Summer heat and the return of the magic...

It's been unbearably hot. I've even seen a stag beetle, a sign of summer and schooldays if ever there was one. Except that summer kind of started early this year: in May, but now, in June, it's been extremely hot, up there in the mid-to-late thirties, there have been red warnings, we're all being advised not to travel unless it was absolutely necessary, making me wonder whether anybody travels just for the hell of it, to some random railway station, perhaps, for a quick coffee and then the return ride. No, most people are going somewhere to do something, nearly always work, but visiting relatives, friends, whatever, nobody travels for the hell of it.

A few days ago there was thunder and lightening and heat. I was lying on top of the bed when it started, early in the morning, it was still dark. The lightening flashed and the thunder crashed and I was reminded of people, or perhaps it was just one person, who told me that the longer the period between flash and crash the further away the storm was travelling, and sure enough, after a while, the storm blew over and was gone. Where it went I'll never know, perhaps over Sutton way where mum resides and I remembered how much she hated a storm when we were younger. I thought of her then, in the dead of night almost, the darkness still present, and wondered how she was coping.

As a child I always remember, on a stormy afternoon, back from school, looking at the front door and the crinkled glass window that gave little away as the late afternoon light faded. "The front door is jealous," I used to say to mum, having no idea what it could be jealous of or, indeed, whether a wooden door could even experience jealousy. It was a mad thought and still is. A jealous front door, it was up there in the scary stakes with the silhouette of the stairhead at night, when it turned into the Mug Dog, a cloaked dog-like figure that stood at the top of the stairs when we were supposed to be going to bed. Crazy, definitely. Childhood is strange, surreal almost and I never remember it being any other way; everything was in some way strange: the sea, the countryside, cows, flowerbeds, insects, agricultural machinery, nothing ever seemed real in the days when I didn't watch or listen to the news. It was a world of fairy tales and toy soldiers, hankerchief tents in the back garden, stories within stories and nothing anywhere near reality, not that I knew what reality was all about; in many ways I still don't although I'd say that's more wishful thinking than anything else.

The heat brings back memories of being young when every day of the school summer holidays was long and sun-baked. Long grass swirled in slow motion, trees swayed ominously at the edge of fields where sheep and cows stood motionless even as we passed them by in a train to the coast. If the cows were sitting down, said dad, then there might be rain; if they were standing up there would be sunshine. Invariably they stood up, rarely were they sitting down. Most of our summer holidays were bathed in sunshine and I recall early evening when the sun cooled and our toy soldiers were in their respective hotels (the bedside cabinets) and I was walking around barefoot in white trousers with a collared short-sleeved navy blue tee-shirt with a white anchor logo, looking out to sea, at low tide, long stretches of wet sand, the distant bark of dogs and my tingling, sun-burned body. Later I would sleep on top of the bed, my shirt sticking to my skin as I hoped the feeling would leave me by morning because my inflatable boat awaited me.

We all longed for a lightening storm by the sea but all we really saw was distant flashes on the horizon and not the waves whipped into a frenzy by the wind, nobody in peril on the sea, a hymn I still find frightening in some way. I would not wish to find myself or anybody else in peril on the sea. I would sleep with the windows open so I could hear the sea throughout the night. It was magical, and once you let the magic escape it rarely returns unless you find it, like I did, in a theme park in Holland, it hides in the most unlikely places. The Dream Flight. You either know it or you don't and I know. The magic is out there, in pockets, don't go looking for it because it will find you. I once found it, aged 12, on a milk round, in South Wallington of all places, and it's still there and I can find it today on my bike, the quiet, seemingly empty, large houses set back from the road, the hedgerows, the trees, swaying again, nobody around, and I can sail triumphantly through it and out the other side, reluctantly riding back into real world suburbia.

It's 2239 as I write this and it's still hot. 24 degrees and it won't dip lower than 20 degrees before morning and then it will rise into the thirties again. I'm sipping from a mug of tap water that never quite comes out of the tap cold in this sort of heat. I'm putting off going to bed because it's going to be unpleasant, at least until I fall asleep, which I will, eventually. I'm wearing shorts and a black teeshirt with 'Future Inside' written across the front. Future Inside! 

I was listening to an old prog rock album, Octopus, by Gentle Giant, a band I only remember from a track (not on Octopus) called Free Hand. The Astronome disco at the Croydon Greyhound used to blare it out before the bands came on stage and for some reason I remembered it, found it on Spotify and listened to it, then discovering another track, Remember Me with Kindness, which I found mesmerising and that led me to key into Google the question: What is regarded as the best Gentle Giant album ever. Octopus was the answer and Remember Me with Kindness was on it, so here I am, alone, in the dark, just the halogen glow of the computer screen and the 24 degree heat outside.

My wife often tells stories of her childhood growing up in India and how she and her family used to sleep on the roof in the extreme heat of summer and they would lie there looking at the moon and the stars. Once again, it's the return of the magic, just when you thought you'd lost it.

In Bologna...

When I got back to room 436 of the Fly On Hotel after dinner, I noticed a strange-looking insect with a rear end like a locust and a nasty-looking sting coming out of its arse. I can't say I was happy sharing a room with it so I went in search of a newspaper or something I could hit it with. A copy of the New Yorker would suffice, I thought, having bought it a few weeks ago and only reading one article on the plane coming over from London.

Arriving early at T5 Tuesday morning

The insect in question was in the bathroom and I wasn't sure whether it was going to join me in bed later so I hit it hard and sent it rolling into the sink. I turned on the tap and washed it down the plug hole, but rather worryingly it scuttled up and tried to get out of the sink so I whacked it hard again and this time, with the aid of more water, it disappeared and was never seen again. I left the room and later returned and when I looked at the sink I was under the illusion that it had filled with water and was about to overflow on the floor. I wondered whether the insect had mysteriously grown in size and somehow managed to reach out and turn on the tap. I felt paranoid enough to place a drinking glass over the plug hole. The sink was empty so what made me think the opposite started to freak me out. Perhaps, I wondered, it might have something to do with my recently acquired Coke habit; only a week ago I had a Coke Zero and somehow I'd acquired the taste for it. But no, surely not. The drinking glass, I thought, would stop the advance of the insect if it somehow reformed and edged its way back up the pipe.

When nature calls and your flight
awaits, this is the last thing you need!

Later, once in bed, I kept an eye on the area around the bathroom and started imagining the insect, now around six feet in length and with no legs, edging its way towards my bed, but nothing came and I fell asleep until my alarm woke me at 0600hrs. Another day in paradise, I sighed, thinking about the stressful day ahead of me and how I would be confined to the hotel for the rest of the day. In truth I felt fat. Very fat. I certainly needed the exercise and while I had vowed not to eat any cakes or biscuits, I had fallen foul of my decision, which was especially damning after having rubbished the reputation of an extremely fat man I know, somebody morbidly obese, who, I often wondered out loud, must have had many moments in the lead-up to his current and unbelievable size, when he peered in the mirror and thought 'perhaps I'd better knock off the cakes'. Well, let's say that I was thinking the very same thing as I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, knowing there was more of the same ahead of me as another day of sitting down presented itself and I started to feel guilty about doing nothing. My cycling had been non-existent (virtually), one week on, another week off, and, I fretted, I really needed to do something about it and quick. I figured I was at the stage that my morbidly obese associate had been at some time ago and had ignored the warning signs. I mustn't do that, I must cease all bad things now. 

I was staying on the outskirts of Bologna in Italy, close to the airport, in a rather dated hotel that had a few issues but was perfectly okay. The shower worked, which made a change, the small bottles of shower gel were great, not too gloopy in a tomato ketchup sense and enough per bottle for two showers. There were towels and even face flannels, the beds were changed daily (unlike in some hotels that don't bother until you check out, citing environmental reasons, which is rubbish). The bed is comfortable, the black-out curtains work a treat and I'm generally very happy, even if the hotel is a little confusing.

The plane at Bologna airport...

The reception area is on the fourth floor as is my room, which follows an upward-sloping corridor from the front desk. By the time I get there and take a peek out of the window and over the balcony's edge I notice that I am high up, at least a few floors from ground level and I simply can't work it out and decide it's best not to bother trying. I started to wonder whether what seemed like a strange kind of reality was simply another illusion, like thinking the bathroom sink was full-to-overflowing with water or that a giant insect was heaving its way towards me as I slept. I started to wonder if I was going insane, but then they always say that if you think you're mad, you're probably not. 

On Tuesday, the day I flew to Bologna, I awoke to bad weather. Despite it being June, the skies were dark and heavy rain was falling. I had woken up at 0345hrs (never let other people book your flight) made breakfast and then reluctantly went upstairs for a shower and to complete my packing before lugging the heavy case downstairs and leaving it in the hall for when the taxi arrived. Sure enough, around 0430hrs, a bearded foreign gentlemen was sitting patiently in the driver's seat while I faffed around inside the house checking I hadn't forgotten anything.

The drive to the airport was hell on earth and at one point, looking out into the gloom as we raced along in the driving rain, I swear the driver was careering towards another car and only managed to miss him by pure luck. I was glad to get out and I'll be taking the train home.

The view from room 436, Fly On Hotel, Bologna...

When I reached Giraffe in Terminal Five after a painless run through 'security', I couldn't face a big breakfast (I'd already eaten two Weetabix and a banana plus some bread and marmalade and very tasty it was too) so instead I had a mug of tea and one of those healthy smoothies.

It was time to fly, from gate A21, but I needed to answer the call of nature. In both bathrooms all the cubicles were in use. Somebody suggested trying the one downstairs, which I did, and it was the same situation: loads of men taking early morning dumps and spending far too long doing so. I started to worry, the gate was closing at 0720, it was now 0710. Fortunately, a door opened and in I went. Then, afterwards, I strode purposefully towards the gate and was there in good time.

What a great restaurant!

The skies brightened and by the time we roared along the runway in the broad daylight, the grey skies had been replaced by a light bluey water colour painting that somehow turned to clouds. There was some turbulence initially, but not much. I had seat 8F, a window seat, and I spent the flight looking out of the window unable to concentrate on reading, apart from one article in the New Yorker magazine about Donald Trump.

We landed and then had to endure the new finger print and photo stations installed throughout Europe and causing many delays for travellers throughout the continent. It wasn't that bad to be fair, and once out the other side there was a short courtesy bus ride to the hotel. Check-in was easy and soon I was in my room and putting away my stuff, including my new Reiss suit that had been stuffed in my suitcase since the early hours but was soon on a hanger (one of only three!) in my wardrobe. The new suit was pricey, £400 pricey, but it was well worth it. I didn't fancy another M&S suit, which hang badly and make me look like a right arsarillo.

Room 436, Fly On hotel...

I didn't get to see a lot of Bologna as the hotel was far away from the city, but I managed to get to the 'downtown' on Thursday night for a dinner with a few industry friends, which proved very enjoyable. On Wednesday night myself and a few colleagues found a 'local' restaurant (football shirts on the walls, a snooker table, the smell of cigarette smoke) that offered basic food, nothing to write home about in my opinion, but it was okay if a little ordinary. All that said, it was an experience, not the sort of place you would visit out of choice, perhaps, and that was something in itself.

While the weather coming out of the UK had improved from the torrential rain of early Tuesday morning, it got better when we arrived in Bologna. Getting out of the plane reminded me of the days when I would go on holiday to Greece and that lovely moment when the heat hit me square between the eyes; the weather improved as the week progressed, and now it is time to head home. I need to pack my suitcase, take my passport out of the safe and head down for breakfast for the last time. In fact, on that score, the breakfast offering has been fine, I can't think of anything to moan about (for a change!).

Another shot of room 436...

Outside I can hear the birds tweeting and I know that behind the curtain is blinding daylight. It's almost time for breakfast, but first a shower. Actually, a word about the shower, bearing in mind that my bathroom at the Residence Inn by Marriott in Pittsburgh, USA, offered nothing but tepid water at best unless I'd left it on for five or 10 minutes. Here at the Fly On, it was a great rain shower that was easy to use and the water was just right. The hotel is a little dated, a bit rough around the edges, meaning there was a bidet in the room, something I have never ever used (I wouldn't know which way you're supposed to sit or crouch on them, there's no seat) but, like a true Englishmen dying for a pee I nearly (and I stress that word 'nearly') used the bidet instead of the toilet. Fortunately I noticed at the last moment, not that it would have been THAT disastrous as there was a plug, but thankfully I realised in the nick of time! It could, of course, have been much worse, but let's not go there.

It's now Friday morning, time to go home, well, time to have breakfast and then back to the room for the boring bit: packing. I hate checking out of hotels, but I really hate playing pants roulette, which is when I put all my pants back in the suitcase after wearing them and then mix them up with clean pairs. Then it's a game of chance. Am I putting on yesterday's pants or a new pair? Perhaps I ought to buy pants with the days of the week printed on the back and then, if I stick to wearing the right pants on the right day, problems won't exist, but I've never seen pants with the days of the week printed on them. Perhaps always remember to have a spare plastic bag handy for used clothes, yes, that's the answer. Or, of course, empty the suitcase of all clothes so that I know that anything I put BACK in the case is used. Yeah, there you go, two possible solutions.

Travel to and from Bologna was pretty much pain-free. While the taxi journey to T5 in the driving rain wasn't pleasant, both flights (outward and inward) were fine. On the way back I had a middle seat, which I don't like, but there was no choice, it was 'a full flight'. Flying home took one hour and 50 minutes and for at least half an hour of that time I finished reading Geddy Lee's My Effin' Life plus a bit of the appendix right at the back. It's great, arguably the best rock memoir I've read. I doubt if anything will beat it. 

Arriving back at T5 and having been ferried from the plane to the terminal building in a bus, passport control and baggage reclaim were simple. My colleague Pete and I took the Piccadilly line to Earls Court and Green Park respectively. I took changed on to the Victoria Line and then an overground train from Victoria to home. I was picked up at the station, thankfully.