Swimming, cycling, improved weather...

 I went down with a bit of a cold and as a result I had to forfeit the ride on Sunday to meet Andy; that was the week before last, but last week Andy couldn't make it so I had to motivate myself. Fortunately, the poor weather seems to have left the building so I rode to Westerham last Sunday despite the fact that my original plan had been to visit the Velobarn, which seems to open when it pleases. I rode along Pilgrim's Lane and found the place to be closed, leaving me no option than to ride into Westerham, which I did, stopping at Costa, padlocking the bike outside and enjoying a very pleasant cup of English Breakfast tea in the sunshine.

The ride back, was as expected and when I passed the Velobarn it was still closed. Their loss, I was thinking, their loss. It wasn't long before I reached Botley Hill and then before too long I was home. In a complete break with tradition I quickly went out again to do the Norfolk Nobbler, a six-miler round the local streets, which can be quite a work-out. In total I rode 28 miles last Sunday and felt better for it. 

What arsewipes did this?

Last Thursday, the one just gone (6 March) I went for a swim at my local pool. Half a mile is a good distance, takes around 30 minutes, 32 lengths, and on a Thursday the pool is pretty much empty. A pleasant hot shower followed and because I'd parked my car in the supermarket across the road, there was no parking charges, meaning I could relax a little and enjoy my shower, which I did. 

I've been having a few problems with the pool membership. I was originally on a plan that was restricted to just one pool and this was causing issues because if I wanted to go more than once a week (I have to go twice a week to make it pay) it was difficult in terms of available times to go. So, I upgraded my membership, which meant I could use a pool slightly further away, but when I got there last Friday evening I wasn't too happy with the pool. All the changing rooms were damp, the locker system was different and basically, all the faffing around made me leave the place in a mild huff without a swim, although if I dig dip I'd probably discover that I wasn't really up for a swim and needed instead to simply relax. I'll now have to degrade my membership to what it was before and try and work out a different solution. I'm planning on one swim per week twice a month and two swims per week on the remaining two weeks. Again, not a problem.

During the week I had the bike serviced. I was initially having problems with the inner tube valve, which I simply couldn't undo in order to inflate the inner tube. I took it to the bike shop and he fixed it. I now have a new tyre and inner tube on the back. While I was there I asked him to fix the bottom bracket, which had well and truly gone, and he said I might as well get a service, so I booked the bike in. The brakes are now fixed, there's a new chain and block and the bottom bracket is fixed too but, as always, the price was almost that of a new bike, albeit a very low spec machine. For an extra forty quid I could have walked out of there with a new one. But hey ho. I didn't buy a new bike, I had my Rockhopper fixed and it's running smoothly as a result and that's all that matters.

I had a haircut during the week and asked for a number three. "That's a skinhead," said the barber. "I know," I said, and he got on with it. I feel much better after a short haircut and I look better too. Nothing worse than straggly hair, it looks so untidy, especially when it's greying. That set me back around £15, which was fine. Afterwards I went to Costa Coffee for an English Breakfast tea and a Bakewell tart. But I wasn't relaxed and after around 10 minutes I left and drove home.

Today, Saturday 8th March, I did a Washpond Weeble, just over 12 miles. The weather is great today, not cold, but I left the house late and decided to shorten the ride; I was going to head for Oxted or Westerham or, if it was open, the Velobarn but decided instead on a non-stop ride which took just over an hour. Riding through Washpond Lane I noticed that some arse wipes had set fire to a car and left it in a pile by the side of the road. I mean, what kind of arseholes do that sort of thing? It was, however, a pleasant ride and now I'm back home writing the blog, which I haven't been doing as frequently as I should. Oddly, when I checked the weekly stats for this past week, the number was well over 10,000 visitors, it's now around 6,000. I love it when reader numbers go up or whatever it is the figures relate to.

Outside the sun is shining and the skies are fairly blue, it's 8th March and the bees are out, the snowdrops and the crocuses are on the lawns and there are signs of daffodils too. In short, the summer is on the way and I love it. It means more cycling and that's what I like.

Tomorrow (Sunday 9th March) I'm hoping to see Andy at Sheree's Tearooms, that's around 17 miles, so 29 miles in total, I might even ride into Westerham afterwards if the weather holds and knock the mileage over the 30-mile marker. Who knows? I might not!

Imagine owning a gun...

I'm losing track of when I did and didn't ride the bike. Let's see if, from memory, I can work things out. Last Sunday was 3 April and I remember it because I phoned Geoff, the illustrious illustrator, to chat about his altercation with his next door neighbour's gardener. That was last Sunday. Prior to last Sunday I rode to Botley Hill on Friday afternoon/early evening and returned via Woldingham, meaning that the Sunday before Sunday 3 April was when I rode to Biggin Hill and had breakfast in the Spitfire Cafe, but either way, the trend has been two rides of roughly 42 miles in total; it was a similar scenario this week just past, if I can remember it. Well, I didn't go out on either Thursday or Friday of last week - more's the pity. So let's get back to last week's ride to Westerham when I was chatting with Geoff on the phone about his altercation with the gardener, that was a ride to Westerham of approximately 21.5 miles. Yesterday I rode to Westerham, roughly 21.5 miles again, so this week another grand total of 43 miles. Shit, really, when you think about it. I need to up my game, but I think my problem is coming home tired from work (especially if I walk from Purley) and then not really feeling like getting out there. I've considered a number of ways of breaking my current spell of laziness (and let's not forget that only a few weeks ago I was doing around 70 miles per week, well, for a couple of weeks at any rate). One way is to bite the bullet, not walk home from Purley and instead ride the Nobbler for just 35 minutes or so (six miles). If I do that Monday through Friday that's 30 miles, plus today's 22 miles = 52 and then, if I ride to Westerham next Saturday, a total of 74 miles with not too much in the way of inconvenience: that's the best thing to do; the alternative would be to ride to work one day during the week (the best day is Thursday when hardly anybody is in the office. I could leave the house around 0700hrs, get there for 0815hrs and just start working, then ride back around 1600hrs, meaning just over 24 miles. Alright six short of the daily ride scenario, making it a total of just 68 miles (two miles under the respectable 70 miles). As you can see, I'm fretting again: "Just go when you can, when you fancy it, when you feel like it, don't beat yourself up over it," I say to myself and of course I'm right. The weather's warming up now, the temptation to go cycling will take over from that feeling of not wanting to go out.

April 2nd in Westerham Costa

I rode 11 miles for a haircut

Today's ride was fine, but let's talk first about yesterday's Haircut Ride. I rode into Westerham, the fast way, on the 269. I'm a bit wary of Beddlestead Lane ever since I heard from Andy about somebody being robbed of their bike, but to be honest, I've been riding the 269 for some weeks now, I don't know why as it is fairly dodgy on the traffic front and people tend to speed along without a care for cyclists. In fact, they positively hate cyclists on the 269, they all think we should be using the cycle lane, but what they don't realise is that the "cycle lane" is peppered with thorns and guarantee any self-respecting cyclist a puncture, that's one reason why most of us use the road. Also, there are people and joggers on the pathway (it's not just for cyclists) and often they're wearing headphones and can't hear a cyclist approaching them from behind, making it all very annoying. For these reasons I stick to the road. Going out around 0800hrs is fine, but if leave a little later the traffic is heavier and there's always a belligerent cunt wanting to voice his opinion in some way or other. Only the other week (I might have mentioned it) there was a motorist stuck in a queue behind other motorists because up ahead was yours truly and one of the drivers at the front of queue was doing the right thing (giving me room and, in the process causing a short queue, a minor hold-up). But for some it's not acceptable and as I passed an irate motorist he beeped his horn and glowered at me. I deliberately pulled a manic, eyes glaring insanely kind of face and waved in slow motion as I passed him. He must have been fuming at that and I hope he was, but anyway, I think I've mentioned this before so I'll stop there.

So, where was I? Ah, yes, in Westerham. I ordered a large English breakfast tea to takeaway and I sat outside as the weather was warm and everything was laid back. The bike was padlocked in front of me and I sat there, as always, people watching. 

James Nesbit, Nicholas Cage or a child molester?

My hair is mess, it has been for some weeks now. It's always the same, give it a few weeks and I start to look terrible. My hair gets straggly and it's sort of half black, half grey, some people call it "salt and pepper", which I fucking hate. Anyway, once it gets a certain length, normally around eight weeks after cutting, I look terrible, especially if I don't shave (as I'm prone not to do at weekends). I start wearing a bobble hat to press it down so that when I reach the office I look mildly respectable. If it's a windy day I've had it, especially if I forget the bobble hat - or rather the bobble-less hat, so let's make that a beanie. My mum, much to my annoyance, likes my hair when it's long and straggly and grey and I can't help but feel that all the people who love my hair in such a state are just saying it so that I stay scruffy-looking, to my detriment. My mum also thinks I look like the actor James Nesbit, especially when my hair is short: let's get this straight, I look nothing like James Nesbit. Seriously. Somebody in the office said recently that I looked like Nicholas Cage, I'll take that. In fact, it's not the first time. I was once in Seattle and a woman sidled up to me as I sat at the bar of the Belltown Bistro on First Avenue. She sat herself down and said, "There's a little bit of Nicholas Cage going on there." The thing is, without being vain and conceited, I kind of know what she means, it's the high forehead, but he has a better mouth than mine, although there are similarities, especially when my hair is longer. Right now it's very, very short. I think a number two on the sides and back and a number four or three on top, it's convict chic and nobody likes it. When it's long and straggly I look like a child molester and then, when I cut it short, I look like a convicted child molester. I can't win. 

Having a haircut has been on my mind for a few weeks. I wake up in the morning and I don't even want to look in the mirror as I know I'll be faced with the Toecutter from the first Mad Max. I've considered having it done at the barber's next to Redhill station, but the last time I was there I went down with Covid the following Saturday so they've lost my custom. I started thinking about the Syrian barber in Westerham High Street, Star Barbers, there's a chain of them, but I figured that having a haircut in a sparsely populated town like Westerham would reduce my chances of catching Covid again. But when I reached the northern Kent market town I couldn't see the place and I think it has been replaced with a charity shop. Alright, I might be wrong, I might have just not seen it as I rode by, but anyway, it didn't matter as I suddenly noticed Westerham Barbers next door to the Costa. In I bowled, having decided prior to be ultra-chirpy. I had a short wait but this was pleasant enough as the place seemed to be run by a young couple, a man who was trying to make himself look older by having a thick beard and a woman who had now engaged me in conversation, she even, infuriatingly, said she liked my hair and said that lots of people were dying their hair grey. "Perhaps I won't have that haircut," I said, jokingly, as she started to wash my hair. Why, I wondered, was she washing my hair when the plan was to cut it all off. But apparently it makes cutting it far easier. Hmmm...I started to smell BS, but they were a pleasant enough couple who hailed from Hackney and I wanted the haircut so I rolled with it and went on to have my ears flamed by a ball of blue fire and then two hot wax-dunked sticks stuffed up my nose: yes, I was having my nose waxed. He pulled them both out rather aggressively, I yelped and then relaxed. Then he decided to do it again and on each occasion I winced at the momentary pain as he ripped my nose hairs from my ears. Then there was the hot towel. To be honest, I could have done that myself, perhaps I will. I have plenty of towels, but how would I get them so hot? Actually, I probably won't bother. I remember, years ago, whenever I visited an Indian restaurant, they used to bring out hot towels after the meal and myself and a pal would take them from the waiter who handed them to us on tongs, and slap them on our faces. There was always a moment when we thought they were simply too hot, but the heat subsided fairly quickly and soon they would be just wet towels and we would discard them in a bowl provided.

With my nose now sore and hairless, my head shaved, my face hot and smelling of Turkish cologne, I paid up (£15) and headed off. Putting my crash helmet on I was pleased to note that it fitted slightly better now that the hair had come off. I rode home happy, following the road out of Westerham and heading in the direction of the Velo Barn. I think I was singing. As my hair gets longer I tend to get more miserable and apathetic and once it's all cut off I feel free and positive again. I know that over the next five or six weeks my hair will be manageable and I won't need to wear that bobble hat.

I reached home, 21.5 miles better off, and knowing that my weekly total hovered around 42/43 miles. No, I wasn't happy about it, but it was the truth, the reality, and now, as of Sunday, my new cycling week would begin. When I woke up Sunday morning I had momentarily forgotten about the haircut, until I looked in the mirror. It was a good cut and I was happy. Not only that, the sun was shining and while I was distracted by the Sunday morning political TV shows and an episode of Tales of the Unexpected, I was soon on my way (to Westerham) on the 269.

Imagine owning a gun

Going back to belligerent drivers on the 269, today (for it is Sunday evening as I write this) today this arsehole in a black Range Rover, his boring-looking wife sitting next to him, slowed, rolled down the passenger window and said to me as I rode along, "There's a cycle lane right there," pointing to my left. I ignored him, but I was annoyed at his arrogance. Later, when I arrived in Westerham, I saw his car, parked just down from Costa Coffee, they were just leaving. They'd probably stopped for a coffee. I had thoughts of coining his pride and joy - but I never carry cash. I thought about walking over there and telling him that I hadn't paid a blind bit of notice to what he, a neatly trimmed, bearded bastard, had said earlier, but I simply couldn't be bothered. Sometimes I think that extreme violence is possibly the only answer to life's little annoyances. Of course, that's a ridiculous thing to say and I'm glad that I don't carry a knife or a truncheon or a piece of splintered wood penetrated with bent and rusty old nails. Still, I ought to be careful. I tend to give these people the finger and I'm sure they see it through their wing mirrors as they drive away. One day they might turn around and come after me and it is then that I imagine owning a gun. Many years ago, I used to own a blank-firing replica 357 Magnum. It was so realistic I reckon I could have held up a bank with it. Imagine if I'd pulled out a real gun and asked him to repeat what he said. 

"No, no, no, don't start weeping, you miserable little cunt, tell me what you were saying, something about a fucking cycle lane wasn't it?"

"I was just saying that..."

"You were just saying what, fuck face? What the fuck were you saying, what was your fucking point? Why did you slow down your fucking gas guzzling pile of shit to tell me about a fucking cycle lane? Eh? You going to answer me or just sit there weeping like a fucking baby?"

"I, I..."

"What's the matter, cat's got your fucking tongue?"

I then turn around sharpish and blow his wife's brains out and then turn again and splatter his brains all over the cream leather interior, just like in the movies, before simply riding off in the direction of Westerham, looking forward to my English Breakfast tea and leaving the police to sort out the mess. I wonder if they'd catch me? Probably not. It would be a case of "no arrests have been made".

So yes, you could say I was a little angry about it, but the anger subsided, as it always does, and I sat there sipping politely on my large paper cup of English Breakfast Tea until it was time to ride home.

Later I drove to Tunbridge Wells for a late lunch in a cafe: large cappuccino, a chicken burger and salad, a few chips dipped in HP sauce, chilled music from a band called Coin and then a leisurely drive home. And now I'm watching (half watching) Spencer with Kristen Stewart. My daughter and I like her movies and I was thinking only this morning how good she was in The Cake Eaters. But enough! It's Sunday evening and I'm going to simply chill out ahead of work in the morning.

I have a haircut...and ride 105 miles!

The problem with lockdown (or one of them) has been living with long hair. I haven't had long hair for many years. And let's face it, long hair doesn't suit me. Back in the day, when I was around 19 years old, my hair was shoulder length and a mess. There are people who can have long hair and look good with it. Not me, but then there are people who look good whatever the length of their hair or the state of their clothes. Again, not me. But then I'm one of those people who look just as bad with short hair. My mum loves it when my hair is long, but nobody else does, but then I go for a hair cut and people moan that I look like a criminal. I suppose the answer is not to have a crop, a number three no less, but I like having a crop because it kind of frees me up, it means my hair dries quicker after a shower, it means I don't need a brush or a comb and it makes me feel great. Having a half way house haircut is no good, although you can bet that my critics would love that, a halfway house, a compromise, and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a compromise. So I went to the Syrian barber in the high street, he flamed my ears, gave my hair a wash, put some sweet-smelling cologne on my hair and, of course, gave me the much-needed crop. I was amazed to see so much grey hair, that was a little depressing, but I left it on the floor and walked out £15 the poorer but feeling on top of the world.

The haircut was needed, not just because I looked a mess, like the Toecutter from Mad Max (the first movie of the franchise). I was in a fairly dark place thanks to lockdown. Working all day in the conservatory, possibly getting out on the bike in the afternoon, but then returning home, having dinner and watching back-to-back indie movies on Prime, almost as a form of escapism. I've mentioned the movies before, I know, and I won't go on about them now, but perhaps saying 'almost a form of escapism' is ignoring the fact that it was totally a form of escapism. I needed to get away mentally from the mundanity of everything and I sought refuge in movies and, more recently, Detectorists, a fantastic, light comedy written and directed by the great Mackenzie Crook. There are three series and I've been watching them all from start to finish at least three or four times in succession. I can now watch random episodes and enjoy every minute, I feel like I know the characters personally and the environment in which the story of Andy and Lance, two detectorists, plays out. I can't begin to tell you how much Detectorists means to me, it's only rival for my affections is Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike, a book I often reach for when feeling down as just a random paragraph brings me out of the darkest mood. I don't really have 'dark' moods, I might get a little down, but that's about it. So now I'm thinking of when I find myself on Desert Island Discs and that bit where they offer the castaway his or her own luxury. Well, I'd have Mike Carter's book and a box set of the three series of Detectorists. 

I had a good week on the bike. It started on 9 May with Andy. We met in Westerham and enjoyed croissants and cake with our hot chocolate and tea (I had the latter, Andy the former). That ride added up to 22.97 miles and was followed up on Tuesday 11 May with a ride to Tatsfield, the long way, via Beddlestead Lane, a pleasant ride that found me riding back through Woldingham and then down and up Slines Oak Road. After that I did three Washpond Weebles bringing my total to 81.29 miles by Friday, with one day to go before the end of my cycling week, a vast improvement on last week's 65.64 miles. Today is Saturday 15 May and I had resigned myself to not riding at all, bearing in mind that bad weather has been on the cards and it's raining as I write this; in fact, I'm more than happy with my 81.29 miles and don't really need to go out today. That said, it looks as if it's brightening up and I do so want to put in over 100 miles so I think I will hit the road. 

And so I did hit the road. A couple hours have passed since the full stop before last and I have riden all the way to Westerham, the slow way, and back via Woldingham, a total, this time, of 24.60 miles. I say 'this time' because Strava seems to vary from ride-to-ride, I've done the same ride and it's been 25.05 miles, so God knows what is going on there. It was a wonderful ride, albeit a cloudy one that threatened rain constantly, but nothing came. I even sat on the green at Westerham under an umbrella, outside of the Tudor Rose Tearooms, where I had purchased a large English breakfast tea and a huge chunk of coffee and walnut cake. I sat there with some old people: a woman who had travelled by bus from Beckenham to see her grandchildren for the first time in God knows how long, and an elderly couple with their daughter who had purchased some framed prints of birds. It might not have been their daughter but I figured it was. The man moaned (jokingly) about them creating work for him later and we all had a fairly jolly time of it until it was time to go. I put my empty paper cup and plate in a waste bin, bade farewell to the old lady waiting for her grandchildren (the man, his wife and their daughter had departed a few minutes earlier) and soon I was on the bike riding towards the hill. After a week on the bike it was easy and soon I was approaching Woldingham. It started to rain and it was enough to get me wet (I'm still a little damp as I write this, but don't tell anybody). The rain stopped when I reached the top of Slines Oak Road, which was also comparatively easy thanks to this week's riding.

Here, then, is my riding record for the past few weeks. The date marks the last day of my cycling week, a Saturday and, therefore, the mileage reflects the cycling of the previous six days. My cycling week starts on a Sunday.

20 March 2021 = 72.01 miles

27 March 2021 = 43.39 miles

3 April 2021 = 81.00 miles

10 April 2021 = 22 miles

17 April 2021 = 68.20 miles

24 April 2021 = 83.15 miles

1 May 2021 = 60.18 miles

8 May 2021 = 65.64 miles

15 May 2021 = 105.89 miles

What I am slightly annoyed about is that I am not recording any of my rides with photography. This is because my iphone needs to be replaced and I've been meaning to upgrade myself for weeks now, but simply haven't got round to it. The problem is that my iphone cannot cope with doing anything else other than one job at a time, so when Strava is on, for example, I can't take a photograph. This sorry situation will be rectified very soon.

It's raining, Trump's gone to hospital and I need a haircut...

Donald Trump has been moved to a hospital close to the White House after testing positive for COVID-19. It's said to be a precautionary measure and that Mr President is only suffering from mild symptoms, but he's been seen wearing a mask for the first time and perhaps now he's going to take this thing seriously. Some commentators think he's lying. Documentary film maker Michael Moore, who seems to have it in for any US president who isn't a democrat, believes there's a strong chance that Trump is lying in order to delay the election and remain in power. It's possible, but surely even Trump wouldn't tempt fate and pretend he has a killer disease. The First Lady, Melania, isn't in hospital, although she also tested positive. There's a few people wanting Trump to die and we all know who they are. I don't want him dead. I didn't want Boris to die. Just because I disagree with somebody's politics doesn't mean I want them dead. Wanting people dead seems to be something 'of the left', but not me. Trump is an arse, of course he is, but that doesn't mean I want him dead. The world needs arseholes solely for the purpose of comparison and to know who isn't an arsehole.

We brave much worse than rainwater...

I'm listening to Blues for Allah by the Grateful Dead, in fact I'm going to play it again, it's good background and I like Jerry Garcia, ever since watching that documentary about him, the one produced by Scorsese, is that how you spell his name? I'll check later. The weather's been poor and you might as well know that it's moving towards that time of year when the light has to go in the kitchen in order to make breakfast. In fact, let's face it, that time is now upon us, it's October for heaven's sake and that means looking out the window to see if a puddle is forming on next door's flat-roofed extension. Yesterday it rained all day and I didn't manage a ride. I'm now thinking about braving the rain just to be out there. It's only when it's cold that rain is bad news and besides, I have waterproof trousers somewhere. So far this week I've managed 60 miles. Normally, today, I'd be riding to Westerham or Dunton Green to bump up the mileage. Theoretically, I can still do that - and I might - but the general view based on the weather, is that it's going to rain non-stop throughout the day, and for most of next week too if I believe my iphone. 

Setting out our stuff last week at Tatsfield village bus stop. Pic: Andy Smith

Tomorrow we're due to meet in Tatsfield village, me, Andy and possibly even Phil. We need to change venues from churchyard to village purely because the latter offers us cover from inclement weather. All we have to do now is bite the bullet and get out there and forget about the rain, but it's hard when you gaze out from the warmth of the house and note the puddles and the wet grass and the shiny roads and the stair rods. Still, after a summer of ultra-cycling and feeling a lot better for it, there has to be a way of doing this. I'm considering facing the rain today and riding the Norfolk Nobbler, a six-and-a-half-mile ride with a couple of hills thrown in. It won't be pleasant, but it's not impossible.

It's 0714hrs and a light still burns above my head. I need a haircut. My hair is now getting long and straggly and I'm looking a mess. It hasn't been cut since March and while there are situations where I'd consider just leaving it and looking, dare I say, a bit like Jerry Garcia, I'm at a point where I need to freshen up my look. A feel a number three crop coming on! The plan is to have a haircut today in Oxted. There's a guy coming round to check the boiler in the kitchen. It's old, but it's still going strong, although we've been advised to give it plenty of ventilation. In all honesty, we need a brand new kitchen, but it ain't cheap and nor is a new boiler. The kitchen needs to be done fairly soon as we have a situation where draws don't shut properly, hinges are broken and the whole thing is looking really tired. It's like going back in time when you set foot in the kitchen: the brown, oatmeal tiles, the artexed ceiling, the hopsack work surfaces and the disgusting extraction fan over the sticky old gas hob. It's amazing what people are prepared to put up with, but that's the problem, people put up with things until one day it becomes too much and they start saving up for stuff. I remember once, when we lived in a different house, we had a thing called Operation Kitchen underway. It basically involved saving money and that in turn put us into inferior hotels whenever we went away for the weekend, although we probably cut back on stuff like weekends away in the country until the kitchen was fixed.

The curtains have been drawn back and it's looking pretty grey out there. I haven't checked the birdbath yet for rain drops, but I will in a minute or so. Last week I headed for Woodmansterne Green around this time to see Bon, it was a great day, the sun was shining, I was wearing a tee-shirt and I loved every minute of it. Now, the weather conspires against me and because of the virus there's no other form of exercise. The swimming pools are closed or subject to social distancing measures and all that's left is a walk and these days I'm not doing a great deal of walking, unlike in pre-COVID days when I'd be putting in around 10,000 to 15,000 steps per day. Nowadays, my iphone likes to inform me that I'm not walking as much as I did last year. It's right, I'm not, but I'm cycling much, much more. I'm hoping to keep it up, I've just got to get over the rain thing and get out there.

I guess I'd better start my day. Starting my day means having that haircut. This will be great because it means I can go to Oxted, which is around 10 miles away, and check out the bookstore. I'd planned on cycling there, but I'd be soaked through and I don't want to sit there feeling uncomfortable and making small talk with a barber. In fact, now I am starting to think about it, going to the barber's means the hassle of queuing, or rather sitting, waiting for a haircut and flicking through old copies of GQ. Not that I've been to the barber in Oxted before; I'm only going there because it's not Croydon and hopefully I'll be able to socially distance a bit more. Whatever! By the end of the day I won't be able to sit watching TV whilst twirling my long hair with my fingers and I'll be able to see my ears again. The jury's out on whether my long hair suits me or not. My mum says it does. She believes it's far better than the convict cut I normally have. My daughter was hoping I'd keep it going until Christmas and a part of me thinks I should, but it really is getting to the stage now where I look disparagingly at myself when I pass a mirror and think: 'what a mess'. Who knows? There might be a lot of people in there and I won't feel confident about sitting with loads of diseased people. Perhaps I should get the clippers out and do it myself.

My second helping of the Grateful Dead's Blues for Allah album is drawing to a close, it's time to start my day. Hopefully the next post you read will be about me riding to Tatsfield Village to meet Andy and Phil.