Heading home...

I awoke around 0600hrs. It was time to head home, but first breakfast. Alright, not a particularly healthy breakfast (cake, croissant, Coco Pops, ham and cheese rolls, a sugary fruit juice and a cappuccino) but I was accustomed to such fayre and was ready to head downstairs at just gone 0700hrs. I had set myself one challenge: to see if it was possible to get into the bathroom without activating the fan. I figured I would need to be on the floor, on my stomach, crawling along the ground like a commando, but it might be possible and, of course, I would need video evidence. I lay on the floor with a view to setting up my iphone video camera. The iphone needed to be placed against the wall and then I would proceed to crawl into the bathroom and hopefully the fan would remain silent. Well, the whole thing was a waste of time from the get go. As soon as I placed my iphone against the wall the fan activated itself, meaning that there's no way I would get in their without being 'noticed'. I gave up, there was no point. Was there ever any point?

Waiting for my cab outside the Villa Dragoni, Buttrio

A few more guests had arrived at the Villa Dragoni as there were now five cars parked outside and I heard people last night walking around on the wooden floors, coming up the stairs, going to their rooms. In fact, this morning I saw somebody leaving their room so I'm guessing it's almost a full house. There might be a function going on. One of the people I met at the conference told me she was married at the Villa Dragoni and perhaps things were being set up for the weekend. Today is Saturday and I should have been cycling to Oxted for a cup of coffee and a chill-out, but I can't because I'm still in Italy and I have a cab, a train, a bus and a plane to catch (and possibly another cab when I get the other end). But first, the cab from the Villa Dragoni to Udine railway station and a train to Venezia (that's Venice). I kept nodding off on the train but eventually alighted at Venezia Mestre just before noon. The area outside of the railway station left a lot to be desired. There were undesirables floating around, put it that way and the back streets were littered with graffiti and Chinese restaurants. I'd say this was the Chinese quarter, but that would far too grand a description.

Breakfast on my last morning...

I had two hours to fill before I needed to be at Marco Polo airport and the only real option was to find a cafe and sit there reading and eating. While it had been suggested that I check out Venice and the canals, once I'm locked in to 'getting home mode' anything else is added hassle; all that would happen is I'd miss my flight. So I pushed my luggage around the mildly dodgy streets around Venezia Mestre railway station looking for somewhere to eat. I settled upon the Bologna Hotel and sat in an empty restaurant until somebody presented me with a menu: spaghetti bolognese and a green salad plus a fizzy mineral water and then, when finished and paid up, I headed towards the bus station where I boarded a bus to the airport. It was a short journey and soon I found myself passing through security and passport control and hanging around awaiting departure. I was flying easyJet to Gatwick (far better than London Heathrow and nearer to home). The flight was good and I managed to finish American Pastoral before we landed. I was in seat 1a, right at the front of the plane and plenty of legroom. Strong headwinds slowed the plane down. The flight time was two hours and when we landed I completely forgot about the train strike. It was Saturday evening. I only remembered the strike when I got to the railway station at Gatwick and found it deserted. Taking a taxi was the only option so I called my cab company and then waited in the Costa on the South Terminal - another excuse to eat rubbish, this time in the shape of a cinnamon brioche roll and a cappuccino. I can't remember what time I reached home, it was probably around 2000hrs. Strictly Come Dancing was on and I couldn't believe that a whole year had passed since the last programme aired. For some reason I'm going off the whole thing, probably because of the BBC and their PC stance. Karen Clifton is dancing with another woman and I don't really understand why or what the Beeb hopes to get out of it, what do they want us all to be thinking? Oooh! The BBC is so right on! Most people don't care, I know I don't. We all know there are homosexuals and lesbians and it doesn't really bother us, live and let live and all that, so why does the BBC feel it has to ram it down our throats? If anything, rather than suggest that all is fine and two women dancing together - or two men - is nothing out of the ordinary, I would wager that it has the opposite effect. People are tired of having their consciences pricked, we know it goes on and we don't give a stuff. Get over it!

Breakfast buffet on my last day

I can't remember what happened after that, I sat around, not really watching the television and eventually, around 2330hrs, I hit the sack. I slept reasonably well and had aborted my planned ride to Westerham to meet Andy, I simply had to take things a little easy. But I'll be back in the saddle soon. In fact I'm planning a ride or two during the week if the rain holds off. I need to get back to some healthy eating. All week I've been stuffing my face with croissants, biscuits, cakes (for breakfast!) and it's not good. Don't get me wrong, I've loved it, but I need to get back to the way things were a few weeks ago: two to three mid-week rides, plus my weekend cycling. I need to get back to Alpen for breakfast and green tea and I might start making myself avocado sandwiches so I don't have to visit the caff. Looking at the photo to the left, however, I must say that I miss those extravagant, sugar-filled breakfasts and I was getting used to drinking cappuccinos instead of tea, but generally speaking I think I need to be indulging in healthy eating again and that's the plan for this week.

Notes from flight D82952 from London Gatwick to Helsinki...

I was wide awake at just after 0400hrs and unable to get back to sleep, not for want of trying. I tried taking measured breaths and closing my eyes, but I wasn't sleepy enough. It wasn't like the old days, when waking up in the middle of the night was the ultimate pleasure because I would feel luxuriously sleepy and ready to fall straight back to sleep. Back in the day I looked forward to a broken night, sometimes I used to set my alarm too early just so I could reset it and fall back to sleep just so I could experience the joy of lying there thinking pleasant thoughts. Somewhere along the line things changed, those thoughts became fretful and now, if I'm awake, I'm awake and it'll take a while to get back to sleep. Sometimes I fail and I simply get up and go downstairs.

Healthy breakfast at Gatwick's South Terminal

Just before 0500hrs I jumped out of bed and switched off all the alarms that I had thought would be necessary to wake me up, but, as I suspected, I didn't need them. After making myself fruit, porridge and toast I put the finishing touches to packing my bag and then waited for the taxi to arrive. When it did I noticed Gupta was at the wheel. He's a bit of racist, but believe it or not he's alright, he's simply one of those people that likes to moan about virtually everything and, of course, now he can no longer moan about the European Union because we're out. Although he still moans about immigration, one of his chief bugbears, but let's not forget his son's messy divorce and his various health ailments. But deep down, this ex-services cab driver is alright and despite previous posts, in which I probably paint a bleaker picture, I quite like him.

At Helsinki, still in the plane, looks drizzly

He arrived on the dot at 0600hrs to take me to Gatwick airport and an early flight to Helsinki in Finland. I have never been to Finland before so I'm looking forward to the trip.

On the way to the terminal building after Gupta had dropped me off, I met a woman who lives in Pimlico, London, somewhere close to Lupus Street. She hailed originally from the West of Ireland and was on her way to Dublin to watch her own racehorse compete in a race, although she wasn't 100% sure that the horse would run, but was going anyway. She was flying Ryanair on the basis that they're cheap. I was flying Norwegian. In fact I refuse point blank to fly with Ryanair: I never have and I never will and it's all down to to the fact that I distrust them and the guy who heads up the budget airline.

Once I'd checked in I milled around for a while, spraying myself with expensive aftershave. It's the only time I smell nice. I bought a few things and then went in search of something to eat, nothing special. I visited the Wonder Tree restaurant where I ordered and enjoyed a mint tea, a slice of toast and something called a Berry Yoghurt Bowl (£11.45). My flight appeared on the destinations board at 0800hrs and was due to depart from gate 18 so I paid up and went in search of the gate.

On the bus waiting for the stragglers...

I am on flight D8 2952 and sitting in seat 12a, a much-appreciated window seat, affording me excellent views of tiny cotton wool clouds some distance below me. It's fairly clear outside (now that we've cleared the cloud hanging over Gatwick) and even at 39,000 feet I can still see land and sea, roads and rivers below me.

The flight isn't full. Who else would be so foolish to fly on a Sunday morning? I have an entire row to myself and that means I can spread out a little bit.

I had been under the impression that the flying time to Helsinki was roughly three hours, but no, it's two hours and 25 minutes, which is a relief, although I must admit that I'm nice and relaxed and enjoying every minute.

I've brought a 500ml bottle of Pellegrino on board, but I swear I heard them say that passengers must buy everything from the airline so I've not opened it - until now - as I think the service is over, but they will probably admonish me for my insolence.

Toasted cheese and ham and mint tea at Moi Bar, Helsinki

Last night I was on top of the world chilling out at home watching (on Netflix) The Great Escape, but conscious that I needed to be up at 0500hrs I stopped the movie after David McCallum had exited through the tunnel and will have to watch the rest on my return.

My room at Scandic Simonkentta, Helsinki

Down below I can see land, mainly a mix of large and small (some very small) islands. Miraculously the sea is blue and off in the distance there is a hazy smattering of thin cloud. This is what pilots call 'excellent flying weather' or 'conditions' and I love it when I know things are going to be relatively smooth and free from too much turbulence.

There's probably about an hour left to run on this flight and outside the land has given way to the sea, so there's little to see. In addition to being a window seat, 12a is also an engine seat.

I'm taking sneaky swigs from my bottle of Pellegrino because right now I'm really into Pellegrino sparkling mineral water. All week at work I've been downing a one litre bottle just after lunch having purchased it for £1.50 from the Co-op. It's something I haven't done for a long time, but there's nothing better and now that I'm not drinking alcohol (it's been just over two years and two months and I'm getting boring about it) I've decided to drink more Pellegrino, mainly because non-alcohol beers are piss poor and I can't be bothered to pretend anymore. In the same way that Sir Bobby Charlton and Arthur Scargill should have swept their comb-overs aside and announced, fuck it, I'm bald! Well, metaphorically I'm doing the same. It's a bit like my vegetarian sausages theory which I will now explain.

The view from my hotel window...

Okay, if you're a vegetarian why bother eating vegetarian sausages? Why would you want to eat something that resembles the very thing you've decided not to eat anymore? In the same way, why should (or why would) somebody who has given up drinking want to be drinking something that looks exactly like what he or she has given up? No-alcohol beer will never taste the same as real beer so why drink it? It's horrible and simple serves to remind you of what you are missing by not drinking. Not that I'm missing alcohol, not one bit as it happens. There are people who drink no-alcohol beer to hide the fact that they are not drinking, which is fine for a while, but once you become comfortable with being a non-drinker and don't care what others think about your decision, that's when it's good to start on the Pellegrino. Perhaps a no-alcohol beer with a curry, but that's about it.

It's 1105hrs (UK time) and I reckon there's around 30-40 minutes left to go. Outside there is no sign of land, just wispy clouds below me and the sea. I think I might read a bit more of Michel Houellebecq's Serotonin. There's 25 minutes to go according to the captain and we will shortly be starting our descent into Helsinki where it's 5 degrees, cloudy and rainy. Ugh! Just like England. As we descended through layered cloud I saw nothing that resembled land until we had virtually hit the tarmac. The landing was perfect, so smooth and soon the plane parked up to await a few buses that were being sent to ferry us back to the terminal building. We were all waiting inside the plane, some people were standing in the aisles, but I chose to simply sit there and wait it out. Soon, I was up and out of the plane, on the staircase leading down to the tarmac and the waiting buses. There was rock salt on the stairs, a clear sign that things get pretty icy here in Finland.

Where doors open outwards...

In fact, I was told that the current weather in Helsinki was out of character with the time of year. There should have been at least a foot of snow on the ground, but apparently the Finnish capital is experiencing the warmest of temperatures for January 'since records began'. It was good in a sense because it meant that I wouldn't be slipping and sliding all over the place and possibly even falling 'arse over tit' in the process.

After clearing passport control I followed signs to arrivals and found myself wandering through lairy displays of alcohol, cigarettes, fragrances and watches, not forgetting fur coats and anything else you might care to throw in. Talk about the Society of the Spectacle, it's obscene. And rather than stop and buy anything I simply used the testers to make myself smell good again, based on the assumption that the Allure I'd sprayed on my face at Gatwick had worn off.

I found myself in Moi Bar opposite Starbucks where I ordered a cheese and ham toastie and a mint tea. It was fantastic and there was a real risk that I'll eat another one so took a wander.

To brighten up winter streets in Helsinki they keep the festive spirit alive

I made my way to the Hilton hotel just outside the airport where a car drove me into the centre of town and a lovely hotel where I am staying now. It's very pleasant and I'm looking forward to breakfast. The room is good, there's a minibar, a television, a decent bathroom and a desk. Add in WiFi and you could say I'm as happy as Larry.

Time runs out in Dusseldorf

The Burns Art Hotel – time to check out

With business tied up by just gone 3pm I embarked upon another long, long walk across the city. It took, like yesterday, just over an hour, and the weather was a little colder. I reached the hotel around 1630hrs and then, after a little bit of faffing about with my suitcase, I bade farewell to the Burns Art Hotel and hit the streets.

Late afternoon/early evening is a funny time of the day because it's a good couple hours off dinner and it's too late for a snack, like, say, a cup of tea and a millionaire's shortbread. In fact, that's something I never really got together while I was out in Dusseldorf. I never found a cosy place to drink tea, munch on something sweet and read my book – The Moth, a collection of short, true stories, some good, some a little disappointing, but an ideal book to read in a Starbucks, if I could find one.

I'm always looking, but never finding, peace. That's what I need more than anything else: a bit of peace and quiet. A  cup of tea, an almond croissant and some time to sit and read the papers or a book or both. Coffee shops are the best place to be in this respect and, dare I say it, Costa, Caffé Nero or Starbucks fit the bill, especially mid-to-late afternoon in an American city. I remember a good occasion of this sort in Indianapolis a couple of years ago and one in Chicago last October – both courtesy of Starbucks.

On Wednesday I found myself in Dusseldorf's old town – or Alt Stadt – trying to find somewhere that fitted the bill. I eventually stumbled upon a Starbucks, but it was getting round to lunch time and I didn't want to start ruining things by eating cookies or whatever just prior to tucking into lunch. Not that I should have worried. On that particular day I'd already walked for what seemed like miles and then I walked round and round the Alt Stadt, not even window shopping, just walking and that's how the Starbucks came into the picture. But as I said, I passed on it and walked a fair old way back to the street where my favourite restaurant is located. But there was no room at the inn. I've written about this – how I went to the Thai restaurant instead – so I won't go on about it.

Stumbled across this sculpture in the Alt Stadt

So Friday afternoon's kind of similar, but in a sense the other way around. It was as if somebody had one of those huge old sand timers – what are they called? You know what I'm talking about, an hour glass, that's it. It was as if somebody had taken an hour glass, turned it upside down and I had to fit everything into an increasingly smaller space of time. And I was a little tired too. You would be had you just walked all the way across town like I had. I stopped off at a few shops on the way, like I did on Thursday. I bowled into a supermarket looking for God knows what. White hot chocolate, German tea, German breakfast cereal, a bottle of wine, but I didn't buy anything. Then I went into one of those posh but weird shops that sell odd stuff like upmarket-looking shaving brushes, pens, clocks – "men's stuff" – and I ended up trying some aftershave.

The long and the short of it is this: I ended up at the airport miles too early. Like four hours too early. I couldn't even check in so I found a restaurant and ordered tuna and penne and one of those big, balloon-like glasses of red wine and sat there reading The Moth. And then I made the mistake of ordering another. I say 'mistake', it wasn't so much a mistake, but I could have done without it.

Dinner here was not good, but not bad either

I went through security, had to take my laptop out of my suitcase and endure all the hassles – laptop in it's own tray, coat in another tray, suitcase in another, it's such a fuss, but it's all for a good cause – mine and my fellow passengers' safety. Once on the other side, time flew past and soon there was only 30 minutes before my flight was due to take off. But of course it never took off on time. Everyone was standing around at the gate and there was some kind of delay, but soon we all filed on board. I had seat 3a so I was soon sitting there, seat belt on, reading The Moth again. But other passengers delayed things. We eventually got off the ground about 30 minutes late. I hate night flights. You can't see anything. It was pretty smooth all the way over and having already enjoyed two glasses of wine I didn't order anything from the hostess.

We made good on lost time and hit the tarmac at Gatwick around 2122hrs. A cab journey followed and I was home in time for the news. Iain Duncan Smith  – otherwise known as IDS – had resigned from the government over Osborne's plan to cut benefits for the disabled, while giving the rich a tax cut. What a fucking bastard! Actually, they're both bastards. IDS is a bastard too, but I understand that his resignation letter is going to cause Osborne a few problems. Some have called for his resignation. Not good when you consider that Osborne has prime ministerial ambitions.