Caked out!

Saturday was windy. Trees were swaying to and fro and there was drizzly rain too, here and there. Not pleasant. I had a bad cake day. It started early with two pieces of fruit cake 'round at mum's', not forgetting two Malted Milk biscuits I didn't need; then, later, I paid a visit to the Tudor Rose café in Westerham where I ordered a slice of Bakewell tart. It wasn't the best either, it was a sorry looking cake with a chunk of icing that should have adorned the top of it, hanging loose and revealing the cake underneath. I wasn't impressed, but then I haven't been impressed with the Tudor Rose of late. Whenever the owner isn't there, things slip, like the level of service and, it seems, the quality of the cake. There was also a stain inside my tea cup. After the Tudor Rose I had some driving to do, not much, but a little bit, and when I got home I (foolishly) opted for a pre-prepared prawn curry from Waitrose. Not the best thing in the world, but nobody felt like cooking, least of all me. I boiled up some rice and served up. The food was accompanied by some green beans (there had to be something healthy about it) and a glass of tap water. Not exactly the most glam meal in the world. Afterwards, I considered some Weetabix (two biscuits) for dessert, with honey on top, but as I opened the bread bin I spied some hot cross buns. All-in-all, a bad cake day and now, as I sit here writing this blogpost in the conservatory, the birds tweeting outside, the sun shining and blue skies, no clouds, I look ahead to a day that I intend to make cake-free. I can't possibly eat any more, seriously. Last week I did good. I managed a whole five days without biscuits, but I weakened on Friday and had an iced bun in the M&S café. The only bad thing I had last week was apple pie and custard on Tuesday, although that particular meal, in the Pop Inn Café, was not the best thing in the world (unusually, as it's a top notch caff in my opinion). My main course was chicken and mushroom pie with chips and peas – not good, but for most of the week I had sandwiches and I'd invested in some Be Good to Yourself chicken noodle cuppa soup, which saw me through and kept me away from the biscuits.

It started on Saturday with mum's fruit cake...

With so much eating going on, I was annoyed that I hadn't gone cycling on Saturday due to the heavy winds and drizzly rain, although in many ways one led to another: rain = no cycling = lots of cake. It's now Sunday morning and a ride is on the cards. The weather seems perfect and all I have to do now is make the tea, but what's this? A text? From Andy? A late abort? No, but Andy's running late. I suggest we meet at 0745hrs. The next paragraph will be after I return, so see you later...

Well, I'm back, feeling energised by a decent ride. I reached home around 0930hrs. We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop as Andy didn't have much time and I wasn't up for a longer ride. There were blue skies and sunshine, but the trees were bare and it was still a little on the chilly side. All week it's been windy and rainy, but the summer is on the way. It's light now when I wake up at 0600hrs, but the clocks go forward next week – or thereabouts – and that will mean slightly darker starts for a short while and lighter evenings, but either way it means summer is almost upon us.

Andy said he'd taken every possible photograph at the bus stop, he'd run out of ideas, so we didn't take any and besides, my phone had run out of power, despite the fact that it showed 34% of the battery life still available. That's the problem with iPhones. I'd happily revert back to the Nokia 3310, but I do use some of the functions of my 'smart' phone, like Google Maps and email and texts, although I could get by without them if I had to, as most of the time it's little more than a call home saying something like "I'm on the way home" or "I'm at East Croydon station". The old 3310 had great battery life and they fitted in the smallest of places, like a breast pocket on a jacket. They were also indestructible, give or take. Once I remember jogging over Riddlesdown Common and taking a fall. The phone landed with a bang (like I did) the back came off, but that was about it; I simply clicked it all back together and it was fine.

How to take a bad photograph...

On the ride back, Andy took The Ridge and I rode along the off-road path of the 269, risking a puncture. The wind had brought a small tree down across the path so I had to lift the bike over it and re-mount. And now, of course, I'm home and I'm about to hit the shower.

Later I let myself down again. I found myself in the Brewhouse Restaurant at Knole, a National Trust property. I ordered swede soup and bread, which was very tasty, but then ruined it by ordering a scone with cream and jam. Fortunately, a long walk followed, which took away my guilt.

The bike needs a jet clean, urgently. It's covered in mud and is looking in need of some TLC. Next week I'll pay a visit to the Esso garage on the green. Until then, goodbye dear readers, have a good week.

To the Tatsfield Bus Stop – heavy fog meant the slow way there and back...

Another mild morning and we met at the green as usual. We headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way. Weatherwise everything was damp and wet and glistening and there was a fog looming, hanging in the trees, so we thought the slow way would be safer. There was a few Lycra monkeys on the road, and even more when we headed back along Beddlestead towards Hesiers Hill. This time, as I approached the climb I changed down and managed the gears properly. I stayed in a low gear for the second hill before things levelled out and we headed for the green where we parted.

There's always something musical that keeps me moving along. The other day it was a Christmas carol, the Sans Carol, but today it was Misty Mountain Hop by Led Zeppelin, I know not why. My in-built Walkman kept playing it over and over. "Walking in the park just the other day..."

We reached the green at 0930hrs and I got home 20 minutes later. A good ride.

Slow way there and back – to the Tatsfield Bus Stop

It's Tuesday morning. The day after the bank holiday Monday and last night some strange dreams. One involved watching somebody arrive by car at a shopfront that was shuttered up and covered in graffitti. There was a small door and the driver of the car jumped out, mistaking the place for a hotel. I wasn't the driver. I was a spectator wondering why somebody would mistake a shuttered shopfront covered in graffiti for a hotel. But then I became the driver, stepping through the small door into the dark and squalid surroundings inside. Drug users were in there and I was definitely not in the UK, but somewhere in the USA. Later the shop front changed. The shutters and graffiti were gone and instead there was a different, older building with two upright, rectangular windows and a wooden door between them. The name of Ortiz was over the door. I asked one of the occupants why he'd let himself fall into such a state of depravity, he mumbled an answer. I was certainly being held there against my will, as some form of punishment, but I wasn't always there. At one stage I wrote a note to the police, long hand, but never finished it. Then I found myself closer to home, in Westmead Road in the London suburbs where I used to live. I was driving and noticed that cars were reversing at speed towards me. There was some kind of commotion and it turned out to be a gunman in the back of a car shooting people at random. Later I encountered the gunman, who was now out of the car and on foot. I ran into suburban streets, turning left and right and left in order to lose him and then I woke up, it was light outside and the time was 0543.

Our bikes parked on Beddlestead Lane...

Poppies, thousands of them, in a field on Beddlestead Lane

That name Ortiz bugged me as I made my way downstairs to make tea and porridge, but all I could find online was a reference to boxing and a reference to horse racing. It had been a great weekend of cycling. We managed two out of three days and on both occasions rode the slow way to and from the Tatsfield Bus Stop where we chilled out in the early morning summer sun. On Saturday, as we drank our tea, a fog rolled in and that's why we rode back the slow way, which meant we'd have to tackle Hesiers Hill, not a problem. In fact, Andy's in training to ride up a few hills in the Caterham area so it was a good move in his books. I paced myself and rode slowly to the top where Andy was waiting and we continued the ride home.

Early morning summer sunshine on Beddlestead Lane

We didn't ride on Sunday and while I was going to ride to mum's early that morning, mum was in tizzy about visitors so I didn't bother. Monday we headed for the bus stop again and the poppies in a field on a sloping hill stopped us in our tracks. We were on Beddlestead Lane, close to the memorial to 'Skelly', a cyclist. A blanket of red covered the hill and I suggested that Andy should take a photograph. On Saturday we'd spotted the poppies but were put off the idea of trampsing into the field to take a closer look by the brambles and thistles that stood in our way as Andy was wearing shorts. Monday morning the poppies had intensified so we took a closer look but discovered a wide ditch, like a moat, stopping us from going any further. Well, we could have jumped, but then we'd have to jump back so we stayed put on the bank and took a few snaps, me on the iphone, Andy using something a little more professional.

A rural idyll...

Further along Beddlestead Lane a most unwelcomed sight: fly tippers had been at work. A pile of rubbish on the roadside: an old wooden chest of draws, a rusty old barbecue and many other bits of rubbish somebody had just dumped.

We continued on our way, chatting about this and that – bikes, photography, work – and it wasn't long before we reached our destination. Normally Beddlestead Lane is long and strenuous, but on both Saturday and Monday it was a little more chilled, which had a lot to do with the pleasant weather.

Sunday 20th May – slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Long grass at the Tatsfield bus stop...

After Philadelphia, last Sunday (20th May) was my first ride for a fortnight and in between then and now I did something to my back, putting even Sunday's ride in jeopardy. On Saturday I cleaned and oiled the bike and did a bit of gardening and, as a result, I loosened up a little bit and set myself on the road to recovery. Oddly, there was no real pain. I think I know what I did to myself: I moved a heavy box of magazines with my right foot and must have pulled something. Either way, I keeled over to my right and looked lopsided and I had difficulty walking, although the latter was the result of wearing the wrong shoes to walk miles around the city. When I jumped off the plane at Heathrow, I hobbled through passport control and baggage reclaim and limped my way to the front door of my house about an hour or so later. However, as soon as I took the shoes off, my foot healed immediately, leaving just the lower back issue. That improved slowly and while I still had problems after sitting down for a while (stiffness) all was generally well. I had no problem sleeping, I could sit down without being in pain, it was only the initial five to 10 minutes after having sat down that proved problematic.

Summer arrives at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

So on Sunday, having established that I could still get on and off of a bicycle, I headed for Warlingham Green to met Andy who, unlike me, has been riding quite a bit. We decided to aim for the Tatsfield Bus Stop and ride the slow way, which was great as the weather was amazing and I was surprised at how much things had grown since my last ride. There was cowslip aplenty on either side of the road, the trees were in full bloom and there was a strong feeling that summer had arrived as we headed along Beddlestead Lane, not really worrying about the uphill slog of it all. The monkeys were out in force too and after drinking our tea, munching our biscuits and chewing the fat we headed towards Botley Hill and spotted Phil (now a full Lycra Monkey) whizzing past and heading, we assumed, for Westerham. There was no time to stop, but I later sent a text basically saying hello. Now that the sun is out, we expect to see more of Phil, he's come out of hibernation after all.

We rode down the 269 in the hazy sunshine and stopped at the green to say our goodbyes and arrange next week's ride. Andy can't make Sunday but Saturday and Bank Holiday Monday are game on, so here's hoping for some more decent weather.

The ride along the Limpsfield Road was pretty uneventful, but when I reached Sanderstead Pond it was good to see everything in bloom. I rolled down Church Way, put the bike in the garage on got on with the rest of my day.

Our bikes at the bus stop. Pic by Andy Smith

The slow way to Tatsfield Village...

Sunday 8th January. Radio Four's Something Understood on Sunday morning was all about immortality. The programme, which airs immediately after the 0600hrs news at around 0610hrs, kicked off with the fact that there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes. All very depressing. I didn't want to get out of bed as the ride was our first early excursion after the traditional later start over the festive season.

I dressed and went downstairs to make tea and breakfast before I headed out, in the dark, to mount the bike and head for the green. It was dark and would remain so until 0800hrs. Fortunately I had front and rear lights having worked out a way of attaching my rear light to my rucksack.

It wasn't cold, but the balaclava always makes life a little more comfortable

At the green we decided to ride the slow way to Tatsfield Village where we noted with joy that the Old Ship pub was not going to be closed down and turned into housing or a convenience store. A man was varnishing a door so I went over for a chat. He invited me in to see a refurbished interior and told me that the place would re-open to the public on 13th January. Food would be on offer in February and, I was told, it will be traditional pub food, all home-made. There's even to be a coffee shop that will open at 0830hrs – a place to chill after a ride, I thought, and later relayed the information to Andy.

The weather was wonderful. It was dry for a start and there were clear skies. In fact, despite a lot of talk about poor weather, there hasn't been any. Over the Christmas period I was expecting plenty of abort texts due to promised storms, but we remained dry and active throughout.

When I reached home, the latest David Bowie documentary (about his last five years) was on the television. I sat and watched it and found myself getting depressed again. I thought back to Something Understood earlier this morning on the radio. Immortality, death and taxes, and poor old David Bowie who died roughly a year ago.

Later I decided to clean the bike (it was looking a bit dirty!). I oiled the chain too.

There's a train strike Monday, Wednesday and Friday and, as always, I consider riding to work. But the reality is something else. While the ride to work is simple and very pleasant, there's all the hassle of taking a spare pair of trousers and a shirt with me and sitting at my desk feeling, well, sweaty. I'll probably get the bus, which is fairly pleasant. It means I can read for a good hour and at the moment I'm reading Dave Eggers' The Circle. I've only just started it, but it seems promising and has received some good reviews from people that matter, like David Baddiel.

To Tatsfield village...

I really needed a ride. I hadn't been on the bike for a week and I was beginning to feel it. There hadn't been much in the way of walking either as I was miles too busy and what's more, I was in Stuttgart. Riding on Saturday, therefore, was out of the question. Andy had aborted and Phil hadn't sent me a text so I was glad for the rest; I got up around 0700hrs and made some tea.

While I could have taken a ride to mum's – I normally do when Andy aborts and Phil's either not going or riding with Steve – I decided to take things a little easier, but today (Sunday) I had to get out there, so I pulled on the balaclava (and all the usual items of scruffy cycling clothing) and headed for the garage.

It was good to get back on the bike. I was running a few minutes late and when I got to Warlingham Green, Andy was waiting.

We aimed for the Tatsfield village, the slow way, and after bearing left at the mini roundabout just past Sainsbury's, we wove our way around the narrow country lanes towards Hesiers Hill and Beddlestead Lane.

A right riveting read – Andy's books

It wasn't cold, but I was wearing the balaclava, purely for comfort. It was a bright day, there was no frost, nothing that would constitute 'bad weather', although the roads were damp and there were puddles here and there; clearly, it had been raining overnight.

As we progressed along Beddlestead Lane, I found that the old Rockhopper was doing a grand job. Earlier, I'd cranked it up to top gear and everything was smooth-running, all the way to Clarks Lane where we turned left and then left again into Approach Road where we spied a crashed mini cab that had clearly hit a tree and come to rest on a grass verge opposite – or had been moved there; I'm guessing the latter. Andy pointed to bits of radiator grill around the base of the tree trunk and we were both puzzled as to how the car had managed to hit the tree in the first place.

We pressed on towards the village and, as always, I was reminded of my accident (on 1st October). Needless to say, my approach was more considered and I glided slowly to a stop and parked my bike against the inner wall of the covered wooden bus stop. Out came the tea and biscuits and then Andy produced two excellent hard-backed books of his photography – his cycling photography. Needless to say I was impressed and we talked about how he had produced the books using the website Blurb. I'd like to do something similar for my blog, although it's so huge (almost 10 years of what amounts to a cycling diary and loads of other stuff too) it won't be cheap.

Taxi!

We rode off and headed home, passing the crashed minicab and then turning right on to Clarks Lane riding in the direction of Botley Hill. The 269 presented itself and soon we were back at Warlingham Green planning next weekend's ride.

The slow way AND the fast way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop AND two new people join the ride!

It's not so much a 'first' – that was when Phil joined NVL a couple of years ago (has it really been that long?). In that sense, it's a 'second', but yesterday (Saturday) two new people came on the ride. It was Phil's work colleague who had been considering riding with us and finally did, along with his son.

Steve and Josh joined Phil and I for a ride. We rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. The weather was good as we cycled along the Limpsfield Road, past Warlingham Sainsbury's and then hung a left into Ledgers Road (off of the 269) and then a right on to Washpond Road (or Washpond Lane, I can't recall). We rolled gently down Hesiers Hill and along the tedious and lonely Beddlestead Lane towards the now legendary Tatsfield Bus Stop.

Phil, Matt and Steve, Tatsfield Bus Stop, 20 February 2016

Steve works with Phil – or rather for the same company, but he spends most of his week in Paris. His son Josh is at Durham University, studying maths and physics, and is on his way to becoming a pro-cyclist. In July he's going to Italy to brush up on his cycling and from there he could find himself riding in a professional team.

When we reached Ledgers Road, Josh carried on along the 269. We next saw him on Beddlestead Lane travelling in the opposite direction and, we were told, he would later go out on a longer ride with a pal. Comparing the sort of riding undertaken by Steve and Josh to ours is like comparing chalk and cheese. We ride out, we eat biscuits, sometimes cake and pies and we drink tea and engage in inane conversation. Steve and Josh are a little more serious about their cycling. They keep their weight to a minimum, they care about precious grams, whereas we load up with weighty cannisters of hot water and steer clear of the Lycra. Our pace was much slower too, but as Steve said, it's not about speed, it's about getting out there and doing it and he was right.

I admitted – as I tend to now and then – that my Kona Scrap was completely inappropriate for the sort of riding we do, and Steve suggested that I consider a cyclo-cross bike. Not a bad idea and perhaps I will look at what's available when I decide – should I ever decide – to buy a new bike. The Kona Scrap is 10 years old in May. Isn't that amazing? Ten years old and not a cross word! But I still like it; it just needs a jolly good service so that the gears and brakes all work. I'm guilty of riding a bike that only has half of its 16 gears in working order and only a rear brake in action. I don't even think there are any brake pads up front. Cycle King claims that it will strip the bike down to the frame and fix the gears and brakes for under £100. Not a bad deal and I might well take them up on it next week, let's see how things go.

On the 269 – courtesy of Andy's on-board camera

As we rode along Beddlestead Lane, Steve got a puncture and Phil almost came a cropper. He rode through thick mud and temporarily lost control, but somehow – God knows how – he managed to stay on the bike. You know when things go into slow motion? It was like that as both Steve and I watched aghast as Phil grappled with his own dignity in an effort to keep himself afloat, so to speak.

Puncture fixed we rode the last few yards to the Bus Stop where the tea and Tracker bars were produced. Steve refrained from the latter but enjoyed a mug of tea and, as usual, we sat there chatting for about a half an hour before the photograph above was taken on Phil's iphone and we headed home.

Sunday – the fast way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop

This morning's Something Understood on Radio Four was all about repetition. I said 'this morning's Something Understood on Radio Four was all about repetition, but I couldn't hang around. I got up, made some breakfast, the same breakfast I had yesterday morning (Weetabix, two Weetabix, with cold milk, blueberries and sliced banana). I also had two slices of toast, one with butter, one with margarine (the butter ran out) and a cup of tea.

No Phil today, just Andy and I. It had clearly been raining overnight as the roads were wet and there were roadside puddles lining the 269 as we headed south towards Botley Hill. The skies were greyer than yesterday and there was every likelihood of more rain. We met at the Green and headed off in the usual direction. By the time we reached the bus stop a thick had fog drifted in, disappeared and then returned again. It was a bit like John Carpenter's The Fog (now there's a good movie).

At the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Sunday 21 February

Andy's bike had been in the repair shop. It now sported new "Black Shark" tyres and a gel saddle and once again I found myself thinking that I ought to sort my bike out sooner rather than later. I remarked that my front tyre was about nine years old. Unbelievable! We chatted about 'bike stuff' and the fact that my old Marin served me well – 12 years without a single puncture, but then I wasn't using it that regularly. We discussed cyclocross bikes, based on my conversation yesterday with Steve, and Andy's Black Shark tyres. Why were they called Black Shark? Simple: to appeal to 'blokes'. A woman wouldn't buy Black Shark tyres – or not intentionally at any rate. But then, Andy didn't buy them intentionally either, so what the hell am I talking about?

As always there was a few Lycra monkeys who rode by en route to some distant location. Various cars passed us by too, and the drivers and/or the passengers always looked over at us. I'm sure they wonder what the hell we're doing there drinking tea and eating biscuits. All we need is a table and we could recreate a Jack Venttriano painting.

I got back home around 1000hrs and watched a bit of Andrew Marr. The referendum on Europe will take place on 23 June and David Cameron was on the box – after a good night's sleep – putting the case for remaining in the EU, while Farage preceded him putting the case for 'Brexit'. I don't know which way to go and I need more information before I vote. Cameron made some good points, but I'm sure the out campaign will make some equally good points too. Boris Johnson – or 'BoJo' as he's now been christened by the media – Michael Gove, George Galloway, Chris Grayling and others will be putting the case for so-called 'Brexit'.

Arriving at the bus stop, courtesy of Andy's on-board camera

Right now it's 1139hrs and all is well. Everybody in the house is chilling, giving me time to write this blogpost in peace. Spaghetti bolognaise for lunch – I cooked it last night – which makes a change, and then a free afternoon. Tonight, the final episode of Dickensian. I can't wait. And then it's more TV, then bed and then... work!

Later...
Car problems: the old Toyota has decided to play up (for the first time, it must be said). The driver's door is permanently locked, meaning that the driver has to clamber into position via the offside front door. I drove it over to mum's via the Toyota dealership this afternoon and was told to bring it back in the morning at 0800hrs.

Solo ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...the slow way

A pretty uneventful weekend on the cycling front. I had a text from Phil saying he couldn't make Saturday's ride and I knew that Andy wouldn't be going so it was time for a bit of self-motivation (which normally means a short ride to Botley and home). Having said that, the other side to self-motivation is that I tend to push myself a little further. Recently I recall riding to Westerham alone and then there was the Easter holidays back in April when I cycled every day for something like nine or 10 days.

Yours truly at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 16 August 2014

I was tempted to do nothing, but figured the weather was so good (it was sunny and warm) I'd be foolish not to take advantage. Botley was on my mind, but I decided to ride the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop instead, which was wonderful. I've said it before and I'll more than likely say it again, but cycling is really therapeutic and spiritually uplifting. Once I'd branched off the Limpsfield Road just past Sainsbury's I found myself really enjoying the tranquillity of the back roads that run parallel, give or take, with the 269. The sun filtered through the trees, there was a mild breeze and there was me, on a bike, taking it fairly easy, riding at my own pace and taking in the scenery: the cornfields, the hedgerows, the wildlife (mainly birds twittering in trees) and the occasional Lycra monkey whirring past me.

At the bottom of Hesiers Hill – one of the most peaceful places on our rides.

I stopped at the bottom of Hesiers Hill – which has to be one of the most peaceful spots on our rides – and just took in the silence, punctuated only by the sound of the birds, not even any sheep on this occasion. Once, I remember being watched by a bunch of sheep. I remember feeling a little strange about it as I got the feeling that they were talking amongst themselves – about me.  At one stage, two sheep seemed to be 'chatting' and looking over in my direction and then they called over their pals. I remember thinking it best to get back on the bike and get the hell out of there. You'll find the post in question by clicking here. Perhaps I was experiencing a little too much paranoia, but there you have it; there's more to sheep than meets the eye. Remember Babe?

Yesterday, however, there were no sheep. Perhaps they saw me coming. Perhaps they were being sheared in some nearby barn. Perhaps they were hiding and preparing for some kind of woolly ambush.

I made slow but enjoyable progress along Beddlestead Lane, thinking about this and that and taking my mind off the fact that the road always seems to be never-ending; it's only when I reached the 'totem pole' (that burnt out tree) and then the mobile phone mast, that I realised I was making progress.

The bike taking a rest at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

I free-wheeled along Clarks Lane and parked up at the bus stop. Time for tea. Normally when I ride alone I don't take any tea with me, but the original plan was to ride to Woodmansterne and see Jon and then possibly head to mum's for breakfast (and a slice of wedding cake). But Jon didn't return my text so I decided to head for Tatsfield instead. As I sat sipping tea and watching the world go by, the phone rang. It was Jon. We discussed the situation in Gaza and the Middle East and both agreed that the West should intervene against ISIS as soon as possible – what the hell are they waiting for? – and that a hard line should also be taken on Israel. Why is it, I wondered, that if anybody takes the Palestinian side of the argument, it's almost akin to blasphemy and they're accused of being anti-semitic? It's the same if you talk about immigration – you're branded a racist. Why should the Israelis always be given so much rope and be allowed – literally – to get away with murder? And how come they get to be in the Eurovision song contest?

Then, Tony Blair was brought into the discussion (he's never far away). I find it ridiculous that Blair is the Middle East Peace Envoy. I've said this before, I know, but it's akin to making Rolf Harris the UK's child protection 'Tsar' or putting Harold Shipman in charge of assisted dying. If it wasn't for Blair and Bush we wouldn't have ISIS. For all his faults, Saddam Hussein at least kept all the rival factions of Iraqi society in order and what's more, he didn't have any weapons of mass destruction, they were just a ruse to convince the American and British public that we had to invade Iraq – we didn't have to invade Iraq at all – and then, when Bush and Blair realised they'd been rumbled, they came up with the ultimate excuse: faulty intelligence. Iraq was only invaded by Bush and Blair in retaliation for 9/11 when we all know that the Iraqis had nothing to do with it – weren't the 9/11 terrorists from Saudi Arabia? In other words, Saddam Hussein was being used as a scapegoat and it gave Bush an excuse to get in there and win some lucrative reconstruction contracts for American companies like Halliburton...and let's not forget the oil. As for Blair, I can't think of a British Prime Minister who has been more destructive and a threat to world peace as Blair. And to think he was worried about his legacy! His 'legacy' is what is going on in Northern Iraq as I write these words.

The bike at the bus stop shortly before heading back home

Jon and I discussed stuff like this and then, after hanging up the phone I put my stuff away and headed home. I was going to go back the long way but decided against it as I'd left the house later than usual. I got back home around 1020hrs, did a spot of gardening and then headed to Wagamama for lunch followed by a mooch around Waterstone's and a few other shops, buying mundane items like lightbulbs for the kitchen and bathroom – not good old-fashioned bayonet or screw-in lightbulbs, but tiny, irritating, awkward little bastards that require a small black sucker device to fit them in their sockets in the ceiling. Why can't life be straightforward, I wondered?

Sunday 17th August

Today was basically a no-show for yours truly. I awoke this morning at 0200hrs – why, I don't know – and couldn't get back to sleep. I considered counting sheep, but knowing that they were after me for pissing on their parade back in the summer of 2011, I decided not to tempt fate. I started to have visions of a disturbance downstairs in the living room, going to investigate and being greeted by half a dozen angry sheep. "Remember us, Mr Moggridge? Hesiers Hill 2011? Next time you get off your bike to admire the view, think again." All I did, back in 2011 (see link above) was turn up, invade their space for a few minutes and then ride on, but they certainly weren't happy, I know that much. With counting sheep out of the question, therefore, I considered working out the area of the polystyrene ceiling tiles, like I used to when I was a kid back at home, until I realised we didn't have any ceiling tiles. I was wide awake as the time approached 0500hrs and had the choice of getting up and simply going cycling or sending out an abort text and calling it a day. Sadly, I opted for the latter. When I found my iphone on the ironing board I noted that Phil had already sent an abort text late on Saturday night so I sent one to Andy and went back to sleep. I awoke at past 0800hrs, had a late breakfast and now here I am at 1119hrs just putting the finishing touches to this post.

Andy motivated himself and rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, replicating my ride yesterday and, God willing, we'll all be back in the saddle next Saturday.