To Tatsfield...

Two cup cakes. Fair enough, but I could have settled for one. Three walnut whips? I never needed to eat all of them. I could have eaten just one, or none. I could have left them for another day and made the two ill-advised cup cakes the only sin of the day. But I didn't. I should have stopped at one. But I didn't. I should have stopped at two. But I didn't. And when I'd finished I felt guilty. Not because I'd upset anybody else, just because I'd upset myself. What the hell was I thinking? Two cup cakes and three walnut whips. It had to stop, of course it did, but it didn't. And I'm losing track too. Somewhere along the line I found myself in Tunbridge Wells, but I think that was pre-cup cakes. Not that pre- or post- mattered. It was definitely pre-cup cakes, but I had every reason to feel guilty even then, probably because I'd fucked up the day before; I might have bought a Lindt or Lindor chocolate bar, because I love the salted caramel variety and even then, at the point of purchase, I might have said to myself 'no more' and then found myself in the Zero Waste cafe in The Pantiles, probably saying no the cake (inwardly) and then ordering it anyway. And then I have the nerve, the audacity, to eat the two cup cakes the following week and then indulge further with those three walnut whips. Well, let's face it, you don't see walnut whips these days. I mean, that must have been my motivation. Perhaps I looked at them as my long lost friends. Whatever. The fact is I ate them and I ate those two cup cakes and I started to berate myself, saying 'no more, no more, just say no'. But I knew then and I know now that I won't say no, not yet at any rate. And when I got home after the walnut whips I found a double box of Jaffa Cakes in the cupboard. Admittedly, most of the box had already been eaten, but I found three biscuits and enjoyed every one of them. The next day things got a little worse. I was in the office, there were stollen cakes slices, three of them, and these little star-shaped biscuits, similar to stollen, but not exactly the same. I ate quite a few of them, but I left one on the plate when I left the office after dark. I should have eaten it, but I left it and it was probably stale and inedible the following morning.

Sheree's Store and Tearoom, Tatsfield

When I looked at the iphone's weather app this morning there was sunshine spread throughout the day. It was an opportunity I couldn't ignore. Cycling over the past few weeks has been blighted by rain. Rain, wind and a silly cape. Not forgetting the realisation that there's no such thing as waterproof clothing. My trainers are still in the garage and they're probably still wet. The cape is not worth wearing. So I've resorted to a pair of red leather All-Stars that I've had for years. I bought them in Oxford Street probably in the late seventies and they cost me just £19. I love them. I remember once being on the tarmac in Barbados, queuing to board a flight back to the UK. It was 1993 and the same All-Stars were on my feet. A little kid, a local, asked me a question. "Are they leather All-Stars, man?" I confirmed his suspicion as correct. Clearly, the All-Stars had cred and now, in 2022, the maintain that cred. They're still around and they haven't really worn or anything and the fact that they're leather probably means they're a little more waterproof than the walking shoes in the garage. Alright, I said 'trainers' but they're walking shoes and they cost me £22 on Amazon. In the summer, they're fine, but when it rains they're useless. Today there was no rain so I headed for Tatsfield Village and Sheree's tearoom. I rode the 269, considering different routes as I rode along. The weather was wonderful. I wasn't wearing any gloves, that's how warm it was. When I reached the village I entered the teashop, ordered a pot of tea and then I weakened again, but I didn't choose a cup cake, I opted instead for a Twix. For some reason I thought it was the better option, but it did the trick. I sat down among the old ladies who were talking about visiting garden centres and read my book, The Bear Comes Home by Safi Zabor. I like it, but I'm reading it very slowly. I don't know what it is about me at the moment, but I'm reading very slowly, not even daily, just when I find myself in a coffee shop or a teashop. Last Wednesday I went to a Costa Coffee in Redhill, ordered a medium cappuccino, nothing else, and sat and read the book. The previous Saturday I found myself in a Caffe Nero, having cycled there, with an English Breakfast tea doing exactly the same thing and now it's Friday 25 November, almost a week later and the weather is good so I couldn't waste any time. I had to get out there for fear that tomorrow will be stair rods and a ride will be forfeited. Nobody likes riding in the rain unless it's the summer. Andy said in text on Strava that he had maximum respect for anybody who went out last Sunday. I would agree with that. The weather was grim, to use another of Andy's words. Grim summed it up. I stayed in and I wasn't happy about it, but I soon got over the disappointment. But today was good and when I finished the tea and the Twix I headed on out of the tearoom and mounted my steed. I'd tethered it outside, like a cowboy's horse outside a saloon. I rode off thinking about Biggin Hill. I hadn't been there for a while now and I found myself thinking of the hill that leads to the high street and the Costa Coffee. For a split moment on the way into Tatsfield I considered riding down Lusted Hall Lane and then into Biggin Hill, but no, too much, there was stuff to be done at home and I had that feeling that I was on a short leash and needed to get back. As it turns out I wasn't on a leash, but there were things to do and when I got home, feeling energised like I do when I've been on the bike, I set about doing what needed to be done. The weather held out and I have no idea what it will be like in the morning or whether I'll get to Oxted's Caffe Nero. If it rains I won't be going anywhere, but if it's dry I'll head along the 269 and down Titsey Hill into Oxted where I will read for 30 minutes before riding home.

I could be watching England play the USA, it's on now as I write this, but I can't be bothered. The World Cup is for the summer, not the winter and because of the latter the vibe ain't there. I remember my father watching sport on the television but in the back garden. He'd sit there, bush hat on, yellow swimming shorts, his 'Jansen's' as he called them. It was probably a brand name. He sat outside, smoking a cigarette with the television uprooted from it's original position in the living room and turned around to face out into the garden. Dad would have been drinking a beer, probably Tolly Cobbold bitter. I remember how he gave me a glass of it on occasion, diluted with lemonade and with an ice cube added. I loved it, the sharp bitter taste softened by the lemonade and of course it goes without saying that in later life I would go on to drink a lot of beer. 

It's 2115hrs, I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here has just come on and I'm relaxing on the sofa. I could have watched the football, but didn't. Instead I watched The English on iplayer and was tempted to continue watching it, but the temptation to watch crap was overwhelming. Better go, there's a whole hour of it ahead of me.

To Oxted...and no rain!

It's been raining a lot and when it's raining on the streets, it's raining in my soul too. I don't like it and over the past few weeks, as I've said in a previous post, it's pissing me off. I'm not too bothered with 'winter' as such, although it always means less cycling or having to 'wrap up' whenever I fancy a ride. I suppose the only real upside is arriving in the Caffe Nero (or wherever) after a cold ride and then settling down, preferably on the leather sofa near the window, to chill out a little before the cold ride home. But give me the heat any day, give me the sun and the smell of the hedgerows rather than the wind and the rain. In short, I hate it. 

Last week I went out on Saturday (this time last week) and yes, as always, I rode to Oxted and sat in a Caffe Nero with an English Breakfast tea reading my book, The Bear Comes Home. I'm taking my time reading this not because it's boring but because, for some reason, I can't apply myself to reading. It's a phase I go through, but I like to keep a book on the go at all times. So I'm reading but not a great deal. I'd like to force myself to read more frequently than I am at present and I do try to sneak in reading at lunch times when I'm not with anybody else and I suppose you might say 'read on the train home' and I'd say 'well, I do, but the journey is so short and involves a change of trains that I don't particularly want to get settled only to find I've got to 'down tools' and change platforms. Home is a good place to read but there are distractions, plenty of them, like the television and the fact that 'the conservatory' (I've said before that it's not a conservatory and never has been, it's a brick-built extension that I suppose should be referred to as the rather middle class 'garden room', but basically it's an extension and it was there when we arrived here many moons ago. The trouble is it's a kind of unwilling store room. At this present time, for example, there are two computer screens on the desk, a lot of wires and crap and it's like sitting in a store cupboard. There's also a clothes horse in there and often (very often) there are clothes draped over it, not to mention socks lined up on the radiator and this means there's also a damp atmosphere in there, combined with the smell of fabric conditioner. The wicker garden sofa (it's a two-seater) is uncomfortable in the extreme and the whole room needs to be decluttered so, as you can imagine, it's not a great place to sit and read.

I'm not the sort of person who can sit in bed reading, that's far to 'sitcom' for me, and I probably wouldn't get much reading done. For a start I'd have to come up early and then expect to be interrupted or told to switch the light off, so that's out of the question, leaving me with no option other than to find a coffee shop, in my opinion the best place to do most things (well, reading and writing). That's why I like my rides to Oxted. Sometimes I don't read when I get there. Sometimes I meet people, like the Illustrious Illustrator or my pal Garth and instead we chat about this and that for about 30 minutes before I head home up the hill and along the 269 praying that it won't rain.

During the week I took a walk to Halfords just outside of town and looked at loads of stuff: lights, water bottle holders, bikes and, of course, high-visibility waterproofs for the colder weather. I also found out that a gear service (which my bike needs more than an overall service) can be done for £20. Although I'm slightly suspicious as they're likely to say something like 'we've changed the block, we've done this, we've done that and that'll be £200 please, sir'. Well, no it won't be, so I'll have to ask about that little loophole before I hand over the bike and I'm only going to hand over the bike if I ride down there, although there's a branch close to where I live. But right now I can cope with the gear problem and, as Andy said recently, my changing up and down problems are more than likely exacerbated by the bike being dirty and in need of a clean. Talking of which, I've promised myself a jet clean at the Esso garage on the way home. When I say 'myself' I mean the bike, but it's whether the cleaning bay is free and whether I have time and whether I have the inclination. I probably won't have any if the truth be known.

This might sound odd, but at this moment in time I simply exist. I know we all do, but what I mean is I ride the bike, I put it back in the garage, I ride the bike, I put it back in the garage, and I don't think anything of it, I don't clean it, oil it, nothing, I just ride it until something happens that stops me riding it, then I get it serviced and then I ride it again. It's like this in all aspects of my life, I trudge on, I keep going, I clean my teeth, I get dressed, I get undressed, I sleep, I wake up, I watch television, it's a constant process through time, I eat, I sleep, I walk, I ride the bike, I just do stuff but there's no pit stop, no holiday, no break, no nothing, I just am and somehow I need to change this scenario. Perhaps forcing myself to read more would be a start, that's a kind of pit stop.

Around 0800 I set out for Westerham. Rain didn't appear to be on the horizon but it was colder than normal. I was wearing a fleece and jeans over my cycling shorts and headed the normal way through Warlingham out into the sticks on the 269 and then down Titsey Hill into Oxted. I rode 'no hands' along Granville as there's nothing, no cars, so it's safe to do so, and then placed my hands firmly on the handlebars to make the left turn past the library and then the right turn to ride up the high street towards my final stop, Caffe Nero. I ordered an English Breakfast tea and then took a seat and read my book for around half an hour. The place was crowded and noisy today but I shut myself off from the world until it was time to consider heading home (never a good moment as I know I've got Titsey Hill to climb). But all was fine. I rode down the High Street, along Granville and then followed the road towards the hill, which is never THAT bad. There was no mist at all when I reached Botley Hill so I sailed down the 269 towards Warlingham where the traffic picked up a little bit. I managed to pass a lot of stationary cars and soon found myself in Sanderstead, cruising down Church Way towards home. It had been a good ride and a dry one so here's hoping tomorrow will be just a good.

I tell you what never fails to get on my nerves and that's the patronising television ads that start appearing courtesy of the big retailers. Yes, it's the Christmas ads, designed to pull at people's emotions with the sole aim of getting them to 'buy stuff' and keep them in profit during these difficult times. What they fail to recognise is that we don't have any money, they simply ignore the cost of living crisis and pretend that nothing extraordinary is happening and they hope we're all going to buy their crap so that their profits maintain a level keel. And every year and I find myself thinking (actually, hoping) that people will see sense and not fall for it. There's nothing worse than these patronising advertisements featuring silly little bears in festive jumpers (Lidl), ridiculous scenarios depicting hordes of people running towards one house to have their Christmas lunch (Argos) another one with a little boy's Christmas list that somehow gets blown into the sky never to be seen again (McDonald's) and there are many more; all the rubbishy perfume ads from the likes of Paco Rabane and that stupid stupid ad in which three girls are in a field chanting Daisy Daisy Daisy Daisy. Fuck. Off. Perfume, aftershave, it's all ridiculously expensive, just have a good bath or shower is what I say. Anyway, I find it all annoying.

Equally annoying is that complete and utter wanker Matt Hancock in the jungle on I'm a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here. They had the first of the vote-outs last night and he's still in there, meaning the great British public have taken to him, they like him, they want to keep him in the jungle, he's been forgiven, he might even win. Even Boy George, who I thought was going to give Hancock a piece of his mind has yet to deliver. So there you have it: rising prices and Christmas ads that ignore the situation we all find ourselves in, a dodgy politician earning a six-figure sum to eat kangaroo bollocks and the rest of us seething quietly as the world approaches the year end. Next up is the Christmas songs, which are equally depressing. "And so this is Christmas...and what have you done?" I've done enough thanks for asking, Lennon, and I don't need you to make me feel guilty about anything. Again, all the songs are designed to make us all feel sad and guilty and perhaps in need of what? I know! Some retail therapy! Well, no. Once again, two words: Fuck. Off.

It's now almost a quarter to five in the afternoon (1642hrs) and it's dark outside. I'm alone in the house but the other residents are not far away and I expect them back shortly. I've drawn the curtains so that nobody can peer in to the living room and I'm now going upstairs to take off my cycling shorts, which I've had on all fucking day. Why? Because my trainers in the garage are still wet from the heavy rain of two weeks ago and I've been forced to wear my red leather All Stars. They have long laces and can't be slipped off, they have to be painstakingly undone and that's such a hassle if you've got to put them back on again, so I kept them and my jeans on all day and now that I know I've got nowhere else to go tonight, I've taken them off and can relax, but I need to get upstairs and take the shorts off. Better go.