Andy rides out early...

Andy takes the racer out for an early morning ride.

And when I say 'out early' I mean early. I sent him an abort text and it woke him up earlier than he'd anticipated. He couldn't get back to sleep so he went out on the bike, leaving his house at around 0530hrs and heading for the Tatsfield Churchyard. He must have got there shortly after 0600hrs and then, on the return trip took this shot near the Surrey Hills totem pole on Clarks Lane (no more than a few yards from the Tatsfield Bus Stop).

There is, of course, a couple of morals to this story. One: think twice before texting somebody in the early hours as their phone might not be on silent. Two, put your phone on silent and don't leave it in your bedroom while you sleep. Remember: you can always check for messages in the morning.

To Botley Hill in thick fog...

There's no escaping it: if you drink red wine and eat a rich (ish) meal later than usual (in this case around 8.30pm) then you can expect to wake up in the middle of the morning and then not be able to get back to sleep again. This happened to me this morning. At around 3.30am I found myself awake and even considered going downstairs to mess around on the computer. Eventually, realising that I would eventually fall asleep and then have major difficulty getting up at 6am, I decided to abort the ride.

Yours truly in the fog at Botley Hill, 9.50am, Saturday 5th April 2014.

Once again it was a lovely day when I eventually surfaced around 8am so I decided that, after breakfast, I would head out alone to Botley Hill for one of those non-stop (ish) rides.

The weather was wonderful when I set off on the dot at 9am. I reached Botley Hill at 9.50am, took the two shots accompanying this post and then, at 9.55am, headed home. It took me 30 minutes to ride from Botley Hill to home. I got back at 10.25am.

Despite the lovely weather, as I progressed along the 269 the fog got thicker and thicker and by the time I reached Botley it was so thick I wished I'd put my lights on. On the return journey I took the risk of a puncture by riding along the off-road path until the fog disappeared and then I rejoined the road.

A good ride. Andy texted me to say he went out very early and was back home by 7am. Tomorrow we're planning a ride to Westerham and will be meeting on Warlingham Green at 7am. Phil won't be riding this weekend.

Next to the pub sign at Botley earlier today.

In Brussels...again

I was booked on the 1504 London to Brussels Eurostar and just had time to enjoy lunch on the station before heading off. Once on the train I fell asleep and didn't wake up until the train emerged on the other side of the tunnel. By around 6pm I was in my hotel, which I discovered – to my disappointment – didn't have a restaurant. This is both good and bad news: bad because I like hotel restaurants and didn't really want to wander the streets looking for somewhere to eat; good news because it forced me to go out and explore.

Sadly, I found an awful restaurant (and you can read more about it below). I slept badly as the room was too hot, but eventually fell asleep sometime around 4am. I'd woken up around 3am. By 7.30am I was awake and soon I was sitting downstairs in the breakfast room (which would have been a cosy restaurant except for the fact that my hotel – the Best Western Royal Centre – didn't have one).

After my work was done I had lunch in central Brussels and found the restaurant full of African dignitaries (the European Union and the African Union had been meeting over the past two days). I wandered over to the Central Station, took a train to 'Bruxelles Midi' and then a Eurostar back to London, arriving just before 5pm. A short train journey from Victoria and soon I was home.

It would be outrageous not to mention the Boris Bikes, but even if I'd wanted a ride – in all honesty this was a whistle-stop trip and there was not enough time – it would have been impossible as a membership card was required and, as far as I could gather, it wasn't a case of 'pay-as-you-go'.

Best Western Royal Centre Hotel, Brussels.
I’ve said it before, I know, but first impressions really do count and while I was looking forward to relaxing in my room at the Best Western Royal Centre hotel in Brussels recently, I was on a loser from the word go.

Room 506, Best Western Royal Centre, Brussels.

First, the receptionist informed me that there was no restaurant – only room service (and the menu didn’t look too appetising) – and yet the hotel had four stars plastered over the front door. Surely, four stars mean you get a restaurant? Not in the Best Western Royal Centre. Dare I call for a ‘level playing field’ on the star rating system in Europe?

I don’t know about you, but room service is never ideal. It’s ‘making do’, it’s the equivalent of a ‘working lunch’ or sitting at home with a tray on your lap, eating while watching television. I hate room service – surely, half of the attraction of staying away is eating in the hotel restaurant? – and I can’t stand it when I walk along a hotel corridor, en route to the elevators, and see plates of leftover food and soiled cutlery on a tray awaiting collection. Horrible!

There’s breakfast, but that’s about it.

So I’m staying in room 506. Not a problem, but the door is a bit sticky. You might think I’m complaining unnecessarily and, to a degree, I am (we can all live with a sticky door – for a while) but it was the second negative I associated with this particular hotel experience.

View from room 506, Best Western Royal Centre, Brussels

I’d travelled by Eurostar from London to Brussels (a pleasant trip) but I’d been wearing a suit all day and was glad to get to my room and take it off. However, I started to wonder whether the room was on a slope as the wardrobe’s sliding doors, separating me from a selection of unruly coat hangers, kept rolling back as if they were on a hill. To add insult to injury, as I tried to get the pesky hangers off the rail, the rail simply collapsed, taking with it all the hangers; they clattered noisily to the ground and I wondered if the noise was familiar to residents in nearby rooms – or, indeed, whether they had experienced the same thing.

Another problem was the WiFi. I wrote this review on Microsoft Word rather than rely upon the incredibily slow internet; there was a business centre downstairs, but I’m in my room and the last thing I want to do – at nearly 11pm – is go down five floors in the lift just to do a spot of writing.

The room was fine. It was a twin room. It was clean, had everything I needed, there was even a minibar! I’ve said it before that a full minibar means that the hotel trusts its guests and this minibar was full with drinks and, of course, a Toberlone – the chocolate equivalent of U2 (it’s SO international!). The phone worked, it was all very good except for the wardrobe with its sliding doors and dodgy rail.

I went out in search of a restaurant in which to eat dinner and after 20 minutes of wandering around resorted to a strange place called De Ultieme Hallucinatie – about 15 minutes on foot from the hotel. Not a good choice and now I wish I’d taken a chance on the flamboyant looking Bloom! Hotel’s restaurant, but alas, I endured slow, poor service, a menu I couldn’t understand and food I didn’t particularly enjoy – gooey lamb chops, sweaty vegetables and sticky potatoes. The only redeeming part of the meal was the Rochefort Trappist ale (11.5%). The bill with dessert came to EUR27.50.

Breakfast was fine and now I must check out. Would I stay here again? Yes, but I’d leave more time to find a decent place to eat – although the Bloom! Hotel might be next on my list. Having said that, how can a hotel plaster four stars over its doorway and not offer a decent restaurant? However, in its defence, a hotel without a restaurant means you have to explore the city, which ain’t a bad thing.

Forgetting the clocks went forward...

I went to bed early, disillusioned, as always, with the poor quality of British television. I have vague memories of listening to radio four and then I awoke, suddenly at 0530hrs, not by the alarm, but by the sound of my iphone vibrating. I'd received a message from Andy saying he was going to be late. What?  At 0530hrs in the morning? Oops! The clocks had gone forward – it was really 0630hrs.

I hastily wrote back admitting my failure to remember the beginning of British Summer Time and we agreed to meet at 0730hrs on the green, a loss of 30 minutes and that meant a ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the long way was the only real option open to us.

Not getting up on time meant a slow ride to Tatsfield bus stop.

The weather this weekend has been fantastic. Bright blue skies, hot weather. Amazing. But yesterday I didn't ride out. I would have been on my own had I done so as Andy and Phil weren't going, but that's no excuse. Riding alone, even if it had been to the Bus Stop or Botley Hill and back or even to the Green, would have been enough, but I didn't go and, as a result, I was a bit grouchy for most of the day and the grouchiness was accentuated by having to mow the lawns – the first cut of the year, which is always a pain as the mower gets clogged up and keeps stopping and starting. I decided upon a strategy of mowing the back lawn about half a dozen times, starting on a high setting and gradually stepping it down to a short setting. It worked! And now all that remains is the front lawn.

So, this morning, I rushed out of the house, got the car out of the garage and set off for the green where Andy was waiting, looking a little bit Lycra monkey if the truth be known, although, on closer inspection, I let him off. He was wearing a high visibility top (with the word 'Prudential' on it (always a bad sign)) and his shorts, but was a far cry from the brightly coloured, all-in-one Lycra outfits we've seen on recent rides.

Why? That's what I want to know. Why does anybody get up in the morning and put it on? We saw a bloke today kitted out from head to toe in sponsored Lycra, but it goes without saying that he's not being sponsored, he just likes wearing the stuff. Last week there was the guy at Westerham with his brightly-coloured boots in addition to all the faux sponsorship. Mid-life crisis or what? It looks utterly ridiculous, of course, but why don't they see it? Perhaps, as they pass the hallway mirror in the morning, en route to the garage to retrieve their Conalgo or Bianchi, they stop, on seeing themselves, and are quietly chuffed by how tasty they think they look. But they don't look tasty, they don't look macho, they don't look anything – other than completely stupid. And still they jump on their bikes and ride down the street on the basis that, somehow, being on the bike in some way detracts from the way they look or, indeed, somehow defuses the ridiculous nature of their outfit BECAUSE they are on a bike and other people, out walking dogs or getting the Sunday papers from the local newsagent, would put two and two together and make four. "Ah! It's alright, Ethel, he might look a prat, but look, he's riding a racing bike so it doesn't matter, that's what they all wear. Precious grams and all that. Now it all makes sense!" Well, granted they would look even more foolish if they were out walking the dog while dressed in their Lycra nob-cheese clothing, but jumping on a bike doesn't make things any better.

We rode the long way to the bus stop and it was pleasant, even if Andy felt that Beddlestead Lane was never-ending (sometimes it seems longer than other times, he said). For me, oddly enough, it went by pretty quickly and soon we were sitting at the green drinking tea and munching cereal bars.

It was Phil's birthday yesterday and he went out for a curry. A text said he'd eaten twice his body weight in Indian food and would probably have difficulty getting out of bed in the morning.

The weather was just as good today as it was yesterday. The blossoms are on the trees, there are daffodils everywhere and the summer is truly on the way.

Andy and I parted company at Warlingham Green, but we will be back there next weekend for, hopefully, a couple of rides to Westerham on Saturday and Sunday.

Today is Mother's Day in the UK and I'm later heading off to Sheffield Park for a mosey around after re-heating (and eating) some of yesterday's paella for lunch. Can't wait.

Spring is on the way...

Warlingham Green, 7am, Sunday 23 March 2014.

The clocks go forward next weekend and British Summer Time begins, although the weather forecast is for cold weather, some saying it'll be as low as - 3 degrees. Remember, we had snow in April in 2008.

We ride to Westerham, I get a puncture and some Lycra monkeys get our goat...

Another ride to Westerham, meaning 44 miles in total this weekend and good weather on both occasions, although there were mild rain showers as we made the return journey. Nothing major, no driving rain, just the odd squall.

My Scrap, upside down – the first puncture for a while.

Andy and I met at 7am and headed off on the usual route. When we reached Westerham, the tea was delayed by yours truly and a puncture that I must have picked up on the approach to the town. The offending thorn was about an inch long (see photo below), but the puncture was fixed relatively quickly – once I'd got the front wheel off. Andy says there's a problem with the bearings, something else that needs to be sorted out. So, that's the bottom bracket, new front brake shoes and now, the wheel bearings. But oddly, that knocking I was getting a few weeks back has gone and I'm wondering if it's anything to do with me losing weight (I've lost 21lbs just by doing the following:-

1. Reducing bread intake from 10 + slices per day to just two slices.
2. Cutting out/reducing virtually everything to do with the letter B. Bread, buns, biscuits and beer (yes, beer), not forgetting chocolate bars and sweets.
3. No eating between meals, just breakfast, lunch and dinner and if I do eat between meals it's either a raw carrot or, after lunch only, a small portion of almonds from M&S.

That's about it and I've lost 21lbs! And I haven't stopped dessert either, meaning I can eat, say, apple pie and crumble of an evening, should the fancy take me, and that's alright.

My intake of food consists, roughly, of the following:-

1. One bowl of porridge for breakfast and possibly an item of fruit, ie a banana or an apple.
2. One sandwich (two slices of bread) for lunch. Normally tuna and onion or cheese and tomato plus an apple and a raw carrot, which I eat mid-morning. I buy the almonds at lunch time and eat them around 2pm and that sees me through to dinner time.
3. Dinner can be anything: lentils and rice, salmon, potatoes and greens, whatever. The key is not to eat more than two slices of bread per day and NEVER eat between meals. I can drink alcohol, but nothing excessive and it must be during the 'dinner' period (except when travelling). At Prague airport last week, for instance, I had a pint of Pilsner Urquell with a cheese and ham toastie – fine, it was lunch time. But on the flight back I had nothing to eat or drink, waiting instead for dinner.

By following the above regime (which hasn't been too difficult) I've lost 21lbs.

So today, when Andy bought two rock cakes from the Tudor Rose Tearooms in Westerham,  while tempted, I resisted, making do with the cereal bar.

Lycra monkey idiots!
It's been a good weekend of cycling, but a bunch of Lycra monkeys left a nasty taste. Why? Because, outside the Tudor Rose, where the ridiculously dressed monkeys were sitting, there is a residential house adjoining the café. On the wall of the private address is a very clear notice, a 'polite notice' asking cyclists not to lean their bicycles against the wall. The monkeys had ignored this notice and leaned their bikes, one on top of the other, against the wall while they sat there discussing their annuities (that's all Lycra monkeys do: talk about 'matters financial' and you just know that they have a Phil Collins album somewhere in their collection.

So, the monkeys sat there, discussing the usual crap and one of them had the audacity to wear bright orange boots – he looked absolutely ridiculous. Then, two more monkeys arrived, not part of the original group, and they left their bikes obstructing the front door of the private house. Had anybody inside the house decided to come outside they would have had to move the bikes. The monkeys concerned were not concerned at all by this; instead they just sailed into the Tudor Rose, took a seat and ordered food and drink. We saw them laughing and joking from our position on the green.

The one-inch long thorn I found in my inner tube.

We were outside fixing my puncture or sipping tea and we just thought: 'what a bunch of nob cheeses!' In many ways it ruined the ride, but we re-mounted our bikes and headed out of town and up the long hill from Westerham to the Botley Hill Farmhouse pub and then powered our way down the 269 where we noticed there a distinct chill in the air.

I got home just before 1000hrs pleased with the fact that I'd riden 44 miles over the weekend. It was like old times and long may it continue.

Andy and I have vowed to ride out as early and as often as possible and we aim for 44-milers most weekends – weather permitting.

Main photo: Andy Smith.

To Westerham...

Heavy wind and rain through the night left puddles everywhere, but the poor weather had cleared by the morning and now there are blue skies and plenty of sunshine.

We met at 0715hrs on Warlingham Green where the flowers were in bloom around the war memorial. There were blossoms on the trees too and, another sign of the changing season, Andy was wearing shorts. He'd riden out on the Blast today (not the racer) and said he noticed the difference: brakes that work properly and a much smoother ride.

My Kona Scrap at the foot of Water Lane, Westerham, this morning.

We headed off up the 269 and maintained a steady pace all the way to Westerham where the wet benches meant we had to stand to drink our tea and chat.

Phil must have been boiling his marmalade as there was no sign of him and Andy and I were wondering if we'd ever get to taste any.

We set off for home around 0845hrs and I got back at 0948hrs. The plan is to keep up the rides to Westerham, just like the old days with the added bonus of tea and a cereal bar as, in the old days, we didn't have tea, just a bun or some kind of bakery item from the Co-op where we used to stand around outside and then pedal home. It would be good to get back to 44-miler weekends so here's hoping we keep up the momentum.

At Prague airport...

I checked out of the hotel just before noon, the taxi driver arrived and soon I was on my way to the airport on what turned out to be a beautiful day: there were blue skies and sunshine.

Minutes after take-off from Prague and heading for Heathrow...

There's so much to say. I'm now sitting in the Pilsner Urquell Original Restaurant, which looks a lot better than it is; it's a pub offering a limited menu of microwaved panini breads – I chose ham and cheese – but the beer's good, so I'm not complaining, and there's the Czech version of MTV. As I write this, Avicci (that might not be spelt correctly) is belting out his latest hit. I've got time to kill before I fly off and there's still some power left in the laptop's battery so I thought I'd write a few more words about Prague.

What a great city! It is! Whenever I travel to Europe I realise how cultured it all is when compared to the increasingly 'Chavvy' United Kingdom. It always hits me when I leave the confines of a UK airport (Heathrow on this occasion) and start to mingle with the populus, which tends to be a lot of very shabby-dressed people with miserable-looking faces and I just know that it wouldn't take much to push them over the edge. Everybody's on a kind of knife-edge in the UK while over here in Prague (or wherever) it doesn't seem to be the case. Perhaps I'm seeing things through rose-tinted glasses, I don't know, but there's something not right about the UK at the moment and it's probably a lot to do with the Government and austerity and all the usual crap that pisses people off.

Even on a very peripheral level the UK seems to be lacking something. Take buskers, which I've mentioned before in a previous post. In the UK, buskers are normal playing an acoustic guitar. Here in Prague, I saw one busker playing a set of wine glasses filled with differing amounts of water and, wait for it, he was playing Strauss – beautifully – and he always attracted a huge crowd.

The driving standards here seem a lot better than those in the UK. My taxi driver took his time, not in an irritating 'get a move-on' sort of way, he simply drove properly.

I reached the airport with plenty of time to spare and that's why I am blogging in the airport. I checked in without any fuss. The only mildly worrying thing was the lack of security. Normally, after checking in it's time to go through the laborious procedure of taking the laptop out of it's case, putting it into a tray of its own and then being subjected to 'security'. Not here, though, and for a while I was a little concerned, until I noticed that 'security' takes place at the gate. Thank the Lord for that!

Travelling is odd and I can't help thinking of dad and what he used to say about 'travelling'. He thought it was pointless if it was being done purely for the sake of it, ie let's go travelling. Why? Travel if you need to go somewhere, but travelling for the sake of it is pointless, he would argue. It's a bit like when the TV news tells you only to travel 'if absolutely necessary' as if anybody would take a train to, say, Cockfosters – or anywhere – if they didn't need to.

The sticky word, of course, is 'holiday' as everybody needs a break. I'm guessing that dad would say if you're travelling for a reason – to take a break – then that was fine, but there are people, he would argue, who travel for the sake of it. "I'm taking a year off to go travelling." Where to? "Well, all over." But I think dad was wrong. If you're taking a year off to 'go travelling' you're not travelling around aimlessly, you're seeing the world, visiting places you haven't seen before and so on. Surely, that's fine too? In all seriousness, who WOULD travel for no reason? Although I must say that I really enjoy 'mooching' around, especially in foreign lands. Perhaps dad had something against 'moochers'.

The biggest problem for me is the 'universality' of everything. Everything is the same and by that I don't just mean the big brands I encounter everywhere. "Ooh look! They've got a Tesco!" No, it's more fundamental than that. All city centres do the same thing, they all look the same, they all have the same style of restaurant with canopies and those outdoor heaters and sail-like banners and we all get the picture when it comes to churches, cathedrals, castles, museums, towers, whatever it might be.

In the same way that all nations (or most nations) have central banks, they also have 'city centres' designed for the tourist. If there's a cathedral or a church or a museum it's the same as everywhere else and people stand there marvelling at whatever it might be: an ornate ceiling, whatever, but it's always the same. And then there's all the shops 'beyond passport control' at the airport – what's the point? All the tat you can buy anywhere: teeshirts with 'Prague' or 'London' or 'New York' or whatever written on the front; glasses, dolls, baseball caps, wherever I go it's always the same old thing – broadly speaking. In that sense you might as well not bother getting out of bed because, basically, you know what you're going to get: the bar of Toblerone, the bottle of whisky, the perfume, the ads in the back of the tourism magazine in your hotel room, bringing to your attention a forthcoming gig by the Blue Man Group.

Somewhere, somebody buys this stuff and it's displayed in their houses: plates, vases, snow domes, there's a wardrobe full of hooded sweat shirts with the name of a city on the front. Hell, every city has a Hard Rock Café – there's another one – and all the restaurants, by and large, look the same, offer the same sort of food you can get anywhere with the same poncy chefs pretending to be something they're not.

I think the problem here is standardisation. There's too much 'uniformity' and it doesn't matter where you go. Why does everything have to be the same? It's as if somewhere, somebody has decided on what they believe is a 'winning formula' and others have copied it, to their detriment. Oh for somebody, somewhere, to break the mould! Ultimately, branding is to be blame. Everybody feels they must have a logo, a brand identity, to convey 'brand reassurance'  to their customers and that creates uniformity based on the knowledge that people like the familiar and the expected. Branding drives everything: hotel brands ensure that every hotel room wherever you are in the world, looks the same. All cars look the same, we all have iPhones and iPads and people are the same too. Wherever I go people wear jeans and trainers and play with their mobile phones. In short, the world is homogenising and that, in my opinion, is a bad thing.

A wander through Prague to the Charles Bridge and beyond...

It's odd being a foreigner. Walking around a foreign city is strange, although, these days, you never feel that far from home thanks to the concept of 'globalisation'. You know when globalisation has overstayed its welcome when you find yourself, like I did, on the other side of the world, but standing next to a Claire's Accessories shop. I think I was in Calgary at the time, but since then, I've found myself in the Middle East staring at, say, a Dixon's or a Monsoon, and it's as if I'm a mere bus ride from home, let alone a few thousand miles.

One of many religious statues on Prague's Charles Bridge.

And you don't have to be that far away either. Any modern European city is the same (with a few exceptions). Now, however, I'm in Prague and I might as well be in Croydon or the Bluewater shopping complex. As I wander around the cobbled streets, what do I see? Zara, Debenhams, Mango, Apple, Tesco, and many more, some of which escape me as I write this. It wasn't so bad in Istanbul, but in places a little more developed, the big brand names all have a presence and I wish they weren't there; admittedly, Prague does have other, more quirky shops and if you get onto the other side of the river, preferably by crossing the Charles Bridge, you'll find a much quieter city with quirkier shops and quiet and cosy cafés and restaurants.

Once my business was over I did just that, as the light was beginning to fade. I headed off towards the river, although I really had no idea where I was going, I was simply remembering a street map I'd left in my hotel room. It wasn't a problem, however, as all I had to do was keep walking in a straight (ish) line and, lo and behold, I eventually reached the Charles Bridge. The bridge is strange as it is lined, at regular intervals with religious statues and peppered here and there with the odd beggar stroking his dog or holding out a paper cup, sponsored by another rather prevalent big brand name – Costa. Oh, and there's also Starbucks and Subway here too.

One thing I do find rather wearing is the shops full of tourist 'tat'. There's loads of it in the shape of tee shirts, glassware, Russian dolls, furry slippers, hats, you name it and it grates a little, but not as much as the big brand names.

On the other side of the Charles Bridge, Prague.

After walking for some considerable time I found a café and ordered a fresh ginger tea and a slice of honey cake. Alright, I know I should have held back on the cake, but generally I've been good so I treated myself, having found a very cosy little caff just on the other side of the Charles bridge*, which was nice. I sat there for all of 10 minutes and then headed back across the bridge to my hotel where I sit now penning this post. I'm likely to being going back in the direction of the Charles Bridge in a second or two as my colleague Nick and I need something to eat and tonight we thought we'd try out somewhere other than Al Forno, even if I did say I'd be going back there tonight for the final time.

It's 1150hrs and I've just got back after what can only be described as a very pleasant evening. Nick and I met up as planned and we walked back towards the Charles Bridge and then wandered around and eventually walked over another bridge and back towards our hotel, having looked at (and turned down) spending our money in any of the restaurants we passed en route. In the end we decided to visit Ristorante Italiano Buschetto where we chewed the fat about this and that and had a very pleasant evening setting the world to rights and so on before a leisurely stroll back to the hotel, from where I complete this post.

View from the Charles bridge...

I head back home tomorrow afternoon and while I love being here in Prague, I miss my family and look forward to being reunited tomorrow evening. It's work on Friday as normal and then the weekend. So here's to everything!

* On a later visit to Prague the café had been closed down.

An early night reading the newspaper – how staid I've become!

It's raining in Prague. Drizzly rain makes the cobbled streets outside my hotel shiny and the pathways a little slippery. Having worked all day, I walked back to my hotel in the drizzle, glad to get back to my room but conscious that I'd need to go and have dinner somewhere; the plan was to head back to my favourite Al Forno restaurant a few hundred yards from the hotel. But first, I thought I'd check out other restaurants nearby. In all honesty, I knew that I'd be heading for Al Forno, but I felt it was only fair to see what else was on offer. Not that I didn't know already. Back in 2004 (or thereabouts) while editing a fine dining magazine, I made the trip to Prague to review a few restaurants, but can I remember any of them? No. I've seen a few nice places on my route to the conference hotel, but I can't be bothered to walk back that way again, especially in the rain, and besides, I know Al Forno, I love the food, the ambience and the service so why go anywhere else?

 I eventually found myself seated at Al Forno. The menu arrived. I chose a vegetable soup (as always) and this time opted for a fish dish of flounder and a large king prawn on a bed of spinach with some cherry tomatoes and carrots. Very tasty. I ordered a glass of red wine and a small bottle of sparkling mineral water, the bread rolls arrived and I sat there reading the Independent on Sunday, a newspaper I'd picked up at Heathrow prior to the flight to Prague. I've virtually read it all.

I should be out on the streets of Prague, but I really can't be bothered

The restaurant was busier than usual, but just as good as it has been all week and I plan to go back there tomorrow, my last night here in Prague. I read a number of comment articles, one arguing that the end of China's boom need not trigger a bust; another headlined A good read is just that. Ask any child, which was all about how the newspaper will, in future, refuse to entertain gender-specific books. Then there was Master of reportage, whatever the cost, a story about Joe McGinniss, a writer who recently passed away, but prior to doing so he wrote about Richard Nixon, the Jeffery MacDonald case in the USA and the former Republican party vice presidential hopeful, Sarah Palin. I've reached the letters page now. It's amazing how one newspaper can last so long. After paying my bill I wandered back to the hotel in the rain and went straight to my room where I checked out the remaining articles in the Independent on Sunday. There's an article by Dom Joly entitled From VIP guest to abused idiot, it's a short hop, so I'm going to read that and then hit the sack. When I come to think about it (as I am now) that last headline could so easily be the title of my autobiography.

Quirky buskers
I tell you what I do like about Prague (there are lots of things) and that's the buskers. They're just a little bit more left field than what you find in the UK. In the UK it's always somebody playing a guitar, nothing quirky, just the same old thing. It could be argued that British buskers haven't really progressed from Ralph McTell's Streets of London. But in Prague it's a little bit more, I don't know, a little bit more unusual. Today (and yesterday) I felt compelled to stop and listen to a man playing some really complicated, mesmerising and magical stuff on, wait for it, a collect of different-sized wine glasses filled with varying amounts of water. An old trick, I know, but I've never seen it in the UK