Nasty cold has me grounded...

Since returning from Verona last week I've been laid up with a nasty cold and I can't for the life of me figure out where it came from or who might have given it to me. One of the problems with flying, of course, is that you pick things up courtesy of the air con system running through the plane. Who knows what awful diseases my fellow passengers were suffering from? Not me. So I was fine the weekend I got home. Remember I had that extra day courtesy of British Airways messing up and cancelling the flight with no sign of an apology, no compensation, nothing. Well, put it this way, on my next flight (which just so happens to be in a fortnight's time) I won't be flying with BA. No, I'll go with Finnair instead. I've flown with them before and it's a million times better. But more of that trip later perhaps, it's not on the blog radar just yet.

They're good but they won't prevent a cold...

So, Tuesday was when it all started. I got to work okay that morning and then suddenly I was hit with a streaming nose and started sneezing. It continued and intensified and very quickly I reached that awful nasal stage where there's a strong need to want to blow my nose. I haven't had an illness like this since early 2017 (if you exclude COVID in January 2022) and I know this wasn't COVID so I didn't even bother testing. I was still functioning, that's the main thing. Tuesday night I was kind of okay, we had dinner and then I started to feel weary, I kept falling asleep and starting to snore, much to the dismay of my family. But I knew there was something wrong and I nipped out to the convenience store to buy some Lemsip (my go to drug whenever I have a cold). As I said, fortunately, I've not been ill for some time, easily six years, which means I must be doing something right, hopefully that means I eat the right foods and consume enough fruit and vegetables in my diet, even if I have been living on cakes over the past few days prior to returning from Italy. Well, not living on them, but certainly swapping my ultra healthy breakfasts for cake and cappuccino, which is odd when you consider the health benefits of the Mediterranean diet (surely that doesn't include cake and filled croissants?).

I decided it was best that night to sleep the other way around, ie not next to my wife for fear of giving her my cold, but the other way around. If I'm honest with you, whenever I break from the norm in terms of sleeping arrangements I get kind of excited, like when you're a kid and you plan a midnight feast when everybody's gone to bed. I might well have mentioned my strange fantasies of sleeping in different parts of the house, although I've yet to do any strange in-house camping, like hunkering down in a sleeping bag in the conservatory, but I won't go on about this as somewhere I've written a blogpost about it and when I find it I'll put in a link. Here's the link, click here.

Tuesday night after my first Lemsip I slept well but wasn't really looking forward to going to work in the morning. There's something horrible about splashing warm water on my face when my nose is stuffed up or streaming or both (in this case it was a mixture of both). I went to bed with a toilet roll by my side so that I could blow my nose without getting out of bed if I had to, but the Lemsip did the trick and, give or take, I was out like a light. Once I'd showered (the very thought of it horrified me) I felt better but it was false, I was nowhere near better. At work I was kind of fine... well, alright, no I wasn't, I tried to be, but it was a big struggle. If I remember, I sat in Busy Beans sipping a cappuccino having already eaten my peanut butter and banana sandwiches, my Pink Lady apple and my 22 red grapes: that's what I have for lunch on more than one day in the week, it's pretty healthy and it sees me through, but because I was feeling weary and stuffed up there was no way I was going to handle the three-mile walk that I normally do at lunch times (I've been doing them for years) so instead, a cappuccino in Busy Beans sufficed (and was most welcomed). I was so stuffed up I couldn't really focus on reading either so I put aside my copy of Buzzin' by Bez and just sat there looking at my phone, reading old blogs, you name it, anything but actually concentrating on anything. And that's fine because I'd been concentrating all morning reading page proofs on a computer screen. Somehow I forced myself to keep it together on the work front, which was just as well as there were deadlines to meet and I met them.

When I reached home Wednesday night I had dinner (I can't remember what it was) and then I headed for the spare room (which had been occupied the night before, hence me sleeping at the other end of the bed). I hit the sack around 2000hrs, put my radio on and drifted off to sleep. I awoke, of course, at midnight thirty and went downstairs to make myself a Lemsip, this didn't take long and I returned to bed, which was great, it was like a secret camp and I jumped into bed and listened to BBC Radio Three until I realised I needed to switch it off in order to sleep. This I did and I guess I must have had, in total, around seven hours of sleep. I went downstairs, had breakfast, which by now I couldn't taste, and then went upstairs to face the warm shower and the sensation of splashing warm water on my face. Nothing worse when I've got a cold as I explained above.

I'm guessing that these things build up and then start to calm down again, but I wasn't sure at which stage I was at. After showering and dressing I always felt better, but I knew I wasn't and sure enough as the journey to work progressed I found myself still sneezing and blowing my nose and getting a slight headache as a result, just a dull nagging ache which added to the awfulness of my condition. But I got through it and I think I was kind of fit enough to do the three-miler on Thursday lunch time, not that doing so did me any favours. Thursday night and Friday night I hit the sack in the spare room listening to the radio, one curtain drawn back so I could see the night sky outside the window. Hunkering down, for that was what I was doing, hunkering down like a vagrant in the woods, toilet roll at my side for any midnight blowings or wipings (of my nose). 

I followed this routine and I will do it again tonight, for it's now Saturday and it's the first time I actually realised that things had improved. I was weary, there was no way I was capable of riding to Oxted, which had been my plan prior to this cold hitting the shore, so I chilled, took a drive to Hever Castle but didn't fancy paying over £60 just to enter the place. Instead, we ended up in Sevenoaks at Basil and here I realised that things were feeling good, well, not good in the sense that I was 100% better (I wasn't) but good in the sense that I could smell things again (or was starting to). I had a panini, I had a cappuccino and I had a Millionaire's Shortbread and yes, I was beginning to feel human again, but it's not over, it's just starting to subside, the tide was on it's way out but it hadn't got there yet. I reckon one more early night should do it although I don't think I'll ride to Westerham tomorrow, I need the rest.

Going to bed at 2000hrs isn't a bad idea, but there's always that 'waking up past midnight' thing that can be annoying. Just the thought of knowing I've got to try and get back to sleep again, but I've been doing it and I think I need it. Listening to the radio is relaxing as it's not as crap as television and if I can break the habit of falling asleep on the sofa and waking up at gone eleven and then having to go around locking the house up, well, that's got to be a good thing.

So here I sit, in the bedroom (not the one I'm sleeping in) looking out on the houses across the street as the light starts to fade and the street lights come on. In the distance I can see the red lights of high rise cranes, I can see the darkened silhouette of the woods and serene looking skies overhead, there's even the sound of a jet circling Heathrow or making it's final approach. There are no lights on, just the halogen glow of the computer that is sitting on a pine table by the window. Whether people can see me if they walk past I don't know and I don't care. Everything is still.

Tonight the clocks go forward one hour and then it's officially British Summer Time. The blossoms are on the trees too, well, not ours, that always blooms later, say next month, but the fact that the blossoms have arrived, along with the daffodils means only one thing: decent weather ahead and that means more riding of the bike. I won't be there tomorrow and will text Andy shortly on that, but here's to next week.

The cold weather continues...and there's no cycling

 I'm starting to wonder when I last went out on the bike. I think it was a ride to Tatsfield to meet Andy on a Sunday, probably not last Sunday but the week before. The weather was, if I recall, relatively fine and, as those who read this blog will know, I sat there and indulged myself with a pot of tea and a large slice of coffee and walnut cake. Since then I've done nothing, no cycling whatsoever, and for good reason. Suddenly the weather changed, plummeted to be more precise, into the depths of arctic temperatures and all that goes with them: frosted windscreens, slippery roads, even more slippery pavements, delayed trains, everything unpleasant that you can think of. 

Snow outside the house... it's going, but slowly...

Last weekend I fixed the puncture that led to me walking five miles home because it was just too cold to fix it by the roadside. So, going back to the previous paragraph where I say the weather was 'relatively fine' it clearly wasn't that good. Yesterday I went into the garage and lo and behold, the puncture I thought I'd fixed was not fixed, it was as flat as a pancake; either the fixed puncture wasn't done properly or there was more than one puncture. The one I fixed was bad enough, it was like a tear in the fabric of the inner tube. Perhaps that's it, it's simply unfixable and I'll need a new inner tube... and while I'm at it a new tyre.

I've had no exercise since that ride with Andy, apart from some walks, and while I have considered swimming, it's just too cold. Everything is turning to shit basically and throw in Christmas and all the shite that lands on the table in the office kitchen and, well, I might as well give the bike away and become a fat bastard.

Frozen Sanderstead lake last weekend...

There's one week to go before Christmas and I'm glad to hear that retail sales are down, all those greedy bastards, especially the supermarkets, with their television ads designed to pull at the heart strings, were all a big waste of time as people simply don't have the money, so stop advertising to us, we don't care about what you have on your shelves, we don't want it and, what's more, we don't need it.

People ask me what I want for Christmas and I don't really have an answer because I simply don't know. I have everything I need, although I do hate it when people ask if I'd like socks. No, fuck off! I don't want socks! I can buy them whenever I need them; alright, I need them, but that's not a Christmas present is it? 

"Oh, what did you get for Christmas?"

"Socks."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

I'd rather have nothing than have socks for Christmas.

We've done a bit of Christmas shopping, which I hate with a vengeance, milling around with all the greedy bastards who clasp loads of branded carrier bags in both hands and for what? Oh, yes, just so a few days later they can say "Right, we need to talk about the money, we're currently £400 overdrawn and we've got, er...six weeks to go before pay day." Just the sort of thing I don't want to hear. Personally I'd rather cancel Christmas than be in debt. But then it's not really Christmas is it? No, it's an excuse for big business to make even more profit than they do throughout the rest of the year. I'd love Christmas to be like it used to be, with people not knowing what they're getting, but it's not. These days it's "Well, you buy it and then we'll wrap it up and put it under the tree." So when it comes to the big day I open something that I already know about and so does everybody else. Oh for a desolate cottage on the Isle of Harris, a roaring log fire and no sign of the greed found further south, just the sea and the hills and perhaps an exchange of Christmas cards, a bracing walk to a local pub for lunch and then an afternoon spent in front of the fire eating festive delicacies.

Bleak...

It's now Sunday 18th December and while I think the weather has warmed up a little bit, the snow is still on the ground and I'm guessing it's still cold out there as the cars still have frosted windscreens. I won't be riding today and nor will Andy. We're both busy for a start, then there's my as yet unfixed puncture, the possibility of rain (although I'd love to try out my new waterproof trousers and shoes) and, of course, the fact that it's still cold and icy out there. At some stage I'll fix the puncture. I reckon I've got two of them, not just one, but who knows? Not me until I get out there.

Last night I watched the Strictly Come Dancing final and Hamza won it, just like I thought he would. I also watched JK Rowling's Strike, which I really like. Then I fell asleep and when I awoke it was gone midnight. I got up around 0700hrs, made breakfast of porridge and chopped oranges, not forgetting a cup of tea and a glass of water and now I'm about to get on with the rest of my day.

COVID - the novelty's worn off...

Last Saturday, when I first noticed I was a little under the weather, I remember going to bed in the spare room accompanied by my radio and feeling good. Good? Well, good inside. The idea of feeling tired and weak and cosy and glad to be in bed was, in itself, kind of comforting. I had a sore throat and a dry cough, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I slept well, the curtains drawn apart to reveal the lunar glow of the streetlight across the road. I know, you've heard all this before in my previous post. The 'cosy' feeling at night continued for a day or two and during the day I got by. In a sense I was thinking 'this isn't as bad as everybody is making it out to be' (perhaps I'm right about that) but I had received three jabs and perhaps that was why it all seemed relatively okay. Anyway, put all that aside, it's getting a little tiresome now: today is what? Nine days since I started feeling unwell, the day I drove over to South West London. This time last week I was wandering around IKEA and Dunelm (mask on, of course) but I hadn't yet tested positive. In fact, this time last week I tested negative, it wasn't until Monday last week that I tested positive, so right now it's seven days since I tested positive. I feel fine. I've felt relatively fine since around Tuesday of last week and I just want things to go back to normal. I've lost my sense of taste and smell, which is no fun as I love food and can't abide just getting by on 'texture' and my imagination. Today, Sunday, around 1130hrs, I'd normally be getting back from my ride to meet Andy in Westerham. It's now been two Sundays missed and, more than anything, I need some fresh air and I'm fed up with the spare room, really fed up. The depression I feel over having the virus is only trumped by the feeling of depression I have for living in a country presided over by the current Conservative Government, a motley collection of arseholes who haven't a clue. I won't go on about the Downing Street parties other than to say that the entire country will be very angry if that fat cunt Johnson is allowed to get away with it; we don't need Sue Gray to tell us he's guilty and everybody knows that, it's a delaying tactic, and let's briefly talk about intimidation and the stories that the whips are threatening MPs with the withholding of funds for MPs' constituencies. This scandal reeks of Johnson and I'm glad that Wragg has brought the matter to the attention of the police, although I have no confidence whatsover in Cressida Dick's Metropolitan Police, the force that brought you Wayne Couzens and the innocent shooting of a Brazilian man wrongly mistaken for a terrorist. Dick, incidentally, was awarded the Queen's Medal after that little incident. 

In the world of crap where we all live, there has been some good news: Djokovic was deported from Australia, leaving just Johnson and "Prince" Andrew to be dealt with; as for the latter, well, his judgment cometh and that right soon! I'm starting to wonder whether Johnson will pull it out of the hat, but I sincerely hope he won't, we need three results on this one: Djokovic (deported and out of the Australian Open); Johnson (he must resign); and "Prince" Andrew MUST be taken to the cleaners. Here's hoping.

On a personal level I just want to test negative and get my taste and sense of smell back. I'm fine otherwise, bar a runny nose. When I think of the shit we've all been through it makes me depressed. It kind of started with Donald Trump and Brexit, Johnson getting elected by the bigots with a huge majority based on the Brexit lie, the whole Brexit thing and how it's slowly being proved that leaving Europe was a big mistake (we are now a little country with limited influence in the world, governed by a bunch of idiots (Johnson, Gove, Raab, Patel, Truss, the list is endless). I heard (and I hope it's fake news) that Gavin Williamson, the former defence and education secretary (think, for a moment, he was in charge of defence) was going to be given a Knighthood - that, in my opinion (if true) kind of sums it all up. Johnson is easily the absolute worst PM we've ever had and his motley collection of cabinet ministers are terrible, there's not one of them I'd trust with anything and the sooner they all go, the better. Can't the Labour Party put forward a vote of no confidence in the Government and trigger a General Election? Oh, that would be good news as the thought of another three years of Johnson... I don't think anybody can face that.

Lastly, of course, to make matters worse, we had the virus that eeked its way out of Wuhan back in early 2020 and continues to bug us all. Just think about it all for a minute: Donald Trump, Boris Johnson, Brexit, Prince Andrew, COVID-19, all of it 100% avoidable. Anyway, we're in this position and we've got to get on with it. 

'Make it go away' Kate Bush has just sung on my Sonos, from the track This Woman's Work, and I would second that emotion, make it go away.

It's COVID time ... and that means no cycling!

When I looked out last Saturday morning at the frosty pavements and roads I knew that plucking up the enthusiasm to go out was going to be difficult. It was cold out there! But after breakfast and a little bit of hesitation I decided that I would ride the Weeble and get back in an hour. Out I went into the garage and what did I find? A puncture that's what! And to make matters worse, a rear wheel affair. I always have difficulty putting the rear wheel in place as I tend to forget how it works with the chain. I resolved to go out later and fix it, but when I did I realised something else: that I really couldn't be bothered for some reason. I found the whole thing tiresome in the extreme. The very thought of unbolting the wheel (thank heavens for quick release) lifting it out and then prising the inner tube from the wheel using levers was more than depressing. I normally use one lever to start the process and this I did relatively successfully, but I was feeling tired and seemed to be lacking energy. Eventually, however, I managed to free the inner tube and set about what needed to be done to fix a puncture. With the hole plugged, the culprit thorn removed and the inner tube back underneath the tyre and on the wheel, I pressed most of the tyre into place with my hands but wasn't finding it at all easy. I couldn't work out why I was feeling so tired, so drained, and after giving the bike a clean (a much needed one) I shut the door and quietly looked forward to my ride with Andy on Sunday morning.

Later that day I drove over to South West London and I felt shivery. Partly, this was because it was cold out, but also there was something afoot, although I knew not what. On my return I almost went to bed immediately, in the spare room, as I figured I didn't want to give whatever I had to my wife. Oddly, I felt strangely comfortable once under the covers, the curtains drawn back so I could see the branches of a tree illuminated by the lunar glow emitted by the streetlight from across the road. I developed a sore throat and a pretty severe one at that; furthermore there was a cough, a dry cough, and I figured that, for the first time in years, I had the flu. Although I think I suspected something more was up because I texted Andy early on Sunday morning, 0414hrs to be precise:

"Not feeling good: sore throat and dry cough. Will test later," said I, meaning I would test for COVID. I went on to say that I wasn't up for the ride. When I did test myself I was negative and this was a huge relief, but a day later I tested again and was positive. It wasn't a great surprise to be honest, but prior to that second test I was convinced I only had the usual flu-like symptoms of the standard variety. Once I tested positive my inner attitude towards my illness changed a little. I felt annoyed because somewhere along the line I had been careless, but also a little anxious about the course my illness might take, although I think I knew that things weren't going to change drastically and I comforted myself with the knowledge that things would only get better. As it turned out, they did. For three days, that's all, I had a sore throat and a cough. It hurt when I swallowed like all sore throats do, and that was really it. By Tuesday, things had calmed down. I'd been filling up on Lemsip (the blackcurrant variety, so Blacksip, not Lemsip) and I was off work, although I did answer a few emails in between reading chapters from Tenement Boy, Bobby Gillespie's excellent memoir on how Primal Scream came into being. I still found time to get angry with Boris Johnson, No-Vax Djokovic and, of course, "Prince" Andrew. So far, I thought, it's one down (Djokovic) and two to go (Johnson and Andrew). It was good to see that the Royal Family disowned him and had stripped away his titles. At the time of writing (1741hrs on 19 January 2022) Johnson is still in place, but David Davis told him 'for God's sake go', words that would have made me seriously consider my position had I been the buffoon.

So, exercise wise, everything has come to a stop. All that riding around the block hasn't happened for almost a week and during that time I've sent back a rear bicycle light, USB-chargeable, which kept cutting out mid-ride. My £40 has been refunded and now I can simply go out and buy another one, from a proper shop this time and not on Amazon. Forty quid is quite a lot for a rear light when you think about it, although I'm now thinking about buying a new helmet with an integral rear light, but let's see how it goes, perhaps I'll look at that later.

It's odd sleeping in the spare room. I'm doing so to protect my wife, obviously, although on Saturday, when I first started feeling shivery, we shared car journeys so perhaps it's inevitable that she'll get it, we'll see. So far, so good. Last night I took the radio to bed with me and awoke mid-morning to the dreamy sounds of BBC Radio 3, it all felt strange and surreal in the darkness, the lunar light from across the road illuminating the room, and I must admit that I liked it, especially being tucked up under two duvets knowing there was a while to go before I had to get up. On Tuesday morning, around 0430hrs, I got up and had breakfast (tea, orange juice, a slice of bread (or was it toast, I can't remember) and a glass of water before returning to bed and sleeping on. There have been strange dreams, one involving the Grosvenor House Hotel in London, which was dark and empty except for me. I walked around the Grand Ballroom in front of the stage remembering past extravagances and slipped off into a darkened side corridor. The rest of the dream is sketchy.

I've been house bound all week, no fresh air, no cycling, but I know that a clean bike without punctures awaits me in the garage for when I ride out hopefully this coming weekend. Today I was looking back lovingly on my coverage of the 2020 summer lockdown, and the more I read the greater it all seemed to have been: all that cycling, that lovely weather, and these were the pre-vaccine days when the only variants of the virus were the deadly Delta and Alpha varieties - or, of course, the Indian and Kent variants, which more accurately pinpoint where they originated. I wrote thousands of words on the 2020 lockdown and looking back I'm glad I did as it leaves me with a permanent record of what I was thinking and doing at the time. It wasn't a bad time by any stretch of the imagination: the heat for a start, the lack of cars on the road, even working from home took a while to lose its appeal. Home became a real home instead of just a pit stop between working.

Suffice it to say I'm alright. I've had the dreaded virus and thankfully the less severe OMICRON variant (at least I think that's what I had); and now I've just got to wait until the lateral flow test says negative. One thing I do know is that I can't wait for a cappuccino and a slice of cake...but it would be helpful if my sense of taste and smell returned.

Round town top cranking...and other stories

I can't believe that I rode for 14.5 miles around local streets yesterday (last Saturday to be precise). I worked out a lap that incorporated the Norfolk Nobbler. Each lap turned out to be almost five miles and I did three. Fortunately, the weather held out. Around 0900hrs I headed out on damp roads and wearing full waterproofs, but the rain had stopped and it didn't start again until I'd finished my ride. I'll be totally honest, it was a really hard ride as I'd thrown in many hills. A true work-out. When I got back I needed a shower and it goes to show you how deceptive things are: I was well and truly whacked on my return, more so than when I finish a ride from, say, the lakes or Westerham, and it's all to do with constantly facing hills on the local rides.

But I went via Beech Farm Road...

Andy and I were feeling a bit gung-ho about everything and had vowed to get out there today, today being the Sunday after last Sunday, rain or shine, but in all honesty, when I woke up around 0500hrs, I peered out of the window and noted the rain hammering down on next door's flat-roofed extension. As I write this (at 0712hrs) I'm guessing it's still hammering down, I'll take a look at the bird bath in a minute, but Andy and I have aborted the ride, the first 'abort' of the whole summer. Very annoying. We're both hoping to get out on local rides, which means I might attempt yesterday's ride, or possibly two laps of it, which equate to 9.82 miles, so all I need to do is ride the length of the Ridgeway and I reckon that'll be 10 miles (8 miles short of what I'd planned for today, unless, of course, things brighten up). Somehow I don't think they will.

Let's go and check that birdbath. Hold on for a second...its a right shit storm out there. The birdbath is frothing with turbulent waters, raindrops are dancing in the puddles, but when I look out front there's nothing but stillness. That said, I still might get out there and do at least two laps. I've got the whole day so I can pick my time. But alas, the rain cavorted in the puddles all day long and now, at 2203hrs it's too late to go anywhere. Instead I sit here watching Michael Palin's Around the World in 80 Days. It's quite amazing when you think that, back then, in 1988, there were no mobile phones and no Internet and it all looks very old-fashioned, not to mention 'terribly British'.

Fucking flytipping bastards...

On Monday I headed for work, but not on the bike. The threat of rain loomed large for the ride back so I decided to take the train instead, a big mistake. It never rained (of course it didn't) and the sun came out and I can't say I was happy about missing the chance of a swift 24-mile ride. So far this week, nothing, not a single mile. Remember, my week starts on a Sunday and yesterday was rained off (see above for details). I've got until Saturday (10 October) to put on some miles. If I can reach 70 I'll be happy. Last week I managed 73 and I'm concerned that the mileage will drop as the weather gets colder and we all slide towards Christmas. I've really got to get out there tomorrow, but let's see what the weather brings.

Having not gone out on Sunday or Monday, I was glad to get out on Tuesday late afternoon. I decided to ride to Westerham, the slow way and it was fine. There was a bit of rain, but it was short-lived and light and didn't have any adverse effects. The ride out was fairly smooth, apart from some fly tippers who had dumped a load of old rubbish, including a door, on the upside of the hill coming out of Westerham. It's very dangerous for cyclists as you come down the hill, not expecting anything, but then suddenly come across it, no warning, and there are, of course, cars coming at you on your side of the road in order to avoid the mess. After dark I'm sure there will be accidents. I rode the slow way, along Beddlestead Lane and when I got to Westerham I loitered for a few moments, took some shots of the bike near St. Mary's Church and in front of Churchill's statue and then headed off up the hill. I took a right turn off of the 269 and rode along Beech Farm Road, turning left into Washpond Lane, right on Ledgers and then left on Church Lane, heading towards Warlingham Sainsbury's. It was a fairly long ride, 23.65 miles in total and I reached home around a 1845hrs, fired up and ready to make a prawn curry, which was delicious, and then I watched Midnight Run with Robert De Niro, a great movie that I'd never seen before. Hit the sack around 2330hrs and woke up around 0500hrs. It's now Wednesday morning, 0744hrs and I've got to start thinking about work. Incidentally, Strava informs me that I'm the local legend on something known as the Rugby Dash, but again, I don't see anybody pointing at me as I pass or taking photographs. "There he is! It's Matt, he's the local legend for the Rugby Dash! Hey, Matt! Can I have your autograph?" Nobody knows me, which is just as well.

St Mary's Church, Westerham

Wednesday afternoon and rather than hit the road on the bike, heading for God knows where, although I had been planning a repeat performance of yesterday's ride to Westerham, I decided instead to slob around and do nothing. I didn't feel like if I'm honest with you and while I kind of considered doing a bit of Round Town Top Cranking, like on Saturday in between rain showers, I didn't and soon the moment had passed and I'd have to regroup myself, think about tomorrow and hope that despondency didn't win again, not that it really won today, I wasn't feeling despondent at all, well, perhaps a bit, but no, I just didn't get out there, end of the story. And now, at 2305hrs I'm writing this and watching the documentary of the Rolling Stones playing in Havana, Cuba, a momentous moment for the Cubans and an exhilarating experience for the band. They're a great band, the Stones. I like all of them in equal measure and hope they continue to rock into the future. I wonder whether they ever thought they'd be still playing?

It's Thursday morning and I slept badly. It might have been that slice of chocolate cake or the fact that I simply ate far too much last night, but either way, I went up around 2330hrs and was still awake around 0330hrs. Not good. I woke up around 0630hrs and I still haven't looked out at the weather, although I'm guessing it'll be raining. Well, according to the iphone there's a chance I'll get a ride in this afternoon if I'm feeling chipper. By rights I should head for Westerham again for another 23-miler, but I'm saying nothing. I don't want to commit to anything and then disappoint myself.

It's now 1312hrs and the sun is out. There was rain earlier, but it might be good for later when I down tools and head out on the bike. The plan is leave as near to 1600hrs as possible and see if I can get some decent miles under my belt.

Well, the plan was faulty, or rather, not adhered to. I never went anywhere other than a very pleasant after dark walk around the block. Sometimes I guess I'm not in the mood and this week, disrupted by last weekend's rain, is one of those weeks and I need to resign myself to the fact. It was a similar story on Friday, although I had to drive into East London so any thoughts of a ride had to be put on hold. For some reason (probably because I was told as much by the weather people) I expected the whole week to be a wash-out. I was amazed to get out there on Tuesday for an evening ride to Westerham, but I did, and there were plenty of opportunties to have jumped on the bike, but I didn't take them and more fool me I guess.

It's now Saturday morning and there appears to be sunshine seeping through the curtains. It's just dawned on me that I could go for a ride and probably should get out there. Choices enter my head: a lonely ride to Botley or Westerham even or a shorter ride to mum's or to see Bon on Woodmansterne Green. Decisions! Decisions! I've just had breakfast: bowl of Alpen, a toasted teacake, a strawberry yoghurt and, of course, a cup of decaff tea and now, with the end of my piss poor cycling week approaching me, I have to decide one way or the other: do I go out there or sit around here feeling sorry for myself?

Postscript: a ride to the Velo Barn

I went out, rode a good 22 miles, the slow way to the Velo Barn. The Velo Barn? It's a new bicycle repair shop and cafe. The weather was fantastic and when I got there I ordered a cappuccino and a slice of lemon cake. After ordering I went outside and basked in the sunshine. The Velo Barn is technically in Westerham, although (equally technically) it's about a mile outside of where Andy and I usually go when we pay a visit to the Northern Kent market town. It took them a while to deliver coffee and cake to my table and I was on the brink of going in to suss out the problem, but then I realised that the place was choc-a-bloc with Lycra monkeys in full kit, loads of them. So I sat back and soon enough it arrived. They'd even stencilled a bike on the froth. The only thing about Velo Barn I didn't like was the fact that it wasn't a bike shop. I was expecting to see a load of bikes for sale, tyres, saddles, you name it, but there was nothing, except for a repair shop. Look, don't get me wrong, it's a great place to go on a bike and cake and hot beverages at the halfway point of any ride take preference over bike stuff. I'm not complaining. So I sat there and enjoyed the whole experience and around 1100hrs I got on the bike and rode home, it took one hour exactly, but only around 15 minutes to reach the Botley roundabout. I soared up the Westerham hill, even beating a Lycra monkey. All-in-all a great ride and I'm glad I did it as it boosted my weekly mileage to around 45 miles. Not brilliant, but good enough for the last ride of my week. My phone was out of power again, so the ride was not recorded on Strava, more's the pity, but then I do own an Apple iphone 5S and it needs replacing.

Lockdown, Part 33: A week without cycling...

You might recall that last week (or was it the week before?) I somehow managed to damage the joint below the big toe on my left foot. I made matters worse by riding to Westerham (21 miles) last Saturday and then, well, I saw sense and decided to have a rest from riding the bike. I hadn't done too badly. The first week back after picking up my bike from Ross Cycles I put in around 64 miles and then the following week, culminating with last Saturday's 21-miler to Westerham, I think I upped the ante to 71 miles. All was good, but the time off from riding proved to be a good idea. I haven't been on the bike for eight days and while my lack of riding nagged at me for a day or two, I put my mind to rest by reasoning that all the gardening I was doing instead was more than compensating. In truth, it wasn't, but who cares?

Chicken, leek and tarragon pie - you can't beat decent pub food!

On Thursday I went to a local garden centre and bought a few boxes of 'weed & feed' (I know how to live when I'm on holiday!). I applied it liberally to the lawn and the following morning the grass had been blackened. I'm told that a change of colour proves that it's working, doing its job, killing off the weeds and moss, so I'm not that worried about it. In fact I'm glad that my lawn is well and truly on the mend and on the way to greatness, or at least I hope so. The weeds and the moss will hopefully be replaced by vibrant and green grass and I can enjoy it for the rest of the summer.

The Rockhopper resting outside Tatsfield village...

It's not just the lawn that's been getting a bit of TLC, although the lawn is pretty important in the general scheme of things as it's huge and takes up a lot of space. I also dug up a flower bed (make that a weed bed) on the right of the lawn and replanted it with shrubs and flowers, also purchased from the aforementioned garden centre. And let's not forget the window canopy, which was in a right state and in serious need of a coat of paint. I got up on a rickety old step ladder clasping a wire brush and it wasn't long before the canopy was ready for an undercoat. It now awaits a second coat, but that can wait until next weekend.

The pond in the centre of Tatsfield village.

I suppose you could say I've been very busy, running around between garden centres and D.I.Y shops. Technically, I had taken the week off work, but in reality I only had one 'day off' - on Wednesday - when I drove into darkest Sussex for a pub lunch. Because of 'social distancing' and the virus we booked in advance and had to order our food using our mobile phones. It was easy and the food was delicious and we also paid via the phone so there was little in the way of human contact. The other good thing about it was not having to wait for the waiter to deliver the bill or worry about how much of tip we should give (we didn't give any tip, I mean why when there's no real 'service'?). Actually, the meal was good, especially the chicken and leek pie, the mash, the vegetables, the whole lot, but I don't think the phone ordering system offered the opportunity for us to tip electronically. I never carry cash so sadly there was no tip.

To complete my week of gardening I need to order a parasol and I'll do that later on line, then I can go back to work tomorrow safe in the knowledge that I've well and truly 'done my bit'.

St. Mary's church, Tatsfield

Today I initially considered riding solo to the lakes, but in all honesty, by the time I was ready to hit the air it was almost 0800hrs and I realised it would take the best part of almost three hours to complete, possibly less if I didn't stop for tea, but where's the fun in that? So I called Bon, or rather I texted him a single word question: 'cycle?'. And then I set off with my phone on 'loud' so I could hear it if he called back, but he didn't (until I was almost home) so I pressed on towards Warlingham Green and then beyond, riding the 269 to Botley Hill and then heading east on Clarks Lane. Initially I thought I'd ride into Westerham, but then I changed my mind and rode towards St Mary's church in Tatsfield, but not directly. I turned left on Approach Road and went through the village instead, getting in a bit of a pickle when I approached some temporary traffic lights (I was in the wrong gear and the lights were on a hill so I ended up walking and remounting on the other side).

Yours truly in Tatsfield

I passed the entrance to the churchyard and rode down the hill on to Clarks Lane again, turning right and heading up the hill towards Botley and the 269. Later I turned right again into Beech Farm Road and while I kind of considered hanging a left into Washpond Lane, I carried on round and eventually passed St Leonard's church on my right and then Ledgers Road on my left and then I was back at Warlingham Sainsbury's where I turned right and continued down the Limpsfield Road to home. I was pleased to note that I'd almost riden 20 miles. All I need to do now is keep that up for five days and I'll be approaching the magical 100-mile week, but let's not walk before we can run.

We were mesmerised by the media...

Both of us. Andy and yours truly. We'd both been listening, watching, reading about Storm Dennis, which has followed hot on the heels of Storm Ciara. It was due to hit overnight, last night, and I probably did hear some gusts of wind, and when I woke up around 0600hrs, having stayed up later than usual because I figured I'd be aborting the ride, I did just that: I aborted. I went back to bed, but not for long. Once I'm awake, it's not long before I get up and head downstairs for breakfast, and by 0630hrs I was looking out of the window trying to see the puddle on next door's roof, but it was too dark. Too dark to see what the weather was doing. But I'd aborted the ride, it didn't really matter.

When things brightened up, it didn't look too bad outside. I couldn't detect any rain, or not much of it, and the wind wasn't by any means a constant. Why the hell did I abort? I'd been mesmerised by the media! And so, incidentally, had Andy. I texted later to see if he went out and the answer was no. He had banked on Storm Henry hitting hard and had resigned himself to not riding. We both felt cheated, but there was nothing we could do.

As the day progressed, the rains came. I stood outside of Pearson's, a cycle shop in Sutton, Surrey, looking at the wet pavements and the puddles. There was a bit of shopping to do, but that was it and eventually I was home listening to the rain. My iphone said there was a 100% chance of rain all the way through to the morning and beyond so I started to think I'll abort before hitting the sack and that way I won't have a fretful night's sleep worrying (or wondering) what the weather will be like in the morning. "Just assume it's going to be crap," I said to myself later while watching Basic Instinct and being singularly unimpressed by the much-publicised 'full vadge view' offered to the film's detectives. Back in the day it was one of those scenes men felt they ought to have some kind of opinion on, the stereotypical opinion being little more that Phwoar! But I remember at the time not finding Sharon Stone that appealing. Nothing's changed.

So I'd better hit the sack, get some sleep. Got to stop eating shit. Coffee and walnut cake has to go, along with too many visits to the cafe.

No cycling this weekend...

... and I suppose it was all my fault; it certainly wasn't Andy's. On Friday night I went out to meet some friends and while I didn't touch any alcohol - for those who don't know, I haven't touched the stuff for around 21 months - I did indulge in some home-made iced tea. It was wonderful, so much so that I had a couple of glasses and enjoyed every last drop. Later, prior to jumping into the car and driving off into the stormy weather that was Friday night, I also enjoyed a cup of normal tea. Again, very nice, but what I had failed to consider was my caffeine intake. For around the same time I've been off the booze, I've also been off the caffeine. I now drink decaff tea, but not on Friday night. Anyway, I reached home around 2330hrs but wasn't feeling in the slightest bit tired or weary. I decided not to go to bed, but to watch a movie, Man Up, with Simon Pegg. No, it's not my type of film at all, but I wanted to see what the director made of an essentially very simple scenario (man goes on blind date with the wrong girl but ends up falling in love). Look, it was fine, let's leave it at that. But I was still buzzing and decided to get on the computer, check things out. By the time I marched upstairs to bed, still wired, it was approaching 0200hrs. I thought it best to abort and did so there and then.

Andy got to Westerham, but I stayed at home...

For some time now, ever since returning from Dusseldorf, I've had a sore throat and a dry cough. The sore throat was initially very unpleasant and the cough was also not very nice, but they've both persisted. In the middle of the night, just after midnight, I awoke with a coughing fit. In the end I had to get out of bed and head downstairs to make some tea (this time decaff). I turned on the computer, checked out the BBC website (Iran had seized a British ship in the Middle East) and killed time until I'd finished my tea. I thought about aborting, but decided not to. Best, perhaps, to see how I felt in the morning. My alarm went off at 0600hrs and I wasn't feeling good at all. I decided to abort and climb back into bed, eventually falling asleep and then waking around 0900hrs. I needed the sleep, put it that way, but, as usual, the weather was fantastic and I missed out on a ride. Andy posted a photo on Twitter: he'd gone to Westerham, where I was planning on going had I gone out. Anyway, you can't cry over spilt milk, as my mum says. Well, you can, it's just pointless. So I painted the side gate and sat in the garden catching a few rays and didn't really do much all day. I'm under the weather, feeling weary and it's not good.

I slobbed around all day after finishing the gate. I sat in the garden reading the Rough Guide to Cult Fiction, a great read. I've done the crossword (nothing too challenging, just the Waitrose Weekend magazine) and the only clue I didn't get was the name for a baby salmon. Any clues?

Here's to next week's ride.

No cycling this weekend...

I can't blame the weather. Alright, I can blame a week in Dusseldorf for taking it easy on Saturday morning, although I had planned to ride over Woodmansterne way to meet Bon. We hadn't arranged anything, but I could have called him or left a text and that way I would have committed myself. But I didn't call or text. In fact, sitting here now, at 1838hrs on a Sunday evening, Kylie Minogue performing at Glastonbury - "Put your hand on your heart and tell me" - I'm feeling a bit ashamed of myself for doing absolutely no exercise. I've slobbed about, I've taken the car over to mum's, eaten cake and biscuits, then changed a pair of trousers in M&S and there's not much else I can remember about Saturday.

As for Sunday, I had a golden opportunity to go cycling, but decided that a planned drive into darkest Sussex took preference and, ultimately, I kept the bike under lock and key. Once I'd abandoned the proper ride, which would have been to meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green, all that was left was riding the Woodland Trek. Well, I sent Bon a text, but he'd had a rough night and didn't fancy it. I texted back to say that I had some driving to do so perhaps cycling was a bad idea. Let's meet next Saturday, that seemed like the best policy.

Suddenly I felt 'off the hook'. I mooched around the house, still considering the aforementioned Woodland Trek, but time was ticking, time was running out. I didn't go anywhere, other than deepest Sussex in the car. On the way back I was feeling sleepy and had to stop in huge Tesco store in Pulborough where the shelves were empty in places. I bought a bottle of mineral water and a Bounty and miraculously I was able to drive again. This happened once before; I was feeling sleepy so I ate a Bounty and was instantly revived. Anyway, I got home otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. Kylie's still on and, to be honest, she's putting in a pretty lame performance. Even when Nick Cave joined her on stage, it was underwhelming.

Reading a great book at the moment, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Brilliant, but I'm only on Chapter Four so I'll keep you all posted. I'm also reading Another Fine Mess by Tim Moore, which is all about a journey across America, through Trump's America no less, in a Ford Model T.

What's happening in the world? The Tory party leadership battle continues with two contenders left in the race, the obese buffoon that is Boris Johnson and the slightly more palatable Jeremy Hunt. I don't want either to win, but if I had to make a choice it would be Hunt. Also in the news, a pregnant woman was stabbed and killed in Thornton Heath, near Croydon, Surrey. The baby is in a critical condition in hospital. I've mentioned Glastonbury. Last night's performance by the Killers was good, especially when the Pet Shop Boys and then Johnny Marr appeared, but I haven't really been watching it. Kylie is still on, getting emotional. Worse still, that awful Chris Martin has just joined her on stage. That bloke is always gate-crashing other people's acts and he's so boring, not very rock and roll is what I'm saying. Get off the stage, you cock! I can't stand him or Coldplay. One person we should all try to get out of heads and minds is Chris Martin, the cappuccino 'rocker', the skinny latte of establishment rock, the clean-cut nob cheese of popular music. Oh, I do hope Coldplay won't be performing, I really do.

Church bells are ringing out from the Glasto stage and Kylie's performance is now confirmed as absolute girly bollocks. Especially for you, I wanna let you know what I was going through...no!!! Anything but that song. I suppose Donovan will be waltzing on to the stage in a second, let's hope not. Look, I'm signing off, it's all too depressing.

Heavy winds gave me an excuse not to ride...

I hate finding excuses not to ride, but heavy winds seemed like a good one. I'd had a good ride yesterday (see previous post) and that seemed to be in my favour as I considered whether to send myself an abort text or not. I knew Andy wasn't going, which made it all easier, but I still wanted a real excuse not to go out. Fortunately for me, when I looked out of the kitchen window at the tall conifer at the top of the garden, I could see it was raining. That'll do pig! So I didn't ride to mum's, I drove there, listening to John McLaughlin's Extrapolation, bringing back memories of driving to the coast in the late eighties/early nineties and walks in the Suffolk countryside. There was rain on my windscreen, which brought great comfort as it meant that I had good reason not to embark upon the six-mile ride from Sanderstead to Carshalton. I felt, in a way, justified to be sitting in my car, even if I did spot a cyclist battling the elements earlier on, having just left my house – and he was wearing shorts!

All was well at mum's, things were orderly, as they've always been. I enjoyed two triangular pieces of fruit cake and a cup of tea, plus a couple of tiny chocolate biscuits. While I opened the box of Elizabeth David Mints, I put the lid back on, scolding myself for even thinking about it.

Mum's clock radio was on Medium Wave – or so she said. She wanted FM and wondered whether I could sort it out. She has an old Roberts radio, but it's seen better days and I think she wanted the clock radio to be promoted so she could retire the old 'wireless'. When I took a look at the clock radio I discovered that it was already on FM, but I decided not to disappoint her. "There you go, mum, fixed it," I said, moving it on to her bedside table. She hurriedly took the Roberts radio away as if a car was waiting downstairs to take it to a care home.

I went downstairs to use the mildly claustrophobic bathroom adjoining the 'new room', which is really an old room, it's just that it was once new and the name stuck. The new room. I was still living at home when the new room was constructed and it quickly became the new dining room where we had breakfast, lunch and dinner. Things have moved on, though. Today, dinner is often served in the 'lounge', the 'through lounge', which was knocked through in the seventies.

Soon it was time to go and this time there was a sense of relief that I wasn't going to be donning helmet and old rucksack and heading out to mount the bike. The wind was strong, swaying the branches of some big trees, including Mrs Tillman's horse chestnut that lurched dangerously back and forth over the railway line. My car was parked outside and I knew that John McLaughlin's Extrapolation had a good 15 minutes left. I said goodbye to mum and told her not to stand on the doorstep waving me off, it was too breezy, too cold. I drove down to the bottom of the road, turned the car round and drove back up and as I passed mum's house she was still on the step waving as I passed.

Puncture halts ride and I hope for a lull in tomorrow's predicted bad weather...

I reckon I've missed the ride this weekend. There's some nasty weather coming in from the west and I think today, Saturday is going to be the only day we get a ride in. But it was not to be: I went through all the motions, of course. I made the tea, sorted out the milk and the tea bags, chucked the lot in my rucksack and then headed outside to jump on the bike. But no, there was a rear wheel puncture and while normally this wouldn't have phased me (I would have simply fixed it, arranged to meet Andy a little later and all would have been fine) today I had to get back early, so the lost time led me to abort the ride.

A randomly selected shot of Badesi beach in Sardinia on a windy day in 2016

I decided it was best to fix the puncture and set about the task calmly. As I write this, the bike is now repaired and both tyres have been pumped up hard. I hope I get to ride tomorrow, but if the weather is anything to go by I seriously doubt it, but you never know. If a ride is on, you can bet I'll be soaked by the time I return home.There might be a lull in proceedings that gets me out of the house, but I'm sure that, somewhere along the road, the heavens will open and I'll get wet, but let's see. It might be one of those freaky situations when I somehow escape an early morning cold shower, who knows?

While I'm here, what's been going on of late? Well, not much if the truth be told. I've been working ever since I returned from New Delhi and I'm not travelling anywhere until early April at present, although there might be trips to Vienna and Milan on the agenda, not sure yet. Having just returned from the garage after fixing that puncture, there's also a lot of clutter in there that needs to be sorted out and let's not forget that I need to decorate the hallway. I was reminded of this when I spied the paint brushes and the roller on the floor in the garage alongside two tins of paint. It's got to be done sooner or later so I need to put aside a weekend.

Mum had her hip replacement on 31 January and now she's fine and walking around quite normally. Amazing really. She's 89 (90 in November) and she's sailed through the whole thing without (touch wood) any issues. Things have gone back to normal as we no longer have to spend the nights round there. I used to spend Saturday and a day in the week over there and Jon and Chrissy (my brother and sister) would fill the other days. It's strange sleeping in my old bedroom and oddly not the same anymore. I prefer to be here in my own home six miles east of mum's.

Mike Carter has a new book out (All Together Now?) and needless to say it's fantastic. There will be a review here on this blog just as soon as I've finished it. The book I read before Carter's latest was Douglas Coupland's Girlfriend in a Coma, which was a little strange, and prior to that, Michel Houellbecq's Platform. He's got another book out in the UK later this year called Seratonin, which I'm really looking forward to; I first read Houellbecq back in 2007 – Atomised – and with everything that's going around Brexit, he's kind of part of the zeitgeist, which is all good.

Not much else to report, so I'll sign off. The photograph accompanying this post is of a beach in Badesi, Sardinia. It has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that I went on holiday there a couple of years ago, which was good.

I have nothing more to say other than here's hoping I get a ride in tomorrow.

Sunday – Storm Freya means no cycling

Bad weather had been mentioned once or twice on the television. So-called Storm Freya was on its way and it was due to hit on Sunday. I woke up at 0600hrs and immediately took a look at my neighbour's conservatory roof. The puddle was animated by rain so I immediately sent Andy an abort text and spent most of the day looking out of the window or reading Mike Carter's All Together Now, not forgetting a drive (as opposed to a ride) to mum's. It was a lazy day and a weekend without cycling.

There's nothing worse than a weekend without cycling...

Last week Andy mentioned he wouldn't be riding on Saturday, which was fine, but it left me with a dilemma: do I rest up or go out? I could have taken a ride over to mum's to enjoy a slice or two of fruit cake, or a trip to Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. Instead I switched off the alarm before going to bed on Friday night and ended up remaining in bed until just before 0900hrs.

Having around eight hours of sleep is fine and believe me I needed it. For God knows how long I've been getting to bed around 2300hrs – after sitting in front of the television watching Newsnight or Question Time (isn't  Fiona Bruce awful) or something – and then waking around 0600hrs, sometimes earlier. Once I'm awake I find it very difficult to simply lie there trying to get back to sleep, so invariably I get up, come down stairs, make porridge and tea and toast and sit on the computer writing something, like this, or scanning the BBC website for the latest news. With Brexit, however, it's all very boring and depressing.

It was destined to be a lazy weekend of doing very little. It was so lazy that I've forgotten what I didn't do, if that makes sense. I remember watching TGD – The Greatest Dancer in the evening. How depressing can you get? Cheryl Cole with her festering arse tattoo and that bloke from Glee who looks like 'Jock', an old associate who I used to think looked like a rifle. What the hell was I on? It all gets a little blurry after that as sometimes the TV is just on for no reason.

During the day, I've just remembered, I went to my old home town of Sutton. Now there's a place that's seen better times, but it's no worse than where I live now. If you live in the burbs you get used to mediocrity and it's even worse if it's been raining and everywhere is wet and dripping. Multi-storey car parks – wrong on so many levels, but soon I'm behind the wheel, heading home in the dark.

I had planned a ride today (Sunday) but the weather stood before me and the bike. After a strange dream (see previous post) I found that I couldn't get back to sleep after hearing something go bump in the night. I lie there listening to the rain and hoping it would stop before morning, but soon dawn arrived. I'd managed about 45 minutes of sleep before the alarm went off – the sound of birdsong on the iphone – and then I got out of bed, wrote up the weird dream (I like to keep a record) and noticed that it was still raining. An 'abort' text followed and that was it: no cycling for the entire weekend. The most annoying thing was that the sun came out and it was quite a pleasant day. I toyed (briefly) with the idea of a late ride to mum's, but the motivation had seeped through the hourglass and I resigned myself to no cycling – and I know I won't be going next week or possibly even the week after, we'll see how things go.

So it became a weekend of slobbing around, not even reading. Today, Sunday, was lazy, but not in a good way. Not going cycling always puts me out of kilter for some reason. I found myself in a DIY superstore, very depressing, especially as the light was fading and Monday beckoned. But now I'm listening to Joy Division. Transmission. That's the great wonder of streaming. Metal Guru by T. Rex followed. When I was younger I used get mixed up with Trex, the cooking fat, but the two were chalk and cheese, of course they were. Bolan's last hit was a tree in Richmond, Surrey, tragically, but his music lives on.

There's not much more to say, especially now that David Bowie's sad and depressing Blackstar has come on; I think it was written when he knew was going to die, but I'm going to let it run its course. I was never a great Bowie fan.

I wonder if my bike is nursing a puncture in the garage. The last time I used it I remember taking the off-road path along the 269, always a risk. Who knows what's going on in the garage? The bike's out there all alone, or rather it's out there with the Kona. They're probably chatting. The Kona is likely to be talking about its rich ride history – just check back over this blog pre-November 2016 and you'll see what I mean.

Blackstar is a long track, almost 10 minutes. It's still on now. "I'm a black star," sings Bowie.

There's nothing more to write about if I'm honest, although one of my favourite tracks has just sprung to life: A.M.180 by Grandaddy. What a band! The song featured in the movie 28 Days Later, a film I've never, ever watched all the way through. There was a great live version of this track recorded at Glastonbury way back when. Not that long ago, but I can't remember the exact date, was it the late nineties or early noughties? It matters not. What a great band and they're still around. I'd love to go see them next time they come over from Modesto, California.

Now it's Every Day I Write the Book by Elvis Costello, equally great and evocative of times long past. Happy times in the late eighties. 1989 to be precise – the magical year of trips to Suffolk and curries in Woodbridge. A small cottage in Kettleburgh, drives along country lanes, Framlingham Castle, Orford Quay, the Jolly Sailor, real fires and cornfields, long walks. Days of innocence in many ways. Swimming in the sea at Felpham on the Sussex coast, seaweed, the deep end challenge, Lyme Regis, pals. It was another world.

Babies by Pulp has just come on, the bass line is tremendous. Sometimes I wish I could play bass. I keep thinking about buying one and taking lessons. One day, perhaps. The trouble is there's always something else to spend the money on.

Now The Wizard by Black Sabbath is playing, another great track and nobody's complaining, which is good. The trouble with a lot of rock stars is they blot their copybooks. Ozzy Osbourne is a case in point. He could have kept his reputation intact, but he did that television programme – The Osbournes – and then his wife, Sharon, got far too involved with the likes of Simon Cowell. It's the same with Pete Townshend. I tried reading his autobiography, Who I Am, and found it pretentious and annoying beyond belief, especially all the stuff about how he fancied Mick Jagger. Seriously. And when I discovered that all that smashing of guitars wasn't spontaneous, but some kind of artistic statement and not just smashing up guitars for the hell of it, I thought, no. No, no, no! When myths are exploded, dreams are invariably shattered.

I've never liked Genesis, though. There's something 'real ale and Jeremy Clarkson' about them that I can't abide; and they always remind me, for some reason, of The Chequers, a pub in Tadworth, or was it in nearby Walton? Who knows? The only track I did like was the one that uses the phrase "Me, I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk." And it's just played.

I often wonder what happened to Phil Smith and Pete Jones, two old associates. I wonder if they're still alive, lots aren't. There's no point Googling them, nothing comes up and probably never will.

It's nearly 1900hrs. Outside it's dark, the curtains are drawn and some coloured lights in the fireplace are glowing. Icicle Works' Love is Wonderful Colour is playing, dinner is being prepared and my mood is changing, becoming more upbeat, which is good.

Dreamer by Supertramp has just come on. Now that brings back some good and bad memories. Good because it's a great track – but not as good as School – bad because of an embarrassing play put on by the college 'thespians'. Again, it's amazing the way certain associations can ruin things. Something that can never be ruined is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. I don't know why, it's just amazing, no matter what.

Mum's going into hospital on Thursday for a hip replacement. She's 89 going on 90 and I won't say I'm not a little worried about it. The operation is routine, she'll be in for about a week and after a spot of recovery she'll be fine. I went round there today for tea and fruit cake and she seemed fine about it. Of course I wish her well, we all do.

Let it Roll by UFO always reminds me of Keith Collins and it's on now. Keith died of a heroin overdose back in the early nineties. It was a track they always played at the Croydon Greyhound in between bands on a Sunday evening along with Nobody's Fault but Mine by Led Zeppelin, another track (and band) that will always remind me of Keith. We used to get the bus to Croydon (the 154) to watch all manner of different bands: Stray, Edgar Broughton Band, Thin Lizzy, Kokomo, Climax Blues Band, the list is endless.

All good things come to an end. The music is off (well, I've had a good run) and, sadly, Dancing on Ice is on the television. 'Pip' Schofield. Ugh! But now it's off and a documentary about Indian railways is on. Perfect. I remember taking a train from Mysore to Bangalore back in the late eighties (a year or two before the magical year of 89). I'm going to stop writing now and watch the television.

No cycling this weekend...

Monday 12 November: Last week, when I noticed I had a rear wheel puncture, the plan was to fix it, but what with one thing or another – mainly the thought that I didn't want to be in the garage, in the cold, after a day at work – it gradually dawned on me that I wouldn't be fixing that puncture and that I'd have to abort Saturday's ride. That's exactly what happened, and in many ways it's a shame because the weather was fine. I eventually fixed it around 4pm and to be honest, as I sit here, listening to Beck (something I haven't done for a while) I get a sneaky suspicion that it's still going to be a problem. Why? Because while I pumped it up to be rock hard, when I checked it on Sunday it appeared softer, meaning I either didn't do it properly or there's another puncture I hadn't picked up. Naturally, I blame the off-road track on the 269, which I've been using a fair bit, but let's be realistic, it could have been anything.

Sunday was characterised by one thing: rain. Through the night on, I think, Friday/Saturday, it really hammered down; and then on Saturday/Sunday, the same: roaring rain. When I woke at around 0600hrs it was still pelting down. I looked out of the window on to next door's conservatory roof and I could see stair rods creating a small puddle of their own making. Perhaps prematurely I rattled off another abort text and then jumped back into bed. Naturally, later, the weather looked fine and I started to wish I'd not aborted, but that feeling was short-lived as there were sporadic showers throughout the day, leaving roads and pavements with a damp sheen.

It's now Monday morning, 12 November, and I think I'll sneak out and check the bike later. My hunch is it'll be softer than yesterday. This won't necessarily jeopardise next week's ride, because it might be a slow puncture that, perhaps, I can deal with at the Bus Stop – or wherever we go. Suddenly, however, I noticed that my bike's 'honeymoon' period was over: it's looking a bit bedraggled. For a start the chainguard needs replacing and then I need to buy some touch-up paint and give it a decent clean. Once those jobs are done I'll be happy again. I can't afford to leave it as then things nose-dive into a situation where there's always something wrong with the bike. This week, I'll check out Evan's Cycles, see what they have to offer. I know I can get the paint on eBay, so perhaps that's the best bet. As for the chain guard, I'll have to see what's out there; I get the feeling that they're pretty standard, but again, we'll see.

Postscript, 14 November 2018: I still have a puncture.

Dizziness means no cycling – but I'm on the mend!

This sums up how I've been feeling...

Just been to the doc's. Basically I'm fine, the old blood pressure is normal (or certainly within the realms of not needing medication) and all I'm saddled with (for a few more weeks) is mild dizziness, caused, I'm told, by an inner ear infection, probably picked up on that BA flight from Dallas to London (see previous post). I can't say the past two to three weeks have been particularly pleasant. First I was off work for a week, sitting around at home, which would have been nice had it not been for the stress of feeling dizzy every time I got up; although, that said, it was nice as once I was up and about I was fine. I remember one excellent day when I visited the Waitrose Café and enjoyed a cup of tea and an almond croissant while reading a chapter from 1984, which I'm on the way to finishing, I hasten to add.

Feeling dizzy, of course, made cycling a no-go sport. In fact, I haven't been on the bike (bar a test run around the block on Saturday) since 22 October, a Sunday, when Andy and I rode, the slow way, to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. I was thinking about going yesterday, but I wasn't the full ticket so I made do with a walk to the Waitrose café and, you've guessed it, an almond croissant and a read of the newspaper. That involved a good 40-minute walk, the first 20 minutes of which were uphill.

Buffoon – sack him now!

I drove round to see mum yesterday too (and on Saturday) and that meant a slice of her excellent Christmas cake, yes, she's made them and they're ready to eat. The one I was eating was a spare, possibly even a 'test cake', but I can vouch for it's tastiness. It's been a bit of a 'cakey' weekend. Saturday I was round at mum's and eating a chunk of the festive cake, yesterday I was there too (eating another slice of cake) and let's not forget that almond croissant in the Waitrose Café. But I'm not going to get uptight about it, it's rare that I indulge in a 'cake fest' and I've got the excuse that I was in recovery mode.

Had a chat with Andy yesterday on the phone and he went out Sunday locally, but we're both getting back on track next weekend and meeting at the usual place at the usual time, so here's to next weekend.

Gove – just sack the - - - t

What's been in the news? Well, the thing that really annoys me is Boris 'Buffoon' Johnson, our laughable foreign secretary, and Orville lookalike Michael Gove, both of whom should be sacked for their handling of the Nazanin Zachary-Ratcliffe case. In a nutshell she's been languishing in an Iranian jail for over a year and the plan is to get her out and reunited with her child and husband. The poor woman is suffering, is on the verge of a nervous breakdown and now it looks as if her sentence might be extended thanks to the foolish words of that idiot Boris Johnson and then follow-up lunacy from Gove. Both men should be booted out of the Government, that's my view. And they should appoint Rory Stewart as Foreign Secretary.

Anyway, look, I've got to go, but talk again soon and here's to getting back on the bikes.

As deaf as a post...

Sunday 1st October: For many weeks now I've had trouble hearing. It happens now and then. Let's say at least the last two months, if not longer. It normally clears within a few minutes of getting out of bed, but when I'm lying down I can't hear a thing. I doubt if I'd hear the alarm go off and this was proved correct a few minutes ago; last night I'd set my alarm for 0630hrs and when it went off, it went unnoticed by yours truly until I walked into the kitchen, about 15 minutes later, to notice my phone flashing. 'Tap to snooze' it said, but that would mean not hearing it again in around eight minutes so I slid my forefinger across the screen, tapped out my passcode and cut off the alarm.

Last week I finally admitted defeat. I made an appointment at the doctor's surgery and was told what I already knew, that both ears were totally 'occluded'. I think that's the word she used. I informed her that I'd been regularly putting olive oil into both ears and she told me to come back next Friday to sort it out. NEXT FRIDAY!!!! They don't have the old syringes they used to; these days it's a small electronic device that beavers away until hearing is restored. I can't wait. The last time I had it done was in 2011 and while, since then, there has been one incident, the olive oil drops did the trick. Not this time.

This morning I was awake around 0400hrs and there's nothing worse than lying in bed being unable to hear, but I managed it until around 0523hrs when I had to get up. But this time it didn't clear. In fact, as I write this at 0713hrs I can't even hear my fingers on the keyboard of the lap top, I keep tapping on the wooden dining room table to assess how bad things are and I can only say that things are really bad. Earlier I considered aborting the ride as I'm guessing it's fairly dangerous riding without being able to hear what's coming up behind me. For a long while I ignored the idea, but then I realised the awful truth: I'd have to abort. Just before 0700hrs I sent Andy a text and then I looked out on the back garden, hoping that it was raining so I could say to myself something along the lines of "well, it was raining anyway", but while it was a little breezy, judging by the swaying trees and shrubs, the bird bath was still, although it had clearly been raining overnight.

As we race towards the year end, the weather is closing in. When I wake up – normally around 0600hrs – it's now dark and I have to switch a light on. There's a bite in the air too and, of course, there's rain, not every day, but it's there, along with grey cloud. It rained overnight for sure and the ground is wet, similar conditions to around a year ago when Andy and I rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, me on my brand new Specialized Crosstrail Sport. I took the corner too fast and came off the bike. Not good. I hobbled around for weeks afterwards, but I'm fine now.

Fine, but I'm as deaf as a post and I haven't been on the bike for a fortnight. Here's to next week!

Great weather, but no cycling...

I've noticed that there's a lot of 'no cycling' going on. Sometimes it's been because of the weather, other times because of illness or tiredness or, as is the case this weekend, there's simply not enough time in the day and besides, Andy's not going either, although he did say he could have gone tomorrow, but I can't make it. So, all in all, it's not a good situation.

All I can do is have weird dreams about cycling. I had one last night that half way through morphed into a bizarre toy car race. The cycling element of the dream is hard to recollect accurately, but it had something to do with myself and a colleague from work, called Sam. We were out on our bikes somewhere rural and all of sudden something weird happened to my front wheel. It was as if the front forks and the wheel melted and I experienced a strange, disorienting sensation that culiminated in whatever I was doing becoming a race that involved a toy car. The toy car that I had for the race was small – we're talking Matchbox size – and it had no form of propulsion (it wasn't battery powered or radio-controlled, it wasn't even friction driven) something I distinctly remember feeling disgruntled about as I could, apparently, quite easily have chosen a toy car that was a million times better than the one I was actually using.

One thing I do remember is the length of the race: 27 miles for some reason and I had to push my tiny Matchbox car along rural tarmac, crouching down in the process. Eventually, I'm guessing that the sheer monotony of such an undertaking frustrated me beyond belief and I woke up, at gone 0800hrs, and noticed one thing: incredible weather. The sun was shining through the gap in the curtains, there were blue skies and cotton wool clouds and while there was a cool breeze it was perfect cycling weather – another reason why it was so shameful that neither Andy nor I was going anywhere. The good weather is set to continue, hopefully it'll be good next weekend when, Andy has informed me, he still won't be cycling, more's the pity. But if it is good weather next weekend, I'm getting out there, even if it's a short one to Botley Hill and back or, better still, an urban ride to mum's.

The old Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Stop press! The Tatsfield Bus Stop is back!!!
That said, I have some very important news: the Tatsfield Bus Stop is back! Alright,it never went anywhere, but the seating did. A car smashed into the bus stop many, many months ago, making it uninhabitable for NoVisibleLycra. The end result has been regular visits to Tatsfield Village. Not any more! Last week I was driving along Clarks Lane towards Westerham and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there were seats at the bus stop. My heart skipped a beat and as soon as I was able, I sent Andy a text. Just when we both thought the Tatsfield Bus Stop was never ever to have seats again, the council has done its job.

I've just got back from visiting mum – I drove there, it being Mother's Day tomorrow, and I have been reliably informed, by mum, that there's some fruit cake to be eaten, and quite a lot of it. Mum made the first tier of a wedding cake for one of my nieces – who is getting married in June – and accidentally dropped it on the counter top (not the floor, let's make that clear). The cake in question then split so mum had to go back to the drawing board and start over, which she did. So there's what amounts to huge circular chunk of fruit cake going begging. I had a couple of bits earlier with a cup of tea and I can vouch for its greatness. Here's hoping they'll be cake in the tin next weekend. Mum says she'll save me some.

So, no cycling this weekend, not a good state of affairs.