Last day in Pittsburgh...

On Thursday we headed for 'the strip' - or Smallman Street, which is virtually next door to Pittsburgh's David Lawrence Convention Centre, it's where the restaurant Eleven is located AND the Heinz museum, which my colleague Pete visited while I was having lunch in Market Square (see previous post).

The view from the Grand View Restaurant, Pittsburgh

This week I have walked many miles because being on foot is, arguably, the best way to get around IF, like me, your hotel is close (ish) to where your work is located. Every day for the past six days, I've walked over two miles a day just getting to and from the David Lawrence Convention Centre, but then, outside of that journey, I have made many others and all on foot; and as discussed in the previous post, excessive walking probably helped with my overall health bearing in mind the type of food and the quantities I was eating (mainly burger and fries). Oddly, I didn't have many desserts (thank God!). I've enjoyed a couple of cookies (and by that I mean I've had TWO cookies, one in Starbucks and another in Yinz, an independent coffee shop on Station Square) and I remember a rather dainty dessert at a dinner on Smallman Street on Tuesday night from where I considered walking back to my hotel but decided against it as I didn't really know much about Pittsburgh at night. But suffice it to say that walking was a major part of the last week and I'm talking about 20,000 steps daily.

I'm losing track of what lunch we had where and on what day. So the following is a little bit sketchy. At some stage we had an awful pizza on the strip (it was square and not what I considered to be a pizza, they're at least round!). At the same restaurant I ordered an even more disgusting no-alcohol beer, this might well have been in the late afternoon of Thursday. The previous day we'd been to Eleven for dinner where, as mentioned in the previous post, we ordered from the Tavern menu and I ordered, yes, you guessed it, another burger and chips (I left most of it). As I say, I'm losing track of what I ate and when. Thursday night I think we were on Smallman Street again where dinner was a fried chicken sandwich and a root beer for me; Pete had the same but with a can of Sprite. 

My last burger and chips in Pittsburgh's Grand View Restaurant

There's a great Starbucks on the strip. I was there late in the afternoon of Tuesday ahead of a planned business dinner, also on the strip. I ordered a cookie and an English Breakfast Tea and simply chilled out. I was there again with Pete possibly on Thursday afternoon and preceding the fried chicken dinner with the root beer. Pete and I set the world to rights, talked about music and generally chilled out.

On Friday we headed for Mount Washington and what was the Coal Hill Steakhouse. It's still there but it's no longer called the Coal Hill Steakhouse. I can't remember what it was called, I think it's now The Grand View Restaurant, something like that, but the management is the same and so is the food. And yes, I ordered another burger and chips, had a non-alcohol cocktail and finished with a cup of tea. I'd asked for English Breakfast but was given Earl Grey, which was awful, and I like Earl Grey! The view of Pittsburgh was great and just how I remembered it in 2019 and 2022, but the food wasn't that good.

On Friday we had to check out by 1100hrs, which we did. It took me a while to cram everything into my suitcase but I managed it and then we hit the road again and went to Mount Washington. The funicular railway linking ground level Pittsburgh with Mount Washington was closed and, as we were soon to find out, some passengers travelling on it the previous evening had to be rescued by the emergency services following a malfunction of some sort that left tourists stranded on the incline. 

As we approached the funicular railway with a view to using it and unaware of what had taken place the previous night, I turned to Pete and said 'I bet it's closed' and sure enough it was, because of the aforementioned incident. At that point a man with a television camera strutted across the road and asked if we'd like a chat. We said yes and then a reporter appeared and started an interview for the local television station. It broadcasted around 1800hrs giving both Pete and I the chance to see ourselves on TV before jumping into a cab and heading for the airport.

After a short cab ride we arrived at the airport, checked in our bags and then chilled out in a Joe the Juice after walking around the airport. At last, I thought, as I tucked in to something decent (a chicken and avocado sandwich accompanied by a ginger tea and a healthy juice drink, which was great.

The flight was on time and very smooth all the way. We landed in London earlier than scheduled and then we went our separate ways. There is a view that if you stay up until the night time of the country you have landed in, your jet lag will be allieviated somewhat. Well, it's almost 2200hrs and while I've been taking it easy, watching YouTube videos, and nodding off occasionally in the process, I haven't really been to sleep in the true sense of the word. In fact, I might watch a bit of YouTube again and will probably hit the sack around 2230 if not later. It's amazing how somehow I still have gas in the tank, but I know that when I hit the pillow I'll sleep well. Here's hoping.

Postscript...

In the end I stayed up until almost midnight, watching a documentary on iPlayer about Paul McCartney's lost Hofner bass guitar. I need to finish it, which I will later. I slept a total of 10 hours, not bad, and now here I am watching a YouTube video, well, half-watching it. Last night, or late in the afternoon yesterday I watched chilled stuff on YouTube like Nomad Sam and Rewilding Jude, the latter recently inspired me to get out into the garden and take down a dead tree. Basically the 'vlog' is all about a guy called Jude whose parents both died. He decided to move to a remote part of Scotland and live in a crofter's cottage with land for a reasonably-sized garden, he's done a lot with it, taken on chickens and growing his own vegetables, it's a great watch, or at least I think it is. Nomad Sam is all about Sam, who lives in a tent with his dog and travels around the country, staying in remote places for a few weeks/months and then moving on. He is now in the Scottish Highlands. They both chill me out and that was what I needed yesterday.

Avid readers of this blog will know that I have read Martin Downham's Remind Me to Smile, which I've probably mentioned before, it's a great read and yesterday, being in mind that he is Pete's dad, I met him, albeit briefly, at the airport. I just wish I'd been a little more awake, but I managed to tell him he had written a great book and shook his hand. Pete's mum was there too and I was offered a lift, but I didn't want to put them out and opted instead for the Heathrow Express.

Another country, another hotel without a wardrobe or desk...

 ...but again, I find myself getting used to it and not, I hasten to add, penning an angry Trip Advisor post. In many ways, the cheaper hotels in this world are so much better than the corporate brands and the cosseting they offer with their concierges and porters and "this way, sir" and all that jazz just because you're paying through the nose for a room. I'd rather give my money to the homeless. It's all so false, like business class on planes. I flew Club (or whatever it's called) to Vienna a few years ago and I sat on the border with Plebland (only a grey curtain separating me from the proletariat for heaven's sake)... but beyond the grey cloth divide they were being served their tea in paper cups (I had bone china) and nobody was calling them sir. I wonder if they're told that in training, "In economy, no reference to sir or madam." I think if I was cabin crew I would go out of my way to be hospitable to those in 'coach' (as the Americans call it). I would even go as far as calling them 'sir' or 'madam' in the hope that some pot-bellied, golf-loving CEO with an unhealthy-looking paunch would blow his top and have to be escorted from the plane.

No, not one of those statue people, a proper non-human statue!

So the hotel, an easyHotel, is basic. So basic that there's no wardrobe or desk or chocolates on the pillows in my room; or even a common area downstairs where, like the Moxy Vanderbilt in Nashville, I could sit and write and read or listen to live music. But I know what easyHotels are all about and besides, when I booked my stay in Rotterdam, the only alternative was a bed in a hostel dormitory of, say, eight or 12 other beds. It wouldn't work, put it that way. The easyHotel was bang in the centre of town, there was no cosseting, no, 'yes, sir' – nothing so vulgar – just ordinary people in jeans and tee-shirts on the front desk, a vending machine by the lifts selling all of life's necessities and that was it. My room, room 607 on the sixth floor, was fine. The shower wasn't brilliant but it did the job, there was a pillar between the bed and the window, and the ceiling, I noticed, was high, but only when I was lying in bed, it was a little closer when I stood up, but still fairly high.

With easyHotel there was no compunction to 'engage' with anybody, it had a certain anonymity about it, which is what I like; I can come and go as I please, no questions asked, and being bang in the 'centrum' I wasn't far from restaurants and, like now, a Starbucks. In fact, hats off to Starbucks, a coffee retailing brand that has an established offering, it does what it says on the tin and loyal customers know what to expect. I've been in here answering emails and doing stuff that needs doing, in addition, of course, to drinking a couple of large mugs of English breakfast tea. I'm glad that Starbucks exists because, like other coffee retailers, it provides a service, it picks up where hotels without desks left off and it helps people when they're in nomad mode, like I am at present. I'm on the later train home to London today, leaving Rotterdam at just before 5pm and getting home around three hours later (there's no headwind with a train). Unfortunately I've got to change in Brussels, although it's good in many ways as it means I don't go through passport control until I reach the Belgian capital. I suppose that means I could leave Rotterdam now and seek a different Starbuck's, but in all honesty, I love this place and the easyHotel where my suitcase is stored in a locker, and I'm happy to leave it there until I'm ready to head home.

I haven't been to Rotterdam for a very long time. I flew here the last time and I remember the aircraft, a Dart Herald, had difficulty unlocking its landing gear (there were emergency vehicles on the tarmac but all was fine, thank God!). And by that I mean the plane landed without incident, thanks to a member of the crew who somehow managed to hand-crank the undercarriage into position. It was an old plane, but not, I hasten to add, a Sopwith Camel.

A couple of days ago, walking nonchalantly along a darkened street full of restaurants, I spotted, to my surprise, a huge rat lolloping along and heading straight for one of the eateries on this particular stretch of road. I was going to bring it to the attention of those al fresco diners, who were blissfully unaware, enjoying the early summer heat, but decided not to. Fortunately, I'd eaten earlier, but it kind of put me off so I vowed never to eat in any of the restaurants – there were lots of them – along that stretch of road close to the easyHotel. A rat for heaven's sake! Not that I haven't seen them before. I remember once in Chicago I saw a few of them darting from one sidewalk flowerbed to another and they weren't small rats, they were huge, like the sort of thing you see in horror movies (and on the streets of Rotterdam).

Rats aside, I've rather enjoyed my short time in Rotterdam. Being as there was no hotel restaurant and, therefore, no breakfast offering, I consulted my Microsoft Co-pilot (AI at its best) and asked if there were any places offering the most important meal of the day. The robot on the other end of the line said yes, there were some interesting establishments I should check out. One of them was a place called Lilith Coffee, a café with that female touch that makes the world a better place. By female, I'm not saying 'girly', that wouldn't have worked at all. This was more Kate Bush than Doja Kat. There were old typewriters and other bric-a-brac, not forgetting a painting of a naked woman with a snake, that lent Lilith Coffee a bookish vibe that I found calming and joyful. I liked it so much I came back for more the following day, choosing exactly the same dish from the menu – a 'mango bowl (EUR11.50) consisting of bananas, strawberries, berries and oats and, presumably, mangoes. Very tasty, very healthy, and I left with a skip in my step (on both occasions).

Lilith Coffee opens at 0900hrs and being as I've been going to bed early (around 2000hrs) I was up with the lark and ready to stroll along Nieuwe Binnenweg to this fantastic place, but each time arriving too early. Not a problem because Vlahmsch Broodhuys was open at 0800hrs so in I walked and ordered an English breakfast tea with an almond croissant on my first visit and a different kind of bun on my second. What a chilled establishment it was, and even more so when you realise that they sell jars of white chocolate spread. White chocolate spread! I've never seen it in the UK, but it's alive and kicking here in Rotterdam so, after tasting some, I bought a jar and a smaller jar of forest fruits jam.

The vibe in Vlahmsch Broodhuys was different to Lilith Coffee, but both establishments had the calming feminine touch and, therefore, what it takes to make my life that little bit better. They both get top marks for all the usual stuff: good service, happiness, decent food and, with the former, of course, that white chocolate spread. I forgot to ask them whether to 'refrigerate after opening'.

Check out from the easyHotel was (ahem) easy and soon I was a nomad, a temporarily homeless person wandering the streets. I should have taken the earlier Eurostar home but because there was uncertainty surrounding my meeting, I opted for the later train and now, here I am, in Starbucks, writing this article with plenty of time on my hands.

One quick mention of another excellent restaurant needs to be made. Super Mercado, a Peruvian restaurant where I dined last night before strolling back to my hotel for yet another early night. What an excellent place. If you find yourself in Rotterdam (it's so easy to type 'Rotherham') then I would recommend this place. Try the grilled salmon with asparagus.

There's lots to say, loads in fact, but I'm thinking it best to sign off and get on with whatever else I need to be doing, like checking emails 'and sich like' (as they say in The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists).

Leaving Dusseldorf on the train...

I am sitting in a Starbucks on Cologne railway station. I've been here before, a couple of weeks ago, and now I'm back, but the queue is long and I don't have much time because there never is any time. Even if I think I have time, like now, I don't really. There's around 50 minutes until my train for Brussels leaves and I must be on it because there's only a 20-minute margin for error when I reach the Belgian capital, just 20 minutes and then I don't know what will happen. I'd have to hope that I can jump on a later one and get home around 2100hrs, something like that.

Carpeted corridors at the Mutterhaus

I was on the 1258 train from Dusseldorf to Cologne and there was just enough time to find the platform from where the Brussels train would depart. I had 10 minutes. Fortunately the platform was nearby and I was pleased to be standing there waiting for the train that was advertised. But then, without any warning, the sign changed and I asked somebody on the platform whether they knew what had happened. "Cancelled," he said. "Cancelled?" "Yes, welcome to Germany." This I found rather odd as normally the Germans are really efficient, their trains leave on time, everything works, but not today. I was told to wait for the 1540 so I decided to find somewhere to eat lunch. I found a brewery, a kind of huge pub, dark and cavernous, but it didn't look as if I'd be served for a long time so I left only to find that the restaurant opposite the central station was the same place, the brewery, Gaffel Kölsch. I ordered meatloaf with a fried egg and sliced and roasted potatoes, just what I needed and now I'm sitting here in Starbucks without a coffee because the queue is too long and they haven't rumbled me because they're too busy to notice that I've not ordered anything, I'm just using their wifi.

There's about 40 minutes to go and I must ensure that I don't get carried away here and then miss the next train. The day started early. It always does. I remember being awake around 0600hrs just staring at the ceiling wondering how to play the day. I knew I had my expenses to do, which is a big faff, but first there's breakfast. The Mutterhaus offers a decent breakfast – because it's a decent hotel (of which more later). All week I've been having roughly the same thing: a mix of granola, porridge oats and muesli with a strawberry yoghurt on top, then a green tea (maybe two) and a couple of slices of bread with marmalade. I've also had a pastry of sorts, something that changes daily, but it's always worth it so I never miss it. Over the past three or four days the routine has been breakfast followed by getting showered and then leaving the hotel behind, jumping on a tram and going to work. Then, unless there's something else to do, like attend an evening function down by the Rhine, or take somebody out to dinner, I go back to the hotel area (Kaiserswerth) and have dinner in Casa Massimo down by the river. I did this twice, on Sunday and Monday nights, but on Wednesday I had dinner with a colleague in what I've always called 'my favourite restaurant', which is Da Bruno, a small Italian trattoria on Karlstrasse. The food at Casa Massimo is on a par with Da Bruno, but it lacks the personal touch. On Sunday night – my first at Casa Massimo – I enjoyed a mozzarella and tomato starter followed by spaghetti bolognaise and accompanied by a large bottle of sparkling mineral water and a non-alcohol beer. The latter was wonderful and I must put it on record that no-alcohol beers over here are tremendous, a million times better than Becks Blue or Heineken 00. Last week I had a few bottles (three at most) of Warsteiner 00 at an industry event on Tuesday night and that was good too. So, all is hunky dory on the no-alcohol beer front.

Chilling in Casa Massimo

The Mutterhaus is an amazing place to stay and I'd love to return some day. It's a big, red-bricked former hospital and the interior decor is immaculate, all the passageways are carpeted, all the hotel room doors are huge, heavy wooden affairs and yes, you've guessed it, you get a proper key. I was in room 213 and there was nothing to complain about other than the plugs being too far away from the desk at which I could work; this meant that I had to charge my computer on one side of the room and then, when charged, move it to the desk area. It wasn't a big faff if I'm honest, I made do. There's no restaurant here, hence my two visits to Casa Massimo, which was about 400 yards or so away, just a short walk and then across the tram tracks and down the street past quaint shops, including Schuster, the café serving amazing cakes and cappuccino. I experienced the delights of Schuster this morning as there was time to kill after I'd checked out around 1000hrs. I left my bags at the hotel front desk. There was no 'concierge' and when I returned I noticed that my bags were still simply behind the counter where I had left them, not that anybody was going to steal them. I reckon all the guests who stay at the Mutterhaus are good people. The hotel is very quiet. I don't think I ever met anybody in the lift or along the corridors and I only saw a few other guests in the breakfast room on the ground floor.

Starter at Casa Massimo

The hotel receptionist was a pleasant woman called Piros, which doesn't sound very German. I always thought the Germans were a little short on a sense of humour, but no, I am wrong. She was always laughing at virtually everything I said and did without any prompting from yours truly. Women seem to take liberties and I must say that I'm a bit baffled by it all; yesterday, a woman who had been watching my 'performance' at a panel discussion I was chairing, sidled up to me afterwards to discuss my suit. My suit! She asked me if it was new and I said no, it was a year old, give or take a few days. "Oh," said she, and proceeded to tell me that the jacket's flaps at the back were sown shut when they shouldn't be; I must say that it hadn't bothered me and, in all honesty, I hadn't noticed, but when I returned to my hotel room I checked it out and she was right. What with Piros laughing at virtually everything and this other woman offering clothing advice, I'm beginning to think that something's afoot, I'm always on their radar, I thought later as I ripped the flaps of my suit jacket loose before hanging it in the wardrobe. Perhaps I just made Piros laugh for some reason, Listen, I'll pick up on this conversation later, I've got a train to catch.

Breakfast delicacies at the Mutterhaus Hotel

I'm back! And what a palaver! Remember, I was booked on to the earlier train so my seat reservation (I'm guessing) was null and void. I, like my fellow passengers booked on the 1342 to Brussels Midi, were now wandering the carriages of the later train, the 1540, pushing heavy suitcases in front or behind of us and wondering whether to take a gamble and just sit down (as I did, only to be told 'this is is my seat'). Well, you can have it, I felt like saying, but instead I remained polite and carried on with my trek towards the front of the train. I made it to the buffet car where there were 'seats' (of a sort) that meant I could lean back behind a raised table. Perfect. I won't be moving from here in a hurry, although the woman next to me, who was on her laptop, has now packed up and gone to the washroom, leaving behind a huge purple suitcase and a smaller, bright orange rucksack. More room for me, but not much. Prior to her departure I had ordered an English breakfast tea and a large Twix, both of which are now gone (the woman is back and rubbing something into her hands, probably sanitiser). Her lap top is out again and she's back on it.

The Mutterhaus hotel from the second floor

Outside there is nothing but trees, well, not just trees, fields, little villages, the usual stuff you expect to see out of a train window. I'm going all the way to Brussels Midi and then it's the Eurostar to London and I can't wait if I'm honest, which I am.

Bookmarked books opposite reception. Why? 

Back in Dusseldorf, Klemensplatz was the nearest tram stop to the Mutterhaus. I used the U79 and went backwards and forwards along the line at different times of the day and night depending on the event I was attending or who I was meeting. Klemensplatz and the area surrounding it are very pleasant. I've already mentioned Schuster, the café where I took advantage of the outdoor seating this morning and last Sunday when I first arrived. On Sunday I had a kind of marzipan cake and today an apple tart and a cappuccino whilst reading a bit of my new book, The Full English by Stuart Maconie. It's great and I'll probably read it again shortly when I've finished this post, or when I'm on the Eurostar home. Schuster and Casa Massimo are both worthy establishments, the rest, while quaint – toy shops, clothes shops, bookshops without any English language publications, a chemist and a health food shop – did nothing for me. But I did like Kaiserswerth and guess what? Yes, I could live there, but would I? No. Why? Because it would be impractical on virtually every level. Let's just say it's a nice part of Dusseldorf and it's very close to the city centre.

Down by the Rhine in Kaiserswerth

As I mentioned before, time is non-existent. Never think you've got time for anything, just get up and go and do any loitering about when you reach your destination. Wandering around the shops of Kaiserswerth did me no favours. On the tram to Dusseldorf's central station I realised that I was cutting things fine but when I got there all was well and I managed to get to Cologne easily enough. As I said, they cancelled my first Cologne to Brussels train and now I'm on the 1540 sitting in the buffet car blogging. Since my last update on the scenery outside the train there has been little change, although it's looking a bit more built up than it was earlier. We've just gone over a river, quite a big one, and the train is slowing down. 

More Mutterhaus breakfast delicacies

My clock says it's 1545hrs and we're coming in to somewhere fairly big, I'm guessing it's Liege, so we're in Belgium, next stop Brussels Midi. The platforms are empty, there's nobody around, just a few passengers getting off. I'm trying to think of what else I can tell you about my latest visit to Dusseldorf. On Monday night I walked from the middle of Dusseldorf back to Kaiserswerth along a fairly rural footpath that kind of followed the Rhine. It was a 5.5-mile yomp with Dr. Martens shoes and a heavy case and it took me 1 hour and 49 minutes. It was one of those journeys I started to regret almost immediately as it was hot and I was ill-prepared for such a walk.I started to wish I had a bike, which would have made the journey a little quicker, but I didn't. While most of the journey was along the rural path it eventually dipped inland and followed suburban streets lined with fairly large houses. It was quiet and again there was nobody around, or hardly anybody. The houses were pleasant in the evening summer sun and there were top-of-the-range German cars resting in the driveways. Soon I found myself at the Klemensplatz tram stop. I walked across the tracks and decided to go straight to Casa Massimo and drink a huge bottle of sparkling mineral water and a bottle of Jever alcohol-free beer. It was perfect, but later I found myself wide awake (unlike now) and in need of more mineral water. I nipped downstairs barefooted (remember, the whole place is carpeted) and bought three bottles of sparkling water plus a bottle of orange Fanta, now there's a drink I haven't experienced in a long time. I guzzled the Fanta and one of the bottles of mineral water and then went back to bed... and slept like a baby. I'd already had two hours of sleep and now I slept for an additional six and a half, so eight and a half hours in total and much needed. I've just ordered a large cappuccino as I was falling asleep, hopefully it will revive me. 

Some of the amazing cakes in Schuster Café, Klemensplatz

One thing that did make me laugh, more out of bafflement than anything else, was a fairly large wooden sideboard opposite the reception area of the Mutterhaus hotel. It was baffling and mildly amusing. There were a lot of books stored in the sideboard and they all had bookmarks in them. What, I wondered, was that all about? I asked Piros and of course she laughed, but I wanted to know why people left books in reception with bookmarks in them. Why weren't the books in their rooms? Or on their person so they could read as and when the fancy took them? She laughed again, and later she laughed even more when I suggested moving the bookmarks to different parts of the books to inject a bit of confusion into the proceedings. Left to my own devices I might have moved a few around as the books in question had been in the same place ever since I arrived at the hotel and I couldn't figure out why people would leave them by reception. Fine if it was dirty boots or wet umbrellas, but books are pretty harmless, just keep them on the bedside table, surely that's the time when you're going to read them, before you hit the sack.Still, stranger things and all that.

Chilling before the journey home

It's 1722 and I'm guessing there's not much longer to go; the shutters have come down on the buffet counter and now somebody is saying something over the intercom, probably that we're about to arrive at Brussels Midi or Noord, I think it was the latter. I need to guzzle my coffee a little bit faster, but it's still too hot.

When we reached Brussels Midi it was clear that I had missed the 1756 Eurostar to London and would have to travel on the 1851 instead, which wasn't a huge problem even if it did mean arriving in the UK around an hour later than planned. I was alloted seat 44 in coach 8, right next door to the buffet car, not that I wanted anything to eat after the huge lunch I'd enjoyed in the brewery opposite Cologne railway station. But first, the Society of the Spectacle. I went straight to the perfumery section and tried out the Allure. All aftershaves smell the same, be it Allure or Eau Savage or whatever. Only Old Spice has its own distinctive cheap and powdery appeal and that's why I have some in my suitcase. Nothing better than cheap aftershave or deodorant! Whatever happened to Denim and Hai Karate? In the hot weather something is needed and that's for sure.

I found a wobbly seat and tried to use my laptop, but the wifi was rubbish so I gave up and then it was time to board. I was sitting next to Melinda from Cologne.We chatted about this and that until it was time to disembark. She was going to Nottingham to meet somebody she hadn't seen since 1997 and I was heading home.The heat of the week continued.I took the tube and then the overground and soon I was home.

Two rides to Oxted and back up Titsey Hill

After my four consecutive 20-miler rides last weekend I'm afraid I didn't ride out again until yesterday (Saturday) meaning my riding was roughly 60 miles this week, thanks to the Easter Bank Holiday and the good weather. Having enjoyed riding to Oxted immensely over recent weeks, even climbing up Titsey was kind of fun, I decided to keep at it. On both occasions this weekend I chose Starbucks as my tea venue even if it is £2.88 for a cuppa, albeit a very large one. Although, oddly, I was a bit miffed at having to pay such a price. A cup of tea? Nearly £3? It was cheaper in the Caffe Nero, but the cup was smaller too, that's why I opted for the Starbucks. Also, the Starbucks was brand new and spacious and for some reason I quite like it. What I might do now that the weather is improving is buy myself a drinks container for £11.99 (Starbucks says it won't leak) meaning I could ride to Oxted with a cup of tea, perhaps bring a tiny drop of milk, and then sit in the park until it's time to ride home. The thing is I quite like being in the coffee shop, ie the Starbucks or the Caffe Nero so buying the container isn't a great idea. We'll see.

Sunday: Tea at Starbucks, £2.88!

Both rides were good, although the weather was certainly a little cooler than the Easter weekend. Not that much cooler, but definitely cooler. On Saturday I sat by the window reading a copy of the Daily Mail that somebody had left behind. I read my stars because, for some reason, even though I don't believe them, I like to think there might be some truth in them, especially if they're full of good news, which they were to a certain extent. I read a bit about Russia, Putin and Ukraine, skipped through some awful stories about children being killed by their parents (in one case a woman addicted to crack cocaine and a young boy with serious asthma problems). Once again, the young child was failed by social workers, which never fails to annoy me. Soon, as always, it was time to head home and the thought of riding up Titsey is no longer daunting. I plan to keep doing it. In fact, the ride to Oxted is good, albeit the 269 is involved, but the earlier I depart, the quieter it is and the return journey is always fine for some reason, although I'm aware that I need to keep a weather eye on motorists as some of them are not at all good and pay very little attention to cyclists. I could (and perhaps should) take The Ridge and ride into Woldingham, far safer it has to be said, but sometimes I like the idea of just getting back home and besides, for some reason, I don't like riding down Slines Oak Road for the top of Woldingham. I don't mind the steep bit at the other end and to be honest I should do my level best to avoid the 269.

Sunday: on the road towards Titsey Hill

The ride up Titsey is almost leisurely. I know that sounds daft when you consider it's a fairly steep and long hill, but once I get going and settle in to it, the ride up is fine and because it's so long and a little monotonous, it's possible to switch off and simply glide up thinking about other things or just losing myself in the scenery. On either side, for instance, there are woods and because the hill means travelling fairly slowly, there's enough time to take them in, enjoy the relative peace and quiet, listen to the birds and generally chill until the sign for Botley Hill appears and I know then that the climb is over. Last week, when I was riding down Titsey on the way to Oxted, actually when I reached the road and everything had levelled out, just before going under the motorway, I saw a massive bird of prey. It was huge, the wingspan must have been around four feet, I don't know, but it was amazing, great to see so early in the morning, and this is what I love about riding a bike into the sticks, which I do all the time. 

Woods on the ride up Titsey Hill

It's important to keep your mind on the road when you're riding down Titsey. It's a 16% drop and the bike can pick up a fair speed, you've got cars going up and down and then you've got White Lane on your left and very often a car suddenly appears and you don't want it pulling out in front of you. I keep my hands slightly pressed on the brakes, slowing the bike down, and it's important to remember that White Lane isn't the only turning on the left that could present problems should a car emerge from it; there's also Pilgrims Lane. Today I worked out that there's an off-road route all the way down on the left hand side of Titsey. I need to check it out. I know about the off-road ride on the right hand side as Andy and I have done it before. Somewhere on this blog there is a photograph of me, taken by Andy, circa 2011 I think, as we reached the end of the off-road track. I think a puddle is involved but my memory is sketchy.

On the downward ride, once the hill is out of the way, the rest of the journey is pretty smooth sailing, particularly after riding under the motorway and entering Limpsfield Village. There's a right turn on a bend into Bluehouse Lane and then a left turn in to Granville, which is a long road, fairly flat, flanked on either side by large houses. At the end there's another left turn and then, with the library on the left, it's a short ride to the high street.

Sunday: Tall trees on Titsey

Both rides this weekend were pretty similar. On Saturday I spent a little time in the charity shop next to the Caffe Nero. You might recall from a previous post that I found a pair of binoculars and a tiny violin in the charity shop. Well, they're both still there, albeit on different shelves. I spent all of three minutes in the store and then resigned myself to the ride back. On Sunday, I parked up the bike outside the Caffe Nero, as I did on Saturday, and then walked down to the Starbucks. The place was busier than yesterday and I momentarily found myself wondering whether to go back to the Caffe Nero, but in the end I stuck with Starbucks and this time sat outside next to a dad and his two kids. Saturday, as you know, I sat by the window reading the Daily Mail. There were five or six Vespa scooters parked up on the other side of the road and eventually the owners emerged from somewhere and rode off up the high street. It sounded like a bunch of petrol lawnmowers and all the riders were old blokes. There was something a little sad and corny about the whole episode, unlike the previous day (Saturday) when I complimented a motorcyclist on his great bike, a 2011 Honda 750 with a V-twin engine. We chatted briefly as I feared his motorcycle knowledge was greater than mine, and then I jumped on my bike and rode off, but not as fast (or as cool) as the guy on the Honda.

On Sunday, half way up the appropriately named Titsey Hill on the ride home, I stumbled across a soft porn magazine that somebody had clearly thrown from a car window. There was a lot of flange and tits aplenty as the pages were magically turned by the wind as I approached. All very surreal. 

I reached home before noon and carried on with my day. 

The iphone SE Third Generation 2022

As avid readers will know, my old iphone XS passed away the week before last, leaving me phoneless. It was great not having a phone, but now I've bought another one, the iphone SE Third Generation 2022, it's red (which means that Apple is giving a percentage of the sale to charity). It goes without saying that I've been faffing around getting the phone working, which it now is, but the key thing is that having a week without a phone has made me think about my future phone usage. I'm going to try not to look at it so often. In fact, I've set up the 'do not disturb' function so that only key people can reach me after 1730hrs during the week. At weekends the phone is totally out of bounds for most people. All I need to do is buy a case for it as the last thing I want is to damage the screen and have to buy another phone. I was going to buy the phone online, but decided to visit the Apple store in Bromley where I found myself down with the all trendy kids.

My new iphone SE Third Generation 2022, it's red!!!

Four rides to Oxted - 80 miles over four consecutive days...

It was looking like another piss poor week on the bike and all my own doing (again). While I got off to a good start last Sunday with a ride to God knows where (I can't remember exactly as I don't have my phone, it's broken, but I think it was Westerham), I then lost the plot on Tuesday and that set in motion the usual crap about riding or not riding. However, the plus point of this week was Easter, which means that Friday wasn't a work day so I rode to Oxted (roughly 20 miles, I think it's something like 19.36 miles). It was absolutely wonderful, it has to be said. Oxted on a warm and sunny morning, hardly any traffic about, the town slowly awaking, and me sitting outside of Caffe Nero with a cappuccino and an almond croissant, earwigging on the conversations of others and taking in a few rays. I realised pretty quickly that life doesn't get much better than this and vowed there and then to ride to Oxted every day of the Easter bank holiday. It meant climbing out of town on Titsey Hill, but that was not impossible. In fact, as the days progressed I got better and better at it and soon realised that it wasn't such a bad hill after all. I know that Andy and I have discussed this before (that Titsey ain't that bad) and it really isn't. The worst bit is early on and probably stretches to around White Lane, but once beyond that the ride beds in, it's not steep, just monotonous, but it's only a drag if you let it become one; I rode up nonchalantly, looking at the trees on either side of the road, listening to the birds singing and soon I found myself at Botley Hill and on the 269 heading for Warlingham and, ultimately, home.

My trips to Oxted can be remembered by what I had to eat (and let's not forget, today is Sunday so if I ride it'll be the third of four rides). So, on Friday (Good Friday) an almond croissant which, incidentally, had nothing on the almond croissants available from the AMT Coffee kiosk on East Croydon station; and then yesterday (a plain old bog standard Saturday) I ordered a cinnamon swirl. The reason I was having pastries was simple: Titsey Hill. Yes, it's not a bad hill - or not as bad as you expect it to be - but it's still a decent work-out and I figured that four consecutive days of such riding would mean I could justify a light snack half way through, which is what I did.

I sat outside of the Caffe Nero, there was little point in staying inside, not when the weather was this good, so I found a table, I'd padlocked the bike close-by and I loved every darn minute. On both occasions a large cappuccino and the aforementioned pastries and then, on the Good Friday visit and yesterday's ride, I nipped into the Sue Ryder charity shop to see what was on offer. Being as Oxted is a fairly well-to-do sort of place, the quality of the goods is pretty high. There was a small violin and a pair of binoculars and I have to admit that I was tempted to buy the latter, mainly because I remember my dad had a pair that he used to bring on holiday with us to the South Coast and watch the ships that sat seemingly motionless on the misty horizon. But I had no way of carrying such a heavy pair of binoculars back on the bike. They came complete with a case, which was even better and I'm guessing they were 10 x 50s but who knows, they might have been more powerful. But then the old reservations started to flood my brain and piss on my parade. You know the sort of thing: "What do you want those for?" "When will you use them for heaven's sake?" "What's the point?" and soon there was no point so I skulked out feeling, it has to be said, a little down in the dumps, but only temporarily. Once back on the bike and sailing along the empty high street in the sun, glad that I hadn't visited the new Starbuck's, mainly because they don't pay their taxes, I felt fine. And soon, as I rode along Granville Road, past all the massive houses and heading in the direction of the daunting Titsey Hill, my mood lightened again and all was well with the world. 

Today, Easter Sunday, my attitude towards Oxted's new Starbucks weakened. As I peered into the airy space inside, the brand spanking new wooden furniture and fittings and the fact that I was, at that moment, the only customer, I decided to order an English breakfast tea and an almond croissant. I sat outside and watched the occasional person walk up or down the high street. The sun shone down, there was very little in the way of sounds bar the purr of a coasting car or the sound of buildings (if there is such a thing). And all the while the nagging thought of the ride home was very real. Titsey Hill for the third time in as many days. If I ride here tomorrow, I was thinking, that's 80 miles since Good Friday - four days, 80 miles, not bad going. In an odd way, I was looking forward to the ride home, and yes, even Titsey Hill, it didn't bother me, I knew the deal, I was aware that any pain (there was no pain) was short-lived, there was a touch of monotony but not for long and soon there would be Botley Hill and the 269. I headed off down main street (as they'd call it in the USA), turned left, past the Library and then right into Granville Road. The weather was roughly the same as yesterday and as I rode along I felt good about life, it must have been the fresh air and the scented hedgerows, there was optimism in the air and is was brought about by the thought of another day off, Bank Holiday Monday, and the possibility of another ride to make up that magical 80 miles. I caught a weather forecast on the television and there was talk of overnight rain, occasional showers here and there, which might mean wet furniture and that would mean sitting indoors, but I was having new thoughts and they were all focused on the new Starbucks with its airy, woody interior. I know that there's free wifi and that means one thing: I can take my lap top, I can take a decent book and spend an inordinate amount of time chilling there, blogging, writing, reading, sipping tea and taking life easy. I can take the train from Sanderstead, it's only around 15 minutes, and then a short walk down the high street. I could hang there until lunch time and then get the train home again. A lot of the time it's remembering to do it; I'll be sitting at home wondering what to do when there's nobody else around and then I'll think a-ha! I could go to that Starbucks, take my lap top, take my book and just sit there all morning. My time will come, that much I do know.

Today, the distant sound of Easter church bells rang out as I started my ride up Titsey Hill. The ascent was fine and soon I reached the top and then rode along the 269. Soon I was heading along the Limpsfield Road towards home. And now, here I sit at almost 1800hrs, not really feeling hungry thanks to Lindor chocolate eggs and a large roast chicken dinner round at the mother-in-law's house. From where I am sitting now I can see another Lindor egg perched up high on the ledge of our brass mirror. It's not mine and I'm not in anyway interested in it because I know what it's about: there's an egg and there's a box of smaller wrapped eggs inside, all very nice, but I won't be going near it. Columbo's on! "I'll be the son of a gun! Where did you find that? I've been looking all over for it," says Columbo from inside a locksmith's shop. Can I be bothered to watch it? No, not really, so I'll sign off now, but I'm not planning on posting until I know whether or not tomorrow's ride takes place. I'm sure it will. Incidentally, I did watch Columbo as it starred Jack Cassidy (David's dad) and then I watched another one about a painter with three women attending to his every need.

My phone is fucked

It's now Monday, Easter Monday, and the sun is shining just like it was yesterday morning and every morning since Good Friday. I'm planning a ride to Oxted again, but there's around 45 minutes before I hit the road. I thought I'd let you know that I don't have a mobile phone at the present time. On Thursday I awoke to a frozen phone and ended up taking it to an Apple shop in Wallington where I was told I needed a new screen and that it would cost me £266, presenting me with a dilemma: do I fix it or buy a new phone, ie get into a contract (36 months at over twice what I'm paying now) or do I pay the money, get it fixed and continue with with £13/month SIM-only deal? What would you do?

It took me a day or two, but it's quite pleasant not having a phone. Yes, I'm out of touch, yes, nobody can reach me, yes, I can't reach anybody either, but there's something fairly liberating about it. I can't use Strava either, which means I can't see at a glance how many miles I've been riding. This is good and bad. Good in the sense that it doesn't really matter and bad in the sense that perhaps it does matter. Taking the former, not having Strava simply means going for a ride and not totting up the mileage and feeling either under or overwhelmed by the knowledge. Furthermore, I know it's roughly 20 miles to Oxted, it's 21-22 miles to Westerham, similarly Biggin Hill, I know that a ride to Tatsfield is roughly 16 miles and that a short ride to Botley Hill no more than 14 miles (or thereabouts) so who needs Strava? Conversely, it's nice to know the mileage, the elevation, the riding time, and it's good to record the ride, to be able to scroll back at past rides and so forth, not that I've ever done that. I suppose what I'm saying is I'm not too bothered about it. Likewise I don't have access to my work emails and why should I? They don't provide me with a phone, although, to be fair to them, they do pay my phone bill if I use it on company business. That said, it's nice to be on a train and not feel the temptation to play with my phone, but then on the other hand I can't take photographs, can't use WhatsApp and can't check out my blogs when I have nothing else to do. Crucially, though, I don't feel like a fish out of water without it. It's amazing how quickly one adapts to stuff like this and I often wish I had the nerve to do it, not have a phone, be out of touch. But the problems kick in when you're meeting somebody somewhere or you're running late or, worse still, you've had to cancel the meeting for some reason: without a phone it means leaving somebody stranded and wondering whether you're coming or not. So, in the round, it's probably best having a phone, which then begs the question of whether it needs such sophistication. Do I need a camera? Do I need any of the apps? Or do I just need a phone that somebody can call me on or I can call them? Ultimately, that's all I need. Or is it? I am a bit of a gadget freak (to an extent) and there's not much to get excited about with a Nokia 3310 is there? Besides, where would this blog be without photographs? I'd have to carry around a digital camera like I used to in the old days. Not that there's anything wrong with that, at least the image quality would be better.

Today I left the house around 0830hrs and followed the usual route into Oxted, arriving around an hour later. I seriously thought about not visiting the Starbucks and instead going back to Caffe Nero (decisions, decisions) but for some reason I found myself in Starbucks ordering a large English breakfast tea and an almond croissant, which was far, far better than the one I had in Caffe Nero on Good Friday. It was also much better than the almond croissant in Starbucks yesterday; perhaps they were fresher today for some reason. In terms of bakes, the sequence was as follows: almond croissant, cinnamon swirl, almond croissant, almond croissant, so thank the Lord for Titsey Hill is all I can say. I sat outside enjoying the sunshine and the peace and quiet of Oxted High Street early in the morning. The whole attraction of riding here was the peace, the laid back 'easy like Sunday morning' vibe, the odd person milling around, the occasional car purring along and me just sitting there sipping tea and thinking about nothing in particular. Eventually, of course, I had to ride back, and that meant preparing myself for the ride up Titsey, not that it required much preparation, it was, after all, just a case of doing it. Remember, I'd been doing it successfully over the past three days so I wasn't anticipating any problems today. Sure enough it all went well, just me, the bike and the chirping birds in the trees all the way to the top. I sailed along the 269 and then the Limpsfield Road and soon I was approaching home. I followed the usual route and then chilled in the garden drinking tea.

Cycling-wise, I redeemed myself. From Good Friday to Bank Holiday Monday I rode 4 x 20 miles to Oxted and back, via Titsey Hill, that's 80 miles in total. Last week I managed just under 70 miles, something like 68 miles, which is also good.

In Tokyo... Day Four and Five – A few ramblings

Do you ever get those days when you stop and think about the most mundane aspects of life and find them incredible? Big questions about the meaning of life take second place to thoughts about bananas. I found myself sitting in a Starbucks for breakfast – one banana and a mint tea – thinking about the fact that I was on the other side of the world (compared to where I normally reside) wide awake while most of those living in the UK were fast asleep and what's more, I was eating a banana. I eat bananas in the UK too, but here I am eating one in Tokyo. Now I know it's really no mystery how bananas get around (by ship mostly, I'd imagine) but I suppose it's amazing that wherever you travel, however far away from home you are, you can still get a reasonably good banana – and find a decent Starbucks too. Perhaps it's not good, it's bad. The fact that here in Tokyo you will find all the big brand names (Apple, Zara, Gucci, they're all here, even Stella McCartney, and let's not forget McDonald's and Subway) is testament to the success of something we're all now starting to reject: globalisation. In all honesty, if globalisation means flying for hours on end and still running up against a Claires Accessories, then I don't want it either. Although, that said, when it comes to eating out in Tokyo, there are plenty of local, Japanese restaurants. Today, however, I did find a Hard Rock Café and a Tony Roma's. I ate in the former and I can't say I've ever enjoyed ribs, they're insubstantial and they make your hands sticky.

The streets of Tokyo on Thursday afernoon...

Back home, a lot of our bananas come from the Windward Islands in the Caribbean, which normally means St. Lucia, but where the Japanese bananas originate I don't know and, quite frankly, I don't care. I'd say the fact that bananas exist in Japan is amazing if it were true, but it isn't amazing at all; they were probably brought over on a container ship.

I'm sitting in Starbucks for a reason: I wanted a mint tea and something decent for breakfast instead of that slice of toast and a milky tea from Precious Coffee Moments. Although, in retrospect, that toast would have been most welcomed, but Starbucks don't serve toast. I miss Precious Coffee Moments, but hell, it's my day off, I'm not here for a rushed breakfast before heading into a conference hall, I'm getting ready to go check out a meeting venue for tomorrow, just so that I can be there on time. But more of that later. In a nutshell, I thought I'd take it easy, chill out, take a relaxed look around town, check out the shops and then visit some of Tokyo's sights (if there are any).

Today was the first day that I felt sort of ok. All week I've been waking up in the dead of night or simply not sleeping at all thanks to jet lag. But this morning and, indeed, last night, I got a decent night's sleep and not the usual broken up affair. The trouble with acclimatising is that there's no point, it's soon time to head back home and suffer all over again. I can't say I'm looking forward to the return flight. I wasn't too keen on the outbound flight and now I've got to repeat it all again. Still, it'll be good to get back to the UK and hail a racist taxi driver to take me home. In fact, talking of racist taxi drivers, I've given up taxis for that reason alone. I don't want to sit and listen to some idiot going on and on about immigration and Brexit. As Stewart Lee said, not all Brexiteers are racists – some of them are cunts.

Hard Rock Café in Tokyo...

When I get back home I'll have to restart my exercise programme (cycling and walking) and try and stop eating cakes and biscuits. I've given up drinking, so I'm darn sure I can sort out a few cakes. I've also got to repeat my old habit of eating well, certainly enjoying a good breakfast in the morning. For the past five or six days it's been toast and tea, so everything's gone out of the window in terms of the 'usual routine'. My multi-seed porridge and blueberries for breakfast are but a distance memory at the moment; and last night, after a relatively healthy day food wise, I went and ruined it by discovering that Tokyo has a Hard Rock Café. It started off well with Atlantic salmon, mashed potatoes, carrots and brocolli, but took a nose dive when I ordered the apple cobbler, smothered as it was in a caramel sauce and garnished with a blob of ice cream. Afterwards I found a Starbucks where I purchased a large mint tea and sipped it slowly while deep in thought about God knows what. For some reason, I felt that the mint tea would cure me of whatever ailment that apple cobbler might have given me.

I fly home tomorrow (Saturday 1255hrs) and, as I just said, I'm not looking forward to it. Twelve, possibly thirteen, hours on a plane: that's a meal and three movies and then around three hours of twiddling my thumbs. Let's just say I hate it. Fortunately, I've got an exit row, like on the outward journey, which means more leg room, but these days, when I have to fly for more than a couple hours, I start to get irritated about not being allowed to fly business class. It's a boring old saga so I won't bore you with it, not now at any rate, but suffice it to say that I'd like to get a decent sleep, but I end up not sleeping at all and when I get off the other end I feel like shit. Let's not go there, it's miles too boring.

A hearty meal in Hard Rock Café...

It's getting a little confusing. Yesterday (Thursday) I sat in a Starbucks with a mint tea and a banana twice: the first time was in the morning prior to a day of checking out the city of Tokyo, first a mission to Osaki to check out where my meeting was to be held on Friday (that's today) and then I found myself in the same Starbucks last thing at night, again with a mint tea and a banana, but this time it was something to do with that awfully unhealthy dessert I'd eaten in the Hard Rock. As I sat in the Starbucks yesterday morning, I felt bad about not being in Precious Coffee Moments where, ironically, I drink tea. The reason I went there for breakfast was to move away from the milky tea and toast breakfast and eat something a little healthier, hence the banana.

On Wednesday night, talking of unhealthy eating, I found a pizza restaurant that fitted the bill of what I was looking for: it wasn't a noodle bar, there wasn't any photographs of the food outside and it was more like the sort of place you get back home – there was music, a pleasant vibe and I could relax a little, which I did. There's nothing worse than trawling the streets looking for something to eat (I do this all the time, it doesn't matter what country). The truth is I don't really know what I'm looking for, or rather I do know, but finding it is the problem. I normally look for somewhere to chill out and relax. And here in Japan it's avoiding the places with the photographs of the food and places where there's somebody standing outside cajoling passers-by to come inside. Prior to finding the pizza restaurant I'd peered through many windows hoping to find the right place, but everywhere fell short of my requirements. I was looking for ambience mainly and a place that looked like it might offer decent food and service. I don't want somewhere too crowded and noisy or too cramped, I certainly don't want photographs of the food and I won't tolerate anywhere that's too dark. I want to be able to see what I'm eating.

Sadly, all the big brands are in Tokyo...

The street on which the pizza restaurant resided looked promising. It veered off from the main street at an angle. It was dark and illuminated here and there by lanterns. It had a certain inviting nature about it, so I took a chance and strolled past small noodle bars, slightly more inviting than those on the main drag, and right at the end of the street I found the pizza place. I knew it was going to be good and took a seat at the bar, but not 'the bar' – there wasn't any optics staring at me, no upturned bottles of whisky or rum, just an exposed kitchen, masses of stainless steel, an espresso machine and pizza chefs busily working on customers' orders – although being mid-week, it wasn't that busy. It was a Wednesday night and there was only a handful of customers. I ordered half portions of two different pizzas (based on the theory that variety is the spice of life) plus a couple of non-alcohol beers (Suntory appears to be the favourite here in Tokyo. It's really good and while I've considered taking some home with me, in retrospect, I think it would be a bad idea. Nothing's THAT good). Making a decent non-alcoholic beer is an art form that the brewers have yet to perfect, but Suntory comes pretty close and, it seems, have cornered the market here in Tokyo. It was only in the Hard Rock Café that they didn't sell it (I was offered a Kirin instead).

At the pizza joint, I made small talk with one of the guys working behind the servery area. He told me he owns a Harley Davidson 883 Hugger, my dream bike, but he wants to own a Triumph (why, I don't know, but he seemed to like all things British: Jaguar, Range Rover and so on). He studied politics at university, managed to get a good job in television, but quit to return to the pizza restaurant because he couldn't hack sitting behind a computer screen all day. He now intends to make a career out of being a restaurateur of some description, much to the initial dismay of his mum who, he said, remained silent about his decision for many days before finally being comfortable with her son's plans. But I'd imagine she was concerned for his future welfare (aren't all parents carrying around that mindset?).

Personally, I always feel envious of people capable of making such a drastic decision and sticking with it, having the courage of their convictions. I would have stayed at the television job and would have certainly taken my parents' advice. I can hear my dad now advising me to stay put and not to be so silly as to think I'd have a future in the restaurant industry. I would have been grateful to have been offered the TV job in the first place, I certainly wouldn't be jacking it in to work in a pizza restaurant. But that's me. I wish I had those sort of 'guts', the guts of a gambling man, the guts of somebody with bags of self confidence. I'm always firmly of the opinion that whatever decision I take, it will be the wrong one. Not that working in the hospitality industry is a walk in the park; it's hard work and long hours for very low pay and in the UK it is often regarded as a subservient profession. That's why the Brits prefer to leave it to migrant workers who regard the low pay as alright, although now we have Brexit, let's see if those Brexiteers who moaned at the migrants for taking their jobs are willing to roll up their sleeves at McDonald's and start cleaning the fryers at the end of a long shift.

Osaki – a kind of posh version of London Docklands

Technically – although there's nothing technical about it – Thursday was a day off. I'd tried to get on a plant visit, which would have taken up the entire day, but had been unsuccessful, so the day was mine. I did need to see how easy (or otherwise) it would be for me to reach the offices of a big company I was visiting on Friday, so I set off early, first for breakfast in a Starbuck's (the aforementioned mint tea and banana) and then I explored a bit of the city. I started off at Roppongi underground station, travelled a couple of stops to Ebisu and then switched to the JR line, which is not part of the metro system, more a kind of Overground train the runs in a circle around the city, meaning I had to pay separately. It was a couple of stops, possibly three, to Osaki, which was a bit like Docklands, but slightly more exclusive, and I made my way to the building I needed to locate. It was easy: an 11-minute walk from Osaki station, so that was dry run sorted, so to speak, now all that remained was the real thing on Friday.

Later, I resisted the temptation to eat Chinese in Osaki and instead pushed on to a place called Shibiya where I found an Indonesian restaurant for lunch. After what was an enjoyable meal of chicken curry with rice and a small cake for dessert, not forgetting a non-alcohol Suntory beer, I headed back to the station and stopped off at two guitar shops, one selling Fender Stratocasters and the other specialising in bass guitars. I was there for all of five minutes before pushing on further to Shinjuki, Tokyo's answer to Oxford Street. I checked out a few stores with no intention of buying anything and when I got back to my hotel I discovered that there was a Hard Rock Café close by and headed in the general direction. It would be good to have something a little wholesome, so once seated I chose Atlantic salmon with mashed potato, greens and carrots – that was the good bit, the bad bit was the dessert of apple cobbler, which might have been fine if it hadn't been drenched in caramel sauce. A little custard would have sufficed, but no, this was just awful. I say awful, I finished the lot, it was very tasty, but it was awful in the sense of not being very healthy. I might have given up drinking, but I've got to give up cakes and sweet things too.

In Budapest...day two

I can't sleep in hotels, not initially at any rate. It's probably got a lot to do with alcohol. I don't need it, never have really, but when I'm away and living the 'hotel life' a glass of wine with a meal, a glass or two on the plane, are part and parcel of the whole thing. I don't go over the top, not any more, but invariably it leads to a broken night and it's unnecessary.

This morning I awoke at 0500hrs – or thereabouts – but I distinctly remember the time on my iphone reading 0523hrs and I was conscious prior to checking the time. It's now 0616hrs and I've just watched the last five minutes of an interview with Dr. Allen Ault, former commissioner of corrections for the US state of Georgia, on the BBC's Hard Talk programme, something I rarely watch unless I'm in a foreign country where BBC World seems to rule the airwaves. It's the only place where you'll find advertisements on the BBC, although I notice that the BBC website carries ads whenever I access it abroad.

Dr. Allen Ault being interviewed by the BBC...very depressing

Anyway, Dr. Allen Ault. I've never seen a better example of the phrase, "You've made your bed, now lie in it." Although, I felt sorry for the guy. Imagine having to live with those memories.

I've sat here and watched the dawn and now the rooftops outside my window have just about lost their silhouette, so it's time, perhaps, to hit the shower.

There's a distinct masculine touch to the bathroom decor: woods and dark tiles plus some contrasting creamy white tiles. It's not a big space, but not cramped either and the shower worked fine. Despite being a 'boutique' hotel, they have adhered to the golden rule of 'function before form' – everything worked as it should have and I didn't encounter any problems with taps or plugs.

Breakfast at the Bohem Art Hotel...

Breakfast is served in the basement in a pleasant, airy space. There's a lot on offer, but I steered away from the traditional rolls and sliced meats and chose instead vegetables with cous cous, a strange thing to have for breakfast, but it was there so I figured it must be what somebody regards as normal, perhaps the Hungarians? It was very nice. There was also something like a bread pudding with cherries and that was also very nice. I chose Darjeeling tea in a glass mug, I'm not sure I like drinking tea out of a glass mug, not sure why, but the tea was so good I had another (it was called 'Darjeeling Brilliant' so I'm telling you now that it lived up to its name). A small bowl of yoghurt, an orange and a banana followed and while I could have sat there all morning, I can't afford the time. But let's say that breakfast was good. Fortunately I didn't have a newspaper otherwise I'd still be down there now, pretending to be important.

After 'business' had been conducted I swanned back to the hotel with time to spare until the evening get-together. I wandered around with no fixed plan and ended up trying to track down a Starbuck's. I felt it would be good to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea and a pastry or something, anything, to provide me with some kind of solace. In truth I was missing being at home; odd when I've only been away for around 24 hours, but I think it was a kind of realisation that life at home is better than life on the road and that the latter is a bit soul destroying, most of the time. Who wants to live the life of a nomad, poking one's head into bars and restaurants, searching out some form of comfort, some kind of nirvana, when the reality is simple: it doesn't exist. Either that or I've found it anyway, at home, where I least expected to find it. The grass is always greener and all that, but it's true. In the end I decided that I'd have to find a Starbucks. I hadn't seen one and I even began to wonder if there was one in Budapest, but surely there must be one. I figured that sitting down in a Starbucks, where I wouldn't need cash and I could enjoy a tea with a biscuit or a millionaire's shortbread, would bring me back from the brink of despair (I was seriously feeling it). What, I wondered, was the point? The answer? Well, there wasn't one; if there was, then I'd hold the Holy Grail in my hands.

I've walked across that bridge and now I'm going to walk back 

In the end, having used my iphone's GPS to try and find a Starbucks (they exist, but I couldn't work out in which direction I was walking) I gave up and marched purposefully (and a little angry) back to my hotel where I sat in despair for around a half hour comparing my hotel room with a prison cell and wondering what it must have been like to be Rudolph Hess banged up in Spandau. "So true, funny how it seems, always alone...".

And then I snapped out of it, as I always do, and eventually headed out again, this time to the InterContinental Hotel for a glass of Cabernet and later a boat trip that lasted all night and was very pleasant, thanks to the company I kept and the food, which was fine, even if the steak was a little tough.

It's almost midnight and I should be hitting the sack, there's nothing else to do, although there probably is, I just don't want to do it. Another busy but interesting day tomorrow.

You remember last night I enjoyed some wasabi peanuts? Well, today it was chocolate peanuts and now I'm wondering what else is in the minibar. I think I'll take a look, hold on...well, there's some more wasabi peanuts but I've gone for Premium Nuts & Raisins – just what the doctor didn't order.

There's little more to say so I'm going to sign off and get a good night's sleep; well, I hope I will.