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.

A break in the rain...and a band called Rush!

It hasn't stopped raining for months... until Saturday 14 February (Valentine's Day). It was flagged up on my iphone many days prior, and sure enough, Saturday was a sunny, albeit cold, day and I managed a ride to Oxted, 20 plus miles and a huge hill on the return ride. I wasn't looking forward to the hill, it has to be said. In fact, all the way along the 269 on the outward ride I was debating riding to Westerham instead where I knew there were power points in the Esquire's coffee shop where I could charge my phone. However, when I reached the roundabout just past Botley Hill I decided to plunge headfirst down the hill and head for Oxted where I had a choice of coffee shops: Caffe Nero (which was packed solid); Starbucks, which was fairly busy; Costa that was virtually empty. I have a Costa card and I figured I must be getting close to a free drink so I bowled in and ordered an English Breakfast Tea in a takeaway cup. Sure enough it was free! Yippee!

Toronto, Canada, home of the band Rush.

I took a seat at the front of the store, pulled out my book, Remind Me to Smile by Martin Downham, and relaxed. It must be said that Downham's book is brilliant, it's up there in my opinion with Mike Carter's One Man & His Bike and I love it. Equating it with Carter's book is because it's such a life-affirming read; it's nothing like Carter's book in reality. Downham's book is about Gary Numan, plus many other things, while Carter's book is about cycling around the coast of England, Scotland and Wales, totally different premises, but they're both life-affirming.

Soon it was time to go, but I kept thinking about the hill. At one point I was going to ride towards Westerham on Pilgrims Lane and avoid it altogether but in the end I decided I would simply grin and bear it, but first, a wander around Oxted, a look in the charity shop and, on this occasion, In Between the Lines, a shop full of greetings cards and books and scented candles. I bought a book for my daughter and a (late) Valentine's card for my wife. Normally I remember. In fact, I didn't forget but one way or another I never got around to visiting a shop to buy it.

And then the phone rang. It was Andy. Rare for Andy to call me on a Saturday, he's normally cycling with Oxted CC, but call he did. He asked me where I was and I told him I was in Oxted. He wanted a lift home from Sheree's to Caterham because he had a problem with his bike that couldn't be fixed. Sadly, I couldn't help. My wife had the car and I was on my bike. I figured that by the time I'd cycled home, waited for the car and then drove to Tatsfield, Andy would have fixed whatever was wrong with his bike and would be long gone. Later I called him and all was well, he had fixed the problem.

The ride home for me was fine too. The hill is never as bad as I'd been leading myself to believe it was, and I sailed up to the top and then rode along the 269 towards home. I was glad for the long ride. The last few weeks have been just one ride a week and (on Saturday) I was looking forward to a two-ride weekend. But no, the rain returned with a vengeance on Sunday so it was still a one-ride weekend. I'm just hoping the pattern will be broken soon. It was still light at 1720hrs today, that's a good sign. It won't be long before summer comes, as Thin Lizzy used to sing.

I'm loving Rush, the rock band

Of late, I've been obsessed with the band Rush. I've bought Geddy Lee's memoir, My Effin' Life, and I've bought Moving Pictures, one of many albums. They're fantastic! And let's face it, I've known of the band for a very long time but never really bothered with them. However, now I've been listening to their stuff on YouTube, there are tunes, riffs, that I remember from parties in the mid-to-late seventies. But somehow I never bought an album and now I wish I had. I've watched way too many interviews with Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson and Neal Peart, their excellent drummer, although, sadly, very sadly, Peart died so now there's just Lifeson and Lee and this year (2026) they're touring with a female drummer and possibly even a keyboard player to allow Geddy to perform more up front with Alex. Sadly the shows (starting in June) take place in the USA and Canada only, although a video has appeared on YouTube in which Geddy Lee says that Rush will be touring the UK in February and March 2027 and also Europe. I'd love to see them in Toronto, their home town.

What I like about Rush is their friendship, they've known each other a long time, especially Lee and Lifeson (and Peart when he was alive) and there are many videos on You Tube that I could simply watch forever. One is them going out for a meal together, all three of them, and the laughter and love they have for one another is there for all to see as is Lee's and Lifeson's grief over the death of their drummer, Neil Peart.

I'm not sure if I say much about it on this blog, but I've always wanted to play bass guitar, and I mean I've always wanted to play bass. I used to play violin and I figured that the strings are EADG as opposed to GDAE on the violin, so surely there's a chance I might be reasonably good. Well, I guess life has got in the way, although I'd love to own a Fender Precision bass and be able to play it reasonably well. I keep meaning to go out and buy one and just start playing it. In terms of possessions, I've never been the guy with the Porsche or the designer clothes (to be honest, cars and fashion leaves me cold) but I did once have a Rolex watch. The problem with it was that it never kept time and it was one of those possessions that has the eye of the theives and, therefore, it can be risky wearing it in certain places. On the time front, if I set it for noon on, say, a Monday, by Wednesday it would be ten past twelve and so on, so I put it back in its box and stopped wearing it, using my various mobile phones as my watch instead. But I've always wanted to have something that was 'good', something of value. I mean, the whole bass thing springs to mind. I could go out and buy a cheap Fender copy or a cheap Hofner copy or a cheap Music Man copy and what have you, but I'd like to own a Fender precision bass, I really would and I can and I will, very soon. I might even buy one of those stands to put it on.

Oddly, I've met a couple of bassists, Bill Wyman I bumped into in the Kings Road, London, and I met Paul Simenon of the Clash on Kings Cross St Pancras station and none of those meetings were in any way planned. I met Wyman outside of Gail's, a bakery store on New Year's Eve around three years ago. At the moment, my favourite Rush track is Limelight but also YYZ, which is an instrumental and there's a complicated bass line on it that many a musician raves about on YouTube. I like Tom Sawyer and Working Man and Spirit of Radio and I'm hoping to buy more Rush CDs to play in the car as I know they're not everybody's cup of tea. I'll have to be driving alone, of course. I'm the sort of person who can write with background music and Rush perfectly fits the type of music I like if I'm writing anything. Right now, it's too early to be listening to Rush, it's breakfast time and I'd be met with calls of 'turn it off!' or 'turn it down! or somebody would come in and switch it off for me, but to be honest, it doesn't have to be on loud. I like the complexity of Rush music and the interesting lyrics of Neil Peart. How many rock bands' drummers write the lyrics I wonder?

A week has passed since I started writing this post and it's Saturday again, 21 February, and I'm planning a ride. It's not raining, which is good, so I'd better get out there fast and get back again*. I need to start waking up early again. I used to be up at 0600hrs and out of the house by 0700 and then back around 0930 to 1000hrs, but not today. If I leave now I'll be back before noon so I'd better be quick. Of course, I don't have to do a long ride, I could do what I call the Norfolk Nobbler (during the pandemic I gave my rides stupid names); it's a short ride of around 40 minutes, lots of hills, or a few hills, but whatever I'm going to do I'd better do it sharpish or I won't be getting anywhere. Perhaps I'd better start setting that alarm clock again... and getting an early night on Fridays instead of sitting there watching Graham Norton.

* I never got out there, events took over and now, Sunday 22nd February, it's raining.