To Westerham for breakfast – and then a weekend of painting

Warlingham Green around 0730hrs on Saturday

Wednesday, 31 October: On Sunday morning I walked across Warlingham Green in the cold. There was wind and rain and it was very unpleasant. I felt thankful that I aborted as I knew a soaking was on the cards. I was headed for the Co-op as I'd run out of milk. I was home alone and had been since last Thursday, although, as I write this, the wanderers have returned and normal living has been resumed. I don't like being alone. It's fine in a hotel room, when I'm away on business, because I'm sharing the hotel with many other people, but being alone in the house simply doesn't feel right. When I'm alone in the house, I don't like going to bed, but I know I have to so I lock up the house in the normal manner, switching off lights as I do so, and then make my way upstairs where I have a choice of three beds. It's a no-brainer: my bed is the best, so I climb in, switch on Radio Four, listen to the 10 o'clock news and fall asleep, waking later in the night and noting the radio has switched itself off. I always leave the bathroom light on, mainly because, since childhood, I prefer to have a light on at night.

The weather is cold and while there's nothing wrong with our central heating, something is definitely up: one of the four nights I was alone I went downstairs to check it out and found it was off, so I switched it back on and returned to bed. On another night I slept almost fully-clothed, even with the heating on, it was freezing.

The reason I was trudging across the green around 0800hrs, possibly a bit later, was that I had aborted the ride late on Saturday night. The reason was simple: I'd committed myself to decorating the living room, a job that needed doing. I'd started around lunch time on Saturday having visited B&Q and buying the paint and brushes and white spirit. I sanded and washed the paintwork and then made the decision to go straight for the ceiling, a job I was dreading.

From Saturday through Monday I listened virtually non-stop to Radio Four, listening to a dramatisation of DH Lawrence's Women in Love and a spoof of The Archers, The Wainwrights, which was one of the funniest things I've listened to in a long while. Mix in Woman's Hour and a few comedy shows, including Just a Minute, and you'll get a fair idea of my extended weekend.

Andy at the Tudor Rose, note pot of tea...

A ride had been on the cards. Having spent a week in Tokyo, I had missed two weekends of cycling, so I vowed to go out on Saturday. With nothing much to rush home for I suggested breakfast at the Tudor Rose in Westerham so Andy and I got our heads down and rode there. A sausage sandwich, scrambled egg with mushrooms on granary toast and a pot of tea was most welcomed. The ride had been good, although I did lose half of my chain guard. It just snapped and fell off. Now I need a new chain guard and some touch-up paint for the frame.

The breakfast was good, it always is, but the ride home loomed large and neither of us wanted it. Riding out of Westerham is hard. It's a long hill all the way to Botley and we hate it. Who wouldn't? But when we reached the top, Andy took The Ridge home and I cycled along the off-road path of the 269.

It's weird arriving home to an empty house, but on this occasion it wasn't just returning to an empty house, it was also the prospect of decorating the living room that was nagging at me. Let's be honest, I didn't have to do it, but I'd been thinking about doing it for weeks, it seemed so straightforward. However, the prospect of doing nothing was shouting at me too. I could have a lazy weekend, go and see mum, then, perhaps, a stroll to Sutton, a browse of Waterstone's and then a mint tea and a cake in Caffé Nero. And who know's what after that? But the decorating nagged and nagged so, after visiting mum, I headed for B&Q in Sutton and bought all the stuff I needed: a huge tub of brilliant white Matt emulsion, two large tins of 'Timeless' – a colour that looks very much like brilliant white, but isn't – a few brushes, white spirit, sandpaper and a roller.

Scrambled egg, mushrooms and granary toast at the Tudor Rose, Westerham

Even when I got home I didn't want to do it, but I pushed myself and by the close of play on Saturday, I'd sanded and washed the skirting board. On Sunday, the prospect of painting the ceiling hit me hard, but I did it and then, on Monday, it was time to paint the walls. My aim was to finish by Monday evening, but I was about a wall and a third out and had to take Tuesday off to complete the task. It looks good, if I say so myself and now, of course, I have caught the bug. I'm viewing rooms as flights: the bathroom is a short haul flight to Dusseldorf, while the living room was most certainly long haul, like my recent trip to Tokyo. The hall way is probably akin to a flight to Greece or Moscow, not quite a long haul, but borderline. Anyway, it looks like the hall is next, but I'd rather do it alone, meaning I'd rather not have others in the house, it's far easier when I'm alone and don't have other people saying "you missed a bit" and so forth. It's also nice to listen to the radio. Actually, it's quite relaxing painting the house. The key is to keep the house well ventilated. On Sunday, I didn't bother opening any windows and ended up with a bad headache. On Monday, all the windows were open and it made a big difference. Another key is to keep things tidy, clean up as you go along and wipe up any paint spills immediately.

Decorating finished! A great job, if I say so myself...

The living room looks good and I feel good as a result.

Andy did go out on Sunday, but only for a short ride and he escaped a soaking, he told me. We're both on for a ride next weekend.

Sunday – solo ride to mum's...

Monday 30 April: Last night a strange and vivid dream. It involved being in some kind of shop, or somewhere, I'm not quite sure. There was a large and very detailed model of a galleon and it cost £300, or just over, and I wanted it. But it was clear I wasn't going to get it, everybody around me frowned at the idea of me buying a radio-controlled model of a galleon. Dad was there and he quite rightly pointed out that one freak wave down on the coast at Felpham would trash the boat. He had a point and despite that I was disappointed that the boat wouldn't be mine. When I woke up around 0430hrs I noticed that the front door was open and ajar. Was there an intruder in the house? I went downstairs to check, but no, somebody (whoever was last in) must have forgotten to lock the door.

It rained all night and it looks as if it will rain all day today (Monday 30 April) and possibly all day tomorrow too, improving by Wednesday. Somebody on the radio said that a month's worth of rain will fall in certain parts of the country.

Saturday (28 April) was rained off, but Sunday seemed to be rain-free, just a little cloudy. Well, overcast and dull and probably quite a lot of cloud. It was also very cold. As I rode down West Hill and along Essenden Road a cold wind hit me square in the face. It was very unpleasant, but whenever I think about cold weather in April I'm reminded of the time that we (Andy and I) were caught out in the snow (see photo).

Like everything with cycling, the rider eventually gets used to it, be it sleet, rain or snow, and sure enough I soon forgot about the cold as I climbed Hayling Park Road and rode past the lonely and misty playing fields en route to the A23.

Botley Hill, April 2008... it was cold

As I rode through the industrial estate there were crowds of people waiting for some kind of 'factory outlet' to open. Later, on my return, I saw people leaving with large black plastic bags but I had no idea what they were carrying.

It was later than usual and therefore busier as I rode through Wallington and crossed the mini roundabout at the top of Boundary Road into Stanley Park Road, turning right at the top of the hill into Crichton Road, passing the Village Bakery and turning right on to Park Hill. I sailed down the hill towards the Windsor Castle, hung a left, then a right, then a left and then another left and I was 'home'. A cup of tea awaited me along with a slice of fruit cake and mum and I made small talk.

On the ride back I stopped at the BP garage, which now sports an M&S where I intended to buy a few things, but couldn't because I'd left my wallet and cash in a different pair of trousers and not the ones I was wearing. Mildly annoyed I jumped back on the bike and returned home following the outward route but in reverse. I reached home around 1100hrs.

To Woodmansterne Green with Jon (and then round to mum's)

One thing that has characterised the weather of late has been a cold breeze or rather a general coldness masked by blue skies and sunshine. Yesterday there was little in the way of sun, but it was fairly bright and, as Jon remarked as we made our way from Woodmansterne to mum's, a little on the cold side.

Felpham beach will soon be Jon's back garden

We had met earlier on Woodmansterne Green – now there's a place I hadn't been to for a long while – and spent an enjoyable time just chatting about various things, in particular Jon's impending move to Felpham, pronounced 'Fellfam', a small town on the south coast nestled between Bognor and Littlehampton, but much closer to the former. As avid readers of this blog will know, Felpham was where we spent our summer holidays in various houses on the beach. We loved those holidays and often spoke about how nice it would be to live there, close to the sea, and now Jon is living the dream; he's moving out of Epsom, where he currently resides and moving 60-odd miles to the south coast. I mentioned that he could develop a few decent rides, like Felpham to Arundel, and we spoke of other, longer journeys, like Felpham to Pulborough or Arundel or simply into the South Downs. Needless to say that Jon will be doing just that in a few weeks from now.

Woodmansterne Green is a great place and a fine destination for cycling. For yours truly it involves riding into Purley and following the leafy Foxley Lane towards the top of Wallington and beyond and turning left at the lavender fields close to the Oaks park. From there it's about 10 minutes and soon the green appears. It's dotted with big, mature trees and plenty of grass, there are tennis courts and surrounding fields, a decent village pub and a newsagent and there are plenty of places to sit down. The green was once a regular Boxing Day ride destination and there are many occasions, documented here on NoVisibleLycra, when Jon, Andy and yours truly would meet here to discuss this and that and sip tea and cereal bars (BelVita biscuits came later).

Mum, 86, and her two sons: me on the left, Bon on the right, in the garden

Today Jon and I discussed his new house close to the sea – I say 'close' and I mean close, there's a road in front of the house, then another house and then the sea; you can see it from the upstairs windows, he told me.

We spent a fair bit of time on the green before jumping on the bikes and heading for mum's. Jon's bike is in dire need of an oiling. It creaked its way towards a considerably lengthy piece of off-road track, which we both followed into Carshalton Beeches and then down Park Hill towards the Windsor Castle pub, passing on the way the Village Bakery where Jon and mum often enjoy lunch. At the lights there's a left turn and then, opposite the garage, a right turn, but with the traffic heavy we both dismounted and then jumped back on once safely across the Carshalton Road.

Mum knew we were coming and already had two mugs, with milk and teabags ready, on the counter top. We both opted for a slice of the wedding cake I mentioned a couple of posts back and then sat in the 'lounge' (as we always call it) chatting to mum about this and that, one of the topics of conversation being the amount of cars in the road and how the family in the house across the street have five cars to their name – one each for the mum and dad, one each for the two sons and one for the girlfriend of one of the sons, who also lives there. They can get three on the drive, which has been concreted over, and two are parked, along with many others, on the road itself. Back in 'our day', of course, had there been so many cars we would never have been able to play football like we used to as there would too big a risk of damaging parked cars. It's a shame in many ways that people allow cars to rule their lives.

Cake eaten, tea finished, we donned our helmets and bade farewell to mum. Instead of parting company at the bottom of the road, where traditionally Jon turns left and I turn right, we both turned right and retraced our route to Carshalton Beeches, going off-road again and parting at the crossroads by the lavender fields, which pretty soon will be in full bloom. Jon continued off-road and so did I but going in opposite directions. I rode along the Foxley Lane and through the back streets of Purley, which eventually became Sanderstead, my last exertion being the ascent of West Hill's south face. I reached home at 1033hrs, later than usual, but it was good to see Bon and, of course, mum.

Round to mum's...and a few weekend thoughts

This morning at around 0300hrs I was awake, listening to the rain and the wind. Bad weather had been promised, I thought, and sure enough, outside of my window there were swaying trees and pounding rain; that's what I could hear at any rate.

I'd had a strange dream in which veteran comedy actor Leslie Philips was in a blue helicopter as it came into land over some water. A ladder the same colour as the helicopter appeared and Philips, lying on his stomach, slid on to a bed of ice cubes laid out on the ground below. Then, for some reason, I dropped my iphone and cracked the screen. "That's the first time I've done that," I said to somebody – I can't recall who exactly.

The next thing I heard was the radio. A woman's voice. It was 0605hrs and time to get up. I wondered whether it was still raining and when I pulled back the curtain to take a look at the top of my neighbour's flat-roofed extension, sure enough, it was pouring.

"Looks like an abort," I texted to Andy at 0611hrs, and he replied. "Yeah. See you next weekend."

I was out of bed so I didn't fancy getting back in again. Time to head downstairs and make breakfast: tea, Weetabix with raspberries (10 of them) and a boiled egg with fingers. And now it's 0645hrs and I'm sitting here writing the blog.

Cold weather

Yesterday was cold. There was a frost on the lawn and because Andy wasn't going and Phil was out with Steve, I decided to ride over to mum's, but I waited until 0800hrs – ten past to be precise – before I ventured outside wearing many layers of clothing. There was a tee-shirt, a shirt, a hooded top and then an old rusty jacket I should really throw out but keep for sentimental reasons. I remember the days when it wasn't used for gardening, but was a pukka piece of clothing worn with jeans on a night out. It's amazing how the mighty have fallen, I thought, examining the raggedy old piece of clothing, which has served me well for years of cycling. I'd bought it from Next when the store had a certain caché.

I was also wearing a green, woollen balaclava, one that makes me look like an IRA terrorist from the 1970s, but the problem is the eye holes: they make it virtually impossible to see anything and bring me back to my ridiculous, slapstick behaviour that recently led to me falling off the bike and being virtually incapacitated for a month. As I rode along Barnfield it was as if I had somehow managed to wrap a load of elastic bands around my head, distorting everything, particularly my vision. I stopped twice to re-arrange the eye holes, but ultimately it was foolhardy wearing this particular item of headgear. I should have taken it off, but instead I persevered, drawing strange looks from other road users, including the police, who might have thought I had just robbed a bank and had made my getaway on a stolen bicycle.

Round at mum's...

I followed the usual route: down Jarvis Road, across the Brighton Road, up Hayling Park Road, across the mini roundabout and around the edges of Purley Playing Fields until I met up with the A23. I turned right at the lights by the Hilton National and then left through the "Grand Theft Auto" industrial estate which, as always, was littered with 'white van' men. On to the Stafford Road I headed towards Mellows Park, passing Wilson's School and then on towards Wallington High Street, across the lights, past the gym and down towards the Boundary Road roundabout before a mild ascent along Stanley Park Road, a right into Crichton Road, past the Village Bakery and right on the road that leads down to the Windsor Castle lights where I turn left, followed by a right and then I'm at mum's.

Mum lets me bring my bike into the hallway because it's new and clean. I worry about leaving it outside on the extreme off chance that a thief might pass by. Highly unlikely as mum lives in a cul-de-sac and you don't get many passers-by in a cul-de-sac.

"Would you like a boiled egg?"

I declined, having enjoyed one earlier, but settled for tea and two slices of fruit cake. Well, I was on the bike, I'd just riden six or seven miles and I had a similar mileage back so I knew I'd burn off the calories.

A mug of tea and my first slice of fruit cake...

Jon rang while I was there so we had a brief chat and soon, after tea and cake, it was time to head home. The journey back is a carbon copy of the outward ride, but in reverse, except that this time I'd asked mum to cut through the balaclava and get rid of the eye holes. Much better! I said goodbye, promising to return on Sunday as it's mum's birthday next week and I won't get time to drop round due to work pressures. I still haven't bought her anything and to be honest it's hard to buy something for an 87-year old woman who has everything she'll ever need. Normally I'll buy her a plant or something for the kitchen. Over the years I've bought her vases and little Melamine trays and tea cups and tea towels, you name it, butter dishes, teapots, egg cups, that sort of thing, mainly because that's the sort of person mum is; she likes homely things and has always lived a kind of Brambly Hedge existence, making cakes and pies and listening to Radio Four at the crack of dawn while watching the foxes play on the lawn.

The problem, of course, is that when I find myself in John Lewis, wondering what to buy her, it all gets a little frustrating. 

"What about tea towels?"

"She's got loads of tea towels."

"A cup?"

"Have you seen how many mugs and cups she's got?"

"A paperweight?"

"Too boring."

"This is nice."

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

So as I write this I have nothing for her bar a card from M&S and that invariably means the default present of some flowers, but I'm always getting her flowers or a plant and I'm sure her face sags sub-consciously with disappointment when I bring them out, although she'll never say anything. But what exactly do you buy and 87-year-old woman? Clothes are out of the question, although, in the past, I have bought her gloves and scarves. It's difficult and it's going to bug me all day, especially when you consider how much work needs to be done.

Mum and yours truly, Saturday morning 'round at mum's'

A trip to IKEA

I've been to IKEA. Now there's a shop I absolutely abhor, although it does have a rather impressive catering operation. My homeless fantasy revealed itself again while I followed the arrows on the floor and suddenly realised that IKEA was a bit like the Perky Pat Layouts of Philip K. Dick's The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch.

As we passed various bedroom layouts I wondered how easy it would be to stay behind after everybody had gone home and simply get into bed and sleep. I wonder if anybody has ever tried it? Perhaps at night time there are a handful of homeless people snuggled up under the covers enjoying a decent kip away from the mean streets of South London, who knows?

In the canteen or cafeteria or whatever they call such a massive catering operation, I realised that if I was on benefits, even if I was sleeping in a tent in the woods, IKEA would be the place to visit for food. It's possible to pay under £2 for a main course meal – Swedish meat balls, mashed potato and greens – meaning one could live Monday to Friday on ten pounds. And the food's alright. I ordered a couple of paninis and a bowl of soup, plus tea (95p per mug) and we sat there watching a Japanese toddler enjoy a bowl of peas and carrots. At least he wasn't being fed chicken nuggets and baked beans, I thought.

We wound our way around the store, passing bedrooms, living rooms, kitchens and bathrooms and with every step I was getting bored. There's only so much I can take of this sort of place, although such a visit does rather characterise my weekends – or rather it is a chief ingredient. I'm not saying that I visit IKEA very often, but it would slide easily into the 'shopping for something' element of my weekends; and if we're not shopping for something we'll drive aimlessly into the countryside and end up in a teashop somewhere. Don't get me wrong, I love it. And while trampsing around IKEA isn't that much fun, it beats working and it's kind of part of family life along with watching Saturday evening television, cottage pie and going for an early morning ride on the bike.

Having been to IKEA, of course, there's always an item of flat pack furniture that needs assembling, so I know what I'll be doing for most of the day.

It's now 0725hrs and all is quiet. I'm sitting here in the glow of the lamp with the red bulb, breakfast eaten, tea cup empty – make that a mug, a Catherine Kidson 'bowl' would be a better description – and all I can hear is the sound of the house, the purr of the central heating. 

I'd better sign off, except to say that I need to address the serious lack of cycling these past five or six weeks. I'm pretty much to blame for falling off the bike on October 1st, but what with the bad weather and the odd bit of travelling, it's not good and we all need the exercise. Here's hoping that next week we're out and about and that the weather is at least dry. I've yet to ride to Westerham on the Rockhopper, so I'm looking forward to that possibility.

Rockhopper 29 Sport

On the Rockhopper front, everytime I ride it I realise what a splendid machine it is; those 29in wheels are a treat and so are those 27 gears. In essence, there's not a hill I can't climb or a straight stretch of flat road I can't exploit – it's a brilliant bike.

Now, where's the flat pack furniture? Ah yes, it's in the hallway...

Never-ending childhood

I'm probably wrong, but I've always been under the impression that we are all children until our parents are dead. Up until that point we still have somebody to call mum or dad and, therefore, we are still somebody's kids.

Tea round at mum's. As Andy remarked, "It's a lot more comfortable than the Tatsfield Bus Stop."

Once both parents are no more, we face a void of sorts and exist as barriers to the great void of death and eternity for our own children who, thankfully, can still be referred to as 'kids' because they have parents and all children have mums and dads or guardians of some sort.

For most of my life, I've been a child and, even though I have children of my own, I often wonder whether I am the bigger child. I'm still excited by the things that excited me as a kid and that is one reason behind this blog: my love of the bicycle and riding out of a weekend with my mates to various destinations in rural Surrey and Kent.

When I was in my early teens, my pal Alan and I would ride our track bikes (bikes we built ourselves) to and from school, into Sutton at the weekends or down to River Gardens in Carshalton where we would fantasise about owning a Milbro G10 air pistol. I still remember Alan once saying, "It would be like the Alamo," at a time when I didn't really know what the Alamo was; oddly, I was there in person, down in San Antonio, almost a year ago, and I took a photo of it, which can be found on this blog.

My brother and I often say that, given half the chance, we could easily play with our toy soldiers again and find it just as much fun as we did when were kids. All we need is the opportunity. Why is this? Because we're still kids.

And when it comes to holidays, I still have fond memories of our fortnights on the south coast when the summers were long and hot and carefree. Even today, I drive to the very spot where those holidays took place and can transport myself back to those innocent days of rock pools and ice creams, toy wooden yachts and fish & chips.

So today was particularly poignant as Andy and I rode from Purley in the early morning towards Carshalton and a planned visit to mum at the Moggridge family home where I was brought up and from where Jon and I used to play with our toy soldiers and our wooden forts in those aforementioned innocent days.

View from the kitchen window of mum's house.

It was odd that Andy and I were both on our bikes, as we might have been aged 13 or 14, cycling round to my house, perhaps, after school or on a Saturday afternoon. It would have been strange, in a good way, if Andy had referred to mum as "Mrs Moggridge" as he might have done aged 13, but there we were, windswept and hungry and eagerly awaiting our tea and cake.

We stayed for around half an hour before donning helmets and waterproofs, retrieving our bikes from the garage and pedalling down Rossdale and into Westmead Road, headed for Grove Park, a place that holds plenty of childhood memories for me: fishing the Wandle for sticklebacks, sending my remote-controlled tank into a derelict, war-time mortuary, playing football or just going for a stroll with dad.

We rode through Grove Park and out of Carshalton towards Wallington and then turned right into Plough Lane, straight across the Stafford Road lights into the once notorious Roundshaw Estate, where a lot of my school pals used to live in roads named after aviation heroes such as Amy Johnson and Lindbergh, not to mention the Spitfire, the Hurricane and, of course, the Lancaster. We turned left into Foresters Drive and on towards Plough Lane before turning left on to Foxley Lane where we bade each farewell.

By now it was raining quite heavily as I made my way up the Purley Downs Road, turning left into Norman Avenue and weaving my way towards the Sanderstead Hill, otherwise known as the B269 – the road that takes us to Botley Hill – where I turned right and prepared myself for the steep side of West Hill.

It rained for most of the day and only stopped as evening approached, but then started again as I ventured out to buy matches and a glue stick.

There was no ride on Saturday. For me it was because I needed a rest after the company conference in Paris. I think Phil felt a little weary too – although Phil wasn't with us today either. Is it, perhaps, not unreasonable to assume that he was burning the midnight oil again, boiling up some marmalade in huge cauldrons, bubbling late into the night over fierce flames? I wonder if Phil is really Paddington Bear as we never see them together in the same room.