En route to Nice...

I'd planned to use public transport to reach London Heathrow Terminal Five and, to be frank, it was much easier than I had anticipated. The train into town from where I live was fine – it was just gone 0730hrs and I still managed to get a seat – and then the tube journey was sort of fine, bar a couple of potential hassles. The first was a huge queue of people at the top of the stairs near the entrance to the Victoria Line. My plan was to travel to Green Park and get the Piccadilly Line all the way to Heathrow.

The problem I encountered was some kind of mechanical failure involving trains to Brixton (David Bowie's birthplace). They were not running so a huge crowd of people gathered. I was told to take the District Line, which I did, changing at South Kensington for the rest of the ride. The next problem was the signage on the platform: it didn't correspond with the destination on the front of the train. If the board said that the next train was for Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3 and 5, the train said it was going to Rayners Park and then, when you got on the train, the female voice from the train's internal intercom said something completely different.

Heathrow's Terminal 5 – arguably the London airport's best terminal

I jumped on a Northfields train (after hesitating on the platform and allowing, potentially, two or three Heathrow-bound trains to come and go) and sure enough, the female voice informed me that the train was going to Terminals 1 to 4, but not 5. I decided to get on board, get closer to my destination and then, should there be any real problems, I'd simply get a cab from somewhere drab like Hounslow Central or Osterley. I jumped off the train at the former and waited just three minutes for a train to Terminal Five.

Right now, as I write this, I'm sitting in Terminal Five's Starbucks having enjoyed a medium-sized tea with a caramel shortbread. I know, I shouldn't have, but all rules go out the window at airports in my book. In fact, flying in general sees the rule book thrown out of the window. If I'm on an early morning flight, leaving, say, at 0900hrs, I'll quite happily ask for two of those small bottles of red wine to accompany my chocolate Hob Nobs or whatever culinary delight they happen to be serving up. In the 'olden days' all flights offered breakfast in a heated foil container, but those days are long gone. Today, snacks are the order of the day so I figured I'd be better off going to Starbucks, ordering tea and a 'millionaire's shortbread' – the generic term for this type of confection – and taking pot luck when I get on the plane.

Prior to finding myself in the ubiquitous American coffee outlet I sailed through security – it's so much easier at T5 than anywhere else I've been. The whole place seems calm and orderly and, within a matter of minutes, I was in my favourite place – beyond passport control, that No Man's Land of duty-free goods, expensive perfumes, raffles for top-of-the-range sports cars and big brand name fashion retailers. I avoid them all like the plague, not being in the slightest bit interested in 'having the right stuff'. In my view, everything is 'designer' even if it doesn't say so. My M&S green cords must be have been designed by somebody, it's just that whoever designed them is clearly not as accomplished as Tommy fucking Hilfigger. Still, they do the job; they enable me to walk around in public without exposing my genitalia to unsuspecting members of the public, something I'd be virtually forced to do if, for some strange reason, I wasn't wearing a pair of trousers. I wear clothes because I have to, they're either to keep me warm or to cover me up and at this time of year they perform both functions. Not that I am in any way suggesting that during the warmer months I can be spotted without trousers.

It's quite a pleasant day. There are thin grey clouds and blue skies beyond and I'm sitting looking out at many British Airways jets that are parked up at various gates awaiting their passengers. One of them is probably mine, but I won't know yet as I got here miles too early and have to kill time – one reason why I'm glad I bought my laptop. Being early also justifies my millionaire's shortbread and medium tea.

Despite the number of people that must populate Terminal Five, it's not in the slightest bit 'noisy'. I'm wondering who I'm going to see milling around. Normally I spot a 'celebrity' – on previous occasions I've seen Miranda Hart and Jimmy Somerville. Who, I wonder, will it be today? As long as they're not shouting 'God is Great!' I don't really care.

The world is full of nutters
I woke up this morning to hear that there had been a terrorist attack in Jakarta, Indonesia. Suicide bombers and gunman had gone on the rampage and, of course, so-called 'Islamic State' are the chief culprits. At the time of writing, I'm not exactly sure of the situation, but online news reports are saying that at least seven people are dead following a co-ordinated bomb and gun assault and that there have been several large explosions across the city.

There are plenty of crazy people on the loose in the world, but fortunately for a Mrs Davidson of Fruitland Park, Florida, USA, her husband Keith is not one of them. Keith is currently being held at Lake County Jail on a charge of battery.

According to news reports, he got so furious when he discovered that the house had run out of jam that he used his wife's head as a mop. Mr Davidson flew into a rage while looking for jam to add to his peanut butter sandwich, couldn't find any and then engaged in a heated exchange with Mrs Davidson who, during their 'discussion' accidentally spilt milk on the floor. Keith then took the meaning of crying over spilt milk a little too far, and decided to use his wife's head to clear up the resulting mess. She later called the cops who found 'significant bruising' on the woman. One has to ask, what IS the world coming to?

Thoughts on David Bowie's passing

As I sit and listen to the melancholy sound of David Bowie's latest and last album, Blackstar, I'll admit to feeling very sad about his passing away, and I'm sure that many people throughout the world feel the same way.

The late, great David Bowie...

I wouldn't say I was ever a true Bowie 'fan' – I only bought one of his albums, Hunky Dory, and, later, a compilation CD – but he was one of only a handful of musicians who, over the years, have been impossible to ignore. Who hasn't listened to tracks like Jean Genie, Young Americans, Fame, Heroes, Suffragette City, Starman, Fashion, Let's Dance, China Girl, Space Oddity – the list is endless.

One thing I think I'll always be grateful for is that my generation has been given the very best on offer as far as popular music is concerned. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, the Who, AC/DC, Hawkwind, Motörhead, Elton John, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Jam, the list is endless. I wonder whether today's musicians – those who have come out of television talent shows like X Factor, will be held in such high esteem as the aforementioned rock greats? In short, the answer is no, they won't be because they will never be as accomplished or talented. They will never be THAT good or that 'respected'. Having said that, I swear that my dad said something similar whenever he found himself forced to listen to my Clash and Hawkwind albums. Something about Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra being able to knock out a tune.

Blackstar is the perfect album, tinged as it is with sadness and with an almost ghostly, choral quality.

It's a shame that Bowie had to die so young.

To the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Saturday, but rear wheel puncture aborts Sunday's outing...

Yesterday morning, when I left the house around 0730hrs, I was amazed by how dark it was outside. It was pitch black. I put this down to the fact that the last few rides over the festive period were later than our usual departure time and, for some reason, I thought it would be lighter than it actually was.

Phil texted me just before I left saying he was coming and please wait for him. Not a problem. When I waltzed outside – I didn't 'waltz' outside at all, but it sounds good, even if it does make me sound a little dandy – there he was, bike parked by the kerb. He'd brought along the last of his Mary Berry Christmas cake, which we later enjoyed at the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Yes, despite New Year Resolutions it's still our preferred venue, although yesterday we reached it via the slow route.

An unwelcomed rear wheel puncture put paid to my cycling this morning

The slow route is fine if you want to chat and not worry so much about the traffic, as avid readers will already know, but there is one killer – Beddlestead Lane. Phil was out of condition and cited half a bottle of wine and some cheese and Port on Friday night, plus little in the way of cycling over Christmas – as the chief reason behind his sluggishness.

As we trundled up and along the tiresome Beddlestead Lane we chatted about this and that, but Andy powered ahead. It was a clear day and at one point I could see him in the distance ahead, his rear light flashing like a beacon, as Phil and I continued to chat and 'mosey along' trying not to over-exert ourselves. Eventually Andy returned to see if we were alright and we all cycled along together for the last 200 yards or so to Clarks Lane.

The weather was fine. In fact, the mild weather I've been going on about since November last year continues and while there was a few angry clouds dotted around, all was fine. Or rather it was kind of alright. It had been raining heavily through the night, leaving puddles everywhere – not ideal if, like me, your bike doesn't have any mudguards. Later, when we embarked upon on our ride home, there was a mild drizzle that quickly gathered momentum.

Once at the bus stop, however, out came the tea and biscuits and, of course, three huge slabs of Phil's interpretation of Mary Berry's Christmas cake. The guy is a genius! His culinary expertise knows no bounds – savoury or sweet – and it goes without saying that we all enjoyed the cake. We had a couple of Belvita biscuits too and soon it was time to head home in the aforementioned mild drizzle which, by the time we reached Warlingham Green, was bona fide rain.

Sunday morning...
And now it's Sunday morning and the time is 0646hrs. I was softly awakened at 0600hrs by Radio Four's Something Understood, which today, ironically, was all about 'sleeping on it' – something I wished for at that moment, it has to be said. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and then again around 0500hrs. I still managed to summon up the energy to jump out of bed, skip downstairs (alright, I didn't skip) make tea, toast and Weetabix and sit downstairs, at the dining table, laptop on, writing this post.

Today it's just Andy and I on the ride and, judging by a cursory glance outside, it seems to be pretty dry out there, which is good. Yesterday it rained on and off throughout the day and well into the night, so I'm hoping it'll need a rest this morning. The roads were dry and the trees were still, so I'm hoping for a trouble-free ride.

But then...
When I ventured outside to the garage and unpadlocked the bike I discovered a rear wheel puncture. How frustrating! I'd It would mean an 'abort' text so there would be no riding for me today, more's the pity.

Weather note: it's still fairly pleasant and mild, but of late there's been a lot of rain and today (Sunday) it's definitely turned a little colder and more in tune with standard January weather. As I walked back to the car park in Petworth, West Sussex, around 4pm this afternoon – after an enjoyable lunch in Tiffins – there was a cold wind and rain and it wasn't pleasant, especially considering my leaking Sports Direct trainers.

To St. Leonard's Church, Chelsham – the first ride of 2016

Tiredness forced me to hit the sack earlier than usual last night. I was in bed around 2130hrs and immediately regretted the decision. As soon as my head touched the pillow I started to yearn for being downstairs again and vowed to get up in around 15 minutes to watch the news. The next thing I knew it was 0215hrs.

When the alarm went off – and by 'alarm' I mean Radio Four springing to life – I was in no mood for getting out of bed. I listened to the news in a state of semi-consciousness and around 0614hrs realised I had to get up. Oh for an abort text! I checked the phone and there was nothing but the photograph that accompanied my last post staring back at me, reminding me of the time.

Outside St. Leonard's Church, Chelsham. Pic: Andy Smith

As soon as my two feet touched the carpet there were problems. Problems are amplified when you're half asleep and don't really want to get up. First, a missing sock. Where the fuck was it? I found it pretty quickly, mumbling under my breath like the Camp Tramp, and then, having put both socks on, I staggered sleepily towards the wardrobe, the one with the squeaky, creaky door, in search of my cycling clobber. It was so dark that I couldn't see a thing, although I knew one thing: my cycling trousers were outside on the clothes line so I'd have to improvise in some way. This means using a pair of 'normal' trousers in the hope that it won't be wet and rainy and that they'll arrive home wearable and in no way damaged. I did, however, find a pair of 'trousers' that I use for painting the house complete with some white paint marks that date back years (I can't remember the last time I picked up a paint brush).

With the paint-marked trousers on, my next task was to find my cycling top. Where was it? I remembered that my iphone had a torch facility so I walked to the other side of the bedroom – it's dual aspect and pretty large – and retrieved it from the the ironing board, only to realise, while scanning the wardrobe, that the top in question was simply resting on the armchair on the other side of the room.

Eventually I made it to the kitchen. After the trauma of the last 15 minutes I opted for a big breakfast: Shredded Wheat (two biscuits) a couple of slices of toast and tea. Wonderful.

Later, after checking out the blog I felt the phone vibrating in my pocket (I was just about to leave the house). A tired-sounding Andy was on the other end. He'd just woken up and wanted to know if we could meet at 0800hrs instead of the usual 0730hrs. Why not? I could use the extra chill-out time myself, I thought. So we've agreed to meet at the usual place at the slightly later time of eight o'clock. Being as we're heading out later than usual, we'll probably ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, although one of my New Year Resolutions – I don't normally make them – is to ride to the lake at least once a month. Or, failing that, more often than we rode to the lake in 2015. I'll have to check the blog, but there's an outside chance that we never rode there last year, although I can't believe we never saw Longford Lake. We need to get to Westerham a few times too.

Later...
I left the house at around 0735hrs and found the cycling heavy going. There was a mild headwind as I rode along Ellenbridge, and Church Way proved to be equally hard work. I was glad when I reached the churchyard. I rode past Sanderstead pond and headed along the 269 towards the green where I found Andy. We didn't stop, but rode off in the usual direction, both wondering whether we should be riding to the bus stop in the rain. Yes, the rain had started and it prompted us to aim for St. Leonard's Church instead of Tatsfield, a shorter ride and, it has to be said, and a more picturesque one. Country lanes are more appealing than busy roads – not that the 269 is busy early in the morning.

The rain had stopped and started and by the time we'd reached the Warlingham Sainsbury's roundabout we changed our minds and decided to head for the bus stop. However, as we passed Ledgers Road – the last possible opportunity to ride to St Leonard's – it started to rain again so we did a U-turn in the road and cycled along Ledgers to where it joined with Church Lane where we turned right and kept going.

While the rain had stopped, Ledgers Road was swamped with puddles and wet leaves and within a matter of minutes I was soaked through. Just before the church there is a shortish climb and at this point I considered suggesting that we push on towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop, but the thought of Beddlestead Lane's slow and laborious climb put me off. Soon enough we arrived at our destination and set up camp under the gable-roofed gateway to St. Leonard's. No benches meant that we had to stand up to drink our tea and munch our BelVita's, but it didn't matter.

Everything was damp and after two cups of tea and a small pack of BelVita biscuits, we started to pack things away and consider the ride home. Unfortunately it had started to rain again, but it was fine rain and as we wound our way towards Warlingham Sainsbury's along rural lanes, it started to rain properly.

We parted company at the green and vowed to meet again next weekend. I rode alone towards Sanderstead while Andy made tracks towards Caterham.

I was soaked through by the time I reached home, thanks mainly to my lack of mudguards, but after changing into to dry clothes and drying myself down I felt better and now I'm simply chilling until somebody finds me a job to do – like sorting out the coats in the cloakroom or cleaning the washing machine's filter, two of many little jobs around the house that need to be done.

New Year's Day 2016

A late night and a few drinks put paid to any thoughts of a ride on New Year's Day 2016. Instead, the programme was basically lolling about doing virtually nothing other than stealing odd moments to read or browse the internet, in between eating. Not that I ate a great deal: breakfast consisted of lemon and ginger tea and a slice of toast and then lunch was mushrooms on toast.

In the afternoon I took the family for a drive and after cruising through Edenbridge on a dark, rainy afternoon, we found ourselves in Sevenoaks and inside a rather cosy Costa Coffee drinking tea and eating a variety of confections. I chose a white chocolate finger. Now, there's something to savour. A white chocolate finger. Perfect! It's up their with Petit Filous desserts and BelVita milk and cereal biscuits. In fact, if the truth be known, it trumps the lot of them.

A typical scene on New Year's Day – this is Sevenoaks

Being in Sevenoaks in the late afternoon was perfect for some reason. It was dark, most of the shops were closed, but the Christmas decorations still illuminated the small precinct and there were a few people, not many, milling around peering into shop windows and then moving on, just like us. This, in many ways, is a typical New Year's Day. Nothing open. Darkness setting in around 4pm. Christmas lights squeezing out their last few days of meaning anything to anybody and a strange anticipation hanging in the air, the calm before the storm of whatever 2016 will bring. Going back to work loomed large and so did that desperate feeling of not wanting the peace and relaxation to end.

We dived into Laura Ashley and spent miles too long in the furniture department looking at sofas and tables and anything else the 'home' section had to offer. There's something cosy about furniture shops when it's dark outside and there's hardly anybody around.

Saturday 2nd January 2016

I really thought a ride was on the cards and for this reason I was up around 0600hrs and kind of raring to go, although, to be honest, I didn't really fancy going out. I was tired. The holidays were now over officially – today is just like any other Saturday – and a lie-in would have done me the power of good. But it was not to be so I sat at the dining room table, lap top out, checking the blog, checking the BBC news website and generally browsing stuff until I heard a text arrive. It was from Andy. "Raining here," it said, meaning that in Caterham it was raining. Normally, if it's raining in Caterham it soon rains here too, but when I peered out there was little but wind.

I sent back a text: "Which doesn't bode well. Abort? Or wait and see? I think it's going to rain so likely an abort. Not sure. Dry here now."

But Andy didn't have time to postpone the ride. "Too busy today," he texted. "Fingers crossed for tomorrow."

Well, that was it. No ride. So I texted an 'abort' message to Phil and sighed with relief  – although now I was up I figured I should go out for a ride, possibly to mum's or Botley, something short. But when I looked out it was raining and I had a legitimate excuse not to go.

Here's hoping there will be a ride tomorrow.

In praise of the Tatsfield Bus Stop

In his latest book, The Road to Little Dribbling, Bill Bryson writes: "Bus shelters used to be like little cottages, with pitched roofs and built-in wooden benches. Now they are just wind tunnels with advertisements."

Later, he writes: "In countless small ways the world around us grows gradually shittier."

He has a point.

And while I often moan about the Tatsfield Bus Stop (on the junction with Approach Road and Clarks Lane just outside of Tatsfield Village) my moaning is not about the bus stop itself, which is in keeping with Bryson's ideal style of bus shelter, but the fact that we don't go anywhere else these days.

The much loved Tatsfield Bus Stop and my Kona mountain bike

The great thing about the Tatsfield Bus Stop is that it is made of wood, has a built-in bench, a gabled roof and is an ideal place to shelter from the rain or snow.

We are a little crazy to cycle eight miles just to stop and drink tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, but when all is said and done, it's a great place to be especially with a flask of hot water, a few Twining's English Breakfast tea bags and half a dozen Belvita biscuits. Throw in a newspaper and a decent transistor radio and you'd be very close to my idea of heaven.

• For details of Bill Bryson's latest book, The Road to Little Dribbling, and his other excellent travel books (and history books, books about the English language, Shakespeare and much more) click here.

• Bryson on the subject of Trip Advisor reviewers and their poor standards of literacy.
  Click here.

• While a New Year's Day ride was suggested by Phil, after a late night such an escapade has proved completely off the scale for yours truly. I have a mild headache – brought about more by a late night than excessive alcohol – and I could do with a good walk. Weather permitting, I'll be out tomorrow (Saturday 2nd January).

Happy New Year to all who might stumble across my blog.

Motorhead's Lemmy is dead...

I'm sure there are people out there who will remark, on learning today of Lemmy's death from an aggressive form of cancer, that he had it coming, bearing in mind his rock and roll lifestyle and the suggestion by the media that he drank a bottle of Jack Daniels every day. Well, perhaps he did, but either way he lived for three score years and 10 so he wasn't doing too badly for somebody who truly represented the world's rock gods.

Lemmy Kilmister, Motorhead's frontman

For me Lemmy first came to light as the front man of Hawkwind for the band's only top 10 hit, Silver Machine. What a song! What a track! It was a big hit back in the seventies, and it's still as potent today as it was back in the day.

When Lemmy was booted out of Hawkwind – you have to be rock 'n' roll to be booted out of Hawkwind – he set up Motorhead, probably the best example of metal music there is on the planet. You can't beat a band that looks like a group of vagabonds from a cross between a spaghetti western and an early Mad Max movie. They were, simply, the best, if you'll excuse the untimely Tina Turner/Mad Max reference. (Turner, in my opinion, put all the nails in the coffin of the Mad Max 'franchise'. The best ones, in my opinion, were the first two). In fact, why didn't they cast Lemmy in Mad Max? He would have been perfect, but then I guess it wasn't really his scene.

I find it rather funny that Lemmy – the man behind tracks such as Love Me Like a Reptile – was a keen reader of PG Wodehouse. This was revealed in a fantastic documentary by, I think, the BBC, who followed the great rocker on tour. Hopefully, bearing in mind Lemmy's recent demise, they might re-screen it on BBC Four.

Another great thing about Lemmy was the fact that he played bass. All the truly great rock musicians play bass: Sir Paul McCartney (well, he's not really a 'rock' musician, but you know what I mean); Sting from the Police, Burke Shelley from Budgie (yes, Budgie, a great metal (ish) bad with some great albums under their belts, including Never Turn Your Back on a Friend, which carried the excellent track Parents – their Stairway to Heaven moment – alongside encore classics like Breadfan, which a friend of a friend of mine used to think was Bread Van, and the equally excellent In the Grip of the Tyrefitter's Hand.

And listen, before anybody says that you can't include Sting in any kind of tribute to Lemmy, while I know where you're coming from, I was simply pointing out that some of the great front men from various major bands are bass players.

Ace of Spades is Lemmy's 'signature' tune. If he was a chef it would have been his signature dish. What an amazing song – although the word 'song' seems too tame a description. Brilliant lyrics and totally in tune with the sort of man Lemmy was – unpretentious and straight-to-the-point, like Motorhead.  In fact, Lemmy was also quite happy to send himself up, as he did brilliantly in many advertisements on television for big brands such as Kronenbourg and KitKat. In one advertisement for an insurance company, viewers were treated to the hard man of rock going backstage to call his insurance company and discuss the terms and conditions of his policy – most out of character for a whisky rock 'n' roller like Lemmy, but great fun to watch.

When I opened my email this morning I found a message from a good pal in the New Forest, David Mascord. Dave has uncovered 18 phrases of wisdom from Lemmy, all of which can be found simply by clicking here.

That said, here's four quotes from the 18 that seem a fitting way to end this brief but sincere tribute. Whether Motorhead can continue with a new frontman, I don't know, but I'd imagine that Lemmy is irreplaceable and sorely missed.

"As you go through life's rich tapestry, you realize that most people you meet aren't fit to shine your shoes. It's a sad fact, but it's true. A good friend is someone who'd hide you if you were on the run for murder. How many of them do you know?" - via The Independent

"I don't understand people who believe that if you ignore something, it'll go away. That's completely wrong — if it's ignored it gathers strength. Europe ignored Hitler for 20 years. As a result he slaughtered a quarter of the world!" - via White Line Fever

"I don't think it's fair to be waving your dick around when people are minding their own business and might not want to see it." - via White Line Fever

"If you didn't do anything that wasn't good for you it would be a very dull life. What are you gonna do? Everything that is pleasant in life is dangerous." - via The Independent

Further reading...
• There's a very good obituary in the Guardian newspaper – click here.
• Lemmy: a life in quotes, also from the Guardian newspaper – click here.
• BBC obituary – click here. 
• Interesting article I found on Lemmy – click here. 
• Scott Ian from Anthrax remembers Lemmy – click here.
• Essential tracks – from Rolling Stone magazine – click here. 
• Lemmy's last days – from Rolling Stone magazine – click here.
• Short film on Lemmy ending with a joke told by Lemmy – click here.
• Motorhead is finished, says Mikkey Dee in the Guardian newspaper – click here.
• Journalist Gary Lippman remembers a day spent with Lemmy – click here. 
• This could be Lemmy's last interview – click here. 
• Hollywood memorial service for Lemmy – click here.

The day after the day after Boxing Day...

While the day after Boxing Day was wet, the day after the day after Boxing Day – a further dilution of the Christmas spirit – was wonderful. The roads were dry and the sky was simply amazing, as you can see by examining the photograph accompanying this post.

Ellenbridge Road around 0735hrs, 28th December 2015

I was out of milk. It meant buying one of those huge plastic jerry cans of the stuff from the Co-op and then humping it all the way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop along with the already cumbersome flask of hot water. To be honest, it didn't feel any different, although I felt my riding was sluggish due to a late night. Not late in the sense of being out on the razz or indulging in party excess, just chatting in bed until 0013hrs.

Leaving the house mildly late at around 0735hrs I headed for the green where I met Andy and we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop (now our regular destination). I've resolved to get back to riding to Westerham in the New Year, but seeing is believing as the reason for our adherence to the Tatsfield Bus Stop is time and convenience.

At the bus stop we had tea and BelVita biscuits – our staple cycling diet – and, among other things, chatted about the differences between the cars we drove 'in our youth' and the cars of modern times. Today's cars, for instance, don't have 'chokes' or doors that lock individually using a key or that laborious process of pushing down the locks on all the doors from the inside before the driver leaves the vehicle and locks his own door. Yes, folks, these were the days when it was possible to lock yourself out of your car, having left the keys inside!

There are many things you no longer see on 'new' cars: metal bumpers, cassette recorders, push-button radios, big steering wheels (to compensate, perhaps, for the lack of power steering) and I'd like to say 'the list is endless', but I'm sitting here trying to remember all the things we mentioned as we sat at the Tatsfield Bus Stop in the continuing mild weather.

We also discussed our once heroic idea of riding all the big hills in the area: Succombs, Titsey, White Lane, the hill leading to Knockholt and, of course, Westerham's hill – the one that ruins the ride when it suddenly dawns on us that we have to deal with it. One day we should incorporate all the big hills in one ride, we agreed, but something tells me it won't be happening, not for a while at least as we're firmly committed to the good old Tatsfield Bus Stop.

Andy and I parted at Warlingham Green vowing to be back on Saturday, the day after New Year's Day for what would be the first ride of the year.

The day after Boxing Day...

This morning I awoke early for the first time in a few days. Ever since the 18th December I've been lying in, not stirring much before 0900hrs as work has been off the agenda, thanks to unused holiday.

Today, things were different. The traditional Boxing Day ride had been delayed until today, the day after Boxing Day, a strange day if ever there was one as it represents the first dilution of the Christmas spirit that continues in the run-up to the new year and that strange period of time between Christmas Day and New Year's Day when time is meaningless and nobody has any idea what day it is. We have now entered that space.

Sanderstead pond, Sunday 27th December around 1020hrs

I sit this morning in the living room, not the conservatory, as I'm using my lap top and writing by candlelight – it's still dark. In fact, it's all very Dickensian. There are two candles, both presents, one a so-called Yankee candle, the other a small red candle, both scented and, when added to the halogen glow emanating from the computer screen they lend a 'cosyness' unattainable in the conservatory. The rest of this large room, our living room, is in darkness. I can't see the Christmas tree; or rather I can just about make out its dim shadow and the shine of the baubles reflected in light coming from the kitchen.

The silence of the morning was broken earlier by the sound of unwrapping. A present in many ways. My mum's Christmas cake, small and round and with nuts on top, covered in greaseproof paper, which, at this time of day is surprisingly noisy when unravelled. As the kettle boiled the hot water for our flask I cut two chunks of fruit cake and then wrapped them in silver foil, which made a lighter, wispier noise, by far the more agreeable sound at such an early hour. Nobody has stirred upstairs and now I sit here in virtual darkness, I contemplate another cup of tea.

In all honesty, while an 'abort' text would have been most welcomed, a ride is certainly needed as there's been a lot of sitting around lately. Sitting around and eating or watching television or both. But now that the day is simply the 27th December – it doesn't have a name, like Christmas Day or Boxing Day – it means that, slowly, normality is returning to the remaining days of 2015 and thoughts change to time flying and the prospect of returning to work. Not that I'm really thinking about returning to work just yet. For me it's still the middle of the holidays and there are board games to play.

Last night, just before going to bed, I resolved to play more board games as they bring people together around a table. There was a time when I played board games a lot. When I was a kid we used to have a games tournament in our house, which consisted of playing a selection of games, from good old bagatelle (which I still have) through to board games and playing cards and even a battery-operated horse racing game called the Electric Derby. I wish I still had the Electric Derby, but it's long gone and never to be replaced as 'they don't make toys like they used to' and, besides, these days, toys are computer-based as, indeed, are most games, more's the pity. Actually, that last statement was false: there are plenty of board games in the shops, so they're still highly popular and last weekend in the New Forest, I sat in the snug of the Cottage Lodge Hotel in Brockenhurst (an excellent hotel, by the way) playing Sequences, a kind of hybrid board and card game, which was very enjoyable and easy to play.

People should play more board games.

For the last two days – Christmas Day night and Boxing Day night – I've been playing Monopoly. I'd bought it a couple of years ago to replace an older version that was falling apart. The new game is based on the London Underground and the colours of the different lines. The most expensive property is not Mayfair or Park Lane but Covent Garden and Knightsbridge on the Piccadilly line, but the game is exactly the same as it's always been – apart from the addition of a large red dice for those wanting a quicker version of the game.

"Raining here. Lightly." It's a text from Andy.
"Haven't checked here. I'll take a look and text you back, hold on...", I reply.

It's still dark outside even if we are south of the Winter Solstice, but when it brightens up we'll have a better idea of the weather conditions. Andy has suggested giving it 15 minutes. Last night the TV weatherman did forecast early rain, but I'm guessing it'll be a shower, little more. Unlike in the North West of the country at the moment where flooding has returned to ruin the Christmas holidays for many people. There's rain in the South West too, but not as severe as in the north.

"Let's go for it now," Andy texted, and within a few minutes I was outside the house looking skywards at a grey blanket of cloud. It was 'spitting' – a phrase my dad used quite a bit while on holiday on the south coast. 'Spitting' prefaced rain and a boring day 'indoors' instead of playing on the beach.

I unpadlocked the bike and headed off, pleased with the fact that I'd donned my waterproofs.

Having not riden the bike for a couple of weeks I was feeling a little sluggish as I rode up Church Way. The festive decorations that flashed in windows and front gardens had lost some of their potency and meaning now that it was the 27th of December – four days to New Year's Eve and then, of course, the New Year itself. I rode through the lonely churchyard and on to the Limpsfield Road where the orange glow from the streetlights directed me towards Warlingham Green where Andy was waiting.

The Tatsfield Bus Stop beckoned so off we pedalled on damp roads scattered with puddles. Waterproof clothing protected me from the usual soaking I would suffer in these conditions.

There were quite a few cyclists on the roads, but nobody we knew except for the female jogger and her other half who rides a bike and sets the pace. We see them occasionally and today was one of those occasions. The woman runs a fair distance and this time she brought along her white petit chiands. Later, as we sat at the bus stop munching Christmas cake and biscuits, we saw them again, jogging past the bus stop on Clarks Lane heading towards Westerham, although I'm sure they must live in Tatsfield or, perhaps, on Pilgrims Lane. This time the dog was being carried on the bike and he (or she, I couldn't tell – I'm talking about the dog, not the woman) seemed happy enough.

Yours truly, Sanderstead pond, Sunday 27th December around 1020hrs

Soon it was time to head home. It was another mild day and while it was damp and wet and there were drips of rain here and there, it was nothing serious. On the return ride we saw many more cyclists, some wearing awful, brightly-coloured and luminescent footwear (in bright pink or green). I imagined them opening the box on Christmas morning in front of the tree. "Oooh! Darling! Thank you! Just what I've always wanted." The worrying bit is that they probably asked for them. Who in their right mind would wear such atrocious-looking things? Not me.

Andy rode with me to the green where we parted, promising to ride out again tomorrow, weather permitting, but again at the later time of 0800hrs. There's nothing better than a late start and that's what the Christmas holidays are all about.

Thanks to the waterproofs, I was dry when I returned home and that's all I have to say.

Merry Christmas to all our readers!

Wherever you are in the world, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. This message goes out to all readers of NoVisibleLycra everywhere.

So, it's Christmas Day. Mine started off around 0700hrs listening to Desert Island Discs with Kirsty Young and some astronaut bloke – great choice of music and some interesting insights into life on the International Space Station. Then I drifted off and suddenly it was around 0800hrs or possibly even later. Actually, when I first woke up there was some kind of programme about birds and how intelligent they might be. Can a parrot understand what it's saying? No, it can't. Mind you, pretty scary if it could. A bit like if your cat could open the fridge door.

And then I woke up. Now there's a great final line for a novel (not!). "And then I woke up". What a great excuse to write about whacky things – like owning a cat that can open the fridge door OR having a parrot that can understand what you're saying. "And then I woke up!" Thank the Lord for that.

And talking of the Lord, I went to church this morning. A Catholic church. I'm not a 'Roman' (as they say in Graham Greene's Brighton Rock) but there's nothing better than being in a church on Christmas Day. Somehow it's just the right thing to do. I was in the church where I got married and it was pleasant, bar the half-hearted attempts by the congregation to sing carols. Mind you, I shouldn't really complain as I can't sing at all. It's not because I can't sing, though, it's because I'm so bloody self-conscious. Sometimes I simply open and close my mouth to pretend to others that I'm singing, but on this occasion I couldn't really do that as people close to me would have thought I was going crazy and doing fish impersonations for no good reason.

What that church needed was somebody like Simon Callow or Brian Blessed putting everybody to shame by belting out the hymns at maximum volume. Normally there is somebody that does this, embarrassing the rest of the congregation in the process, but today, for some reason, there was just the embarrassed murmur of those who couldn't sing or simply didn't remember the words to the hymns that they last sang in school assembly (and I count myself in their number).

The priest was an interesting guy. An Indian with a swarthy complexion and shoulder-length black hair – he reminded me of an Indian Ginger Baker. He was good, he said some wise things that I tried to take in, along the lines of everything, life particularly, is a miracle and that, well, everything is amazing. He had a point. The service consisted of the hymns and the sermons and then we all filed out, shook hands with the Indian Ginger Baker and made our way home. It was great.

My first job when I got home was to peel a load of potatoes (they're in the oven now) and then, after a brew, I got the old laptop out and started writing what you're reading now. There are Christmas carols on the sound system and everybody else is getting ready for the Christmas lunch round at my Mother-in-Law's. It's always a fantastic occasion. The food is top notch, especially the stuffing and the wine and the turkey, everything about it makes Christmas worthwhile.

We've opened our presents and the space under the tree is now looking a little empty. The kitchen, on the other hand, is full of wrapping paper and empty cardboard boxes.

Soon it will be time to take the spuds (now roasted) out of the oven. Then it's lunch time and then, later today, possibly after watching the Queen's Speech (I hate the Queen's Speech) and drinking tea and enjoying a slice or two of a Yule Log, it's time to head home for Christmas television and general relaxation 'in front of the box'. I'll probably end up writing some more as I'm slowly becoming obsessed with it. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, but there you have it.

It's time to go, so I'll say goodbye for now.

My thoughts go out to all those injured in Westerham's Costa Coffee incident yesterday, and my condolences go out to the friends and relatives of the 70-year-old woman who lost her life.

Season's greetings to all.