there was nothing on the control panel that said 'bathroom light' – which would have been far easier. Actually, a switch on the wall, or cord dangling from the ceiling, would have been far, far easier, but technology doesn't do 'easy', it's not about ease of use, it's just about technology. 

So here I sit, at 0601, in the dark. The control panel now reads 'insert card' but it's already inserted in the slot by the door, so I can't even use the technology, apart from some mini bedside lights, which are next to useless. Fortunately, as I say, the bathroom light comes on automatically, but I'm guessing that half way through a shower the light will switch off 'to save power' and I'll be stranded, naked, and in the dark, covered in soap. For all I know the shower won't work at all for some inexplicable reason, who knows? I feel my first Trip Advisor review coming up, the first in ages, and it won't be good. Not even a decent breakfast will redeem this place. Even the shop downstairs by reception! "Can I put this on my room?" said I, picking up a bar of chocolate, but oh no, there's an automatic system, just like those in the supermarket, so I had to faff around. To be fair, it wasn't difficult, but that's not the point, is it? Just put it on the fucking room bill!

I'm being let down by technology left right and centre and it's happening a lot these days. Like right now. Here I am sitting in the dark early in the morning because the lights won't come on and I have a new digital recorder which is pants basically, the highest volume is too low, the whole thing simply doesn't work the way I want it to and once again, like in Sweden a few months ago, I'm beginning to panic: I have an interview in about four hours from now and I find myself thinking where is the nearest shop where I can purchase a decent recorder? I know darn well that when I reach reception they'll say there is a place but it's on the other side of the city and I'll be left relying upon the voice recorder on my iphone, which is also rubbish. So, not a good start to the day by any stretch of the imagination. I seem to be followed around by calamity and all the faffing about trying to get the recorder to work means I'm missing breakfast and time is moving on. I'm not happy at all.

Breakfast was actually quite good. I had two fried eggs on toast, some yoghurt and granola, a mug of green tea and a couple of mini pastries, not forgetting an apple that I took with me to the room. But just because it was a good breakfast didn't mean I forgave the hotel. When I got back to the room the lights mysteriously came on again. Too late, I'm afraid, I had already been inconvenienced. The problem of the crappy Philips digital recorder was still alive and kicking. Eventually, when a cab arrived at 1000hrs to take me to my appointment I asked the driver if he could take me to Cool Blue, an electronics retailer. He did and soon I was in possession of an Olympus recorder, a brand I trust. I now have two recorders and one must be returned.

After lunch I was driven to the beach to take a look at the sea, then another cab took me to Centraal Station and I was soon onboard the 1647 Eurostar to London. I say 'soon', I got there miles too early and had to sit around until the train arrived, but eventually we got underway and, fortunately, I didn't have anybody sitting next to me, which was good. I ordered some food from the buffet car (a cheese and ham baguette, an English breakfast tea and a KitKat (roughly the same order I had on the way out) and then settled down (with the same book) and got on with the journey. We arrived into St Pancras 10 minutes early, the escalators didn't work, but soon I was on the Victoria line and heading for Victoria station where I jumped aboard the 2050 train to East Grinstead (I'll be getting off at Sanderstead). Yes, folks, I'm on the train now, writing this blogpost, finishing it off and I'm sipping a large green tea I purchased from Starbucks on the concourse at Victoria. Next stop East Croydon and then it's my stop.

A good trip, but rushed. I could have done with another day and a little bit more mooching about. In fact, that's what I didn't get on this trip: mooch time, but I guess you can't have everything.