A long walk followed by a decent meal in my favourite restaurant...

If you're on Facebook and are not one of my pals, but just happened to have stumbled on this blog, then I've just been raving (on Facebook) about a restaurant here is Dusseldorf called Da Bruno. In fact, a few months back I wrote a glowing review of the place here on NoVisibleLycra – click here to read it.

You know what? It's odd because I like this restaurant so much that I've started to plan my trips around it. I pick a hotel nearby so I don't have to walk for miles and the one I've been staying in is under five minutes' walk away, less than when I was staying in the Friends Hotel at the other end of Karlstrasse, which is close to Dusseldorf's central railway station. In fact, credit to the people at Friends Hotel for recommending Da Bruno to me, I've never looked back.

From the top of Dusseldorf's 'Space Tower'.

The only reason I'm not staying in the Friends Hotel this time around is that I was never keen on the breakfast offering – it's not substantial enough, in my opinion, and they've sort of run out of space on which to put things. It's all a bit precarious in that sense and I never felt totally fulfilled when breakfast was over and it was time to face the day.

Where I am now is much better. The breakfasts are more inviting, the space in which they are served is cosy and, well, that's it. The food quality is better too. It's an all-round good experience. And as I've probably said already – possibly in the last post I wrote – the rooms here are better too.

So since I've been here – I arrived Tuesday – I've been obsessed with Da Bruno. So obsessed that on my first night, despite the fact that I got to the hotel around 10pm, I still walked there and managed to get a table. Last night they were fully booked when I turned up around 8pm – so I booked for tonight and then left, ending up in a Mercure Hotel restaurant and wishing I hadn't bothered. Although hats off to the waitress – Nicole – for top notch service.

I was one of two guests in the Mercure. I ordered goulash soup to start (which I suspect wasn't homemade – it was too much like dehydrated soup for my liking) and then followed up with grilled salmon (or fried, I can't remember) but either way it was under-cooked. I even considered mentioning this, but didn't want the chef gobbing on my food. I'm fine, by the way, no food poisoning, not like this time last year in Rio de Janiero when I went down with a dose of the squits. Not that I'm suggesting it was the food; it could have been anything, possibly even the fact that I went for a swim in Copacabana Bay – the famous Copacabana Beach no less. I remember reading about the quality of the seawater being piss poor, so it might have been that or the change of climate, who knows? Either way, the end result wasn't pleasant, I can tell you. Click here for more.

Goulash soup at the Mercure Hotel restaurant

When I find a good restaurant like Da Bruno, everything else pales into insignificance and I start to see the join in other establishments. At the Mercure, for example, there was the dehydrated soup and the under-cooked salmon (the wine, incidentally – Cabernet Sauvignon – was fine) but I can't help comparing. The Mercure bill was twice as much as I pay in Da Bruno and the food quality was nowhere near as good. A decent restaurant brings so many aspects of life into perspective as well as highlighting how crap most other restaurants are.

Last night, I walked into a place, sat down, perused the menu and realised immediately that it was a shit establishment. So what did I do? I picked up my mobile phone, started a mock conversation with nobody – I can act quite well – and then, getting up while still 'on the phone' I put my coat on, signalled in a feigned state of harassment that I had to go, and then continued my search for somewhere decent to eat. I walked around the block half a dozen times, turning down Korean, Japanese, Indian and Chinese restaurants before reaching the Mercure Hotel.

As I say, Nicole the waitress was the only redeeming feature so, after the soup and salmon, I declined dessert, made my excuses and left.

Salmon on a pile of spinach with rice at the Mercure – not the best

Today, once the business element of my day was over, I walked for over an hour across the city and back to my hotel in the early evening sunshine, and then to Da Bruno for the last time, although I'm still figuring out whether there's time to squeeze in one last visit before flying home. The problem is that Da Bruno is so good it's always packed.

The walk was wonderful as the weather's been fine: nice and sunny, but a little bit cold. I stopped off here and there in different shops – a couple of clothes stores, one or two supermarkets – I'm looking for Ronnefeldt teas but can't find them anywhere, and I'm also thinking about getting some German food products, like white drinking chocolate and a box of cereal. Wine is cheap here too so there's a few things on the agenda for tomorrow to kill time between 3pm and when my flight heads for home.

I walked for over an hour this evening...

Something that does piss me off about hotels is when they give their guests the impression that they're offering them something complimentary, but the reality is it will go on the bill like everything else. So there's the minibar, well, we all know that's not free, but what about that half bottle of wine on the desk, that inviting bottle of Pinot Noir? I was going to ask the woman on the front desk whether it was 'on the house', but I knew what her answer would be, so I'm leaving it well alone. Besides, I've had my glass of house red at Da Bruno and I'm feeling great so why go and ruin everything?

Last but not least, I've discovered a new chocolate bar, not that I'm making a regular habit of such things. It's just that they've got a big plate full of mini snacks like Twix and Kit Kat, opposite the front desk, but also among them is Balisto, a small 18.5g bar that I've never, ever seen in the UK. Anyway, just to say that they're fantastic and I'm glad they're not available in the UK as they could become habit forming.

In fact, while it sounds like I've been pigging out, I haven't been. I have a light breakfast, no tea even, and then there was the conference self-service lunch and lastly, Da Bruno. I've had just one glass of wine and now, hopefully, I'll get a decent night's sleep.

A Balisto bar – very tasty indeed!

Back in Dusseldorf...

It was too cold and too late to wait for a train

Normally I fly with British Airways out of City Airport, but because I'd left it to the last minute, BA was looking a bit pricey so I opted for easyJet instead and flew out of Gatwick. I was on the 1605hrs train from Redhill to the airport and then, once there, took the shuttle to the North Terminal, went through security and then just wandered about until I was directed to gate 105 from where the plane took off.

The flight was good, although I missed the dulcet tones of the true Brit pilot that goes hand-in-hand with British Airways. I like the reassuring, "Welcome aboard this British Airways flight to Dusseldorf. My name is Captain Roger Finnegan and with me on the flight deck this morning is First Officer...". You get none of that reassuring stuff with other airlines and that includes easyJet.

In fact, the first really annoying thing about easyJet was the fact that there appears to be just one flight to Dusseldorf at 1810hrs and it doesn't arrive until around 2100hrs. This, I figured, would put me at a disadvantage when it comes to eating dinner. In a nutshell, it could put an end to any thoughts of dining at my favourite restaurant, Da Bruno, which I know is only a short walk from my hotel. An even shorter walk from the Burns Art Hotel than the Friends Hotel, which is saying something. In fact I didn't realise how easy it would be until I walked out of the hotel, having checked in, and almost tripped over the place.

View from room 32, Burns Art Hotel, Dusseldorf, Germany

On arriving at Dusseldorf Airport I normally take the Skytrain to the railway station and then walk to my hotel – and that was the plan on this occasion too. But first the ticket machine wouldn't accept either my credit or debit card and then there seemed to be a longish wait for the train in the cold. Furthermore, taking the train into town would mean no dinner and I was starving having had a small bottle of red wine and a couple of tiny packs of salted peanuts and cashews on the plane.

I had considered a Pollo Caprese flatbread, but then I remembered a text I had received earlier from easyJet saying that the oven on my plane was out of order and there wouldn't be any hot food. In a way it was a blessing in disguise because I did make it to my favourite Italian, albeit at just gone 10pm and enjoyed penne arrabbiata before hitting the sack.

The other view from room 32, Burns Art Hotel, Dusseldorf

I'm staying in the Burns Art Hotel. What a fantastic place! It's right next door to a Thai restaurant, where I've just had a light lunch having discovered that Da Bruno is packed to bursting and didn't have room for me. But the Thai restaurant was nothing to write home about. The hotel, on the other hand, is definitely worth a few words.

First, it's a 'boutique' hotel, which is another word for small and edgy and also a little bit 'trendy'. But that aside, they've put me in room 32 on the third floor and it's more like an apartment. There's a living area with a balcony, it's own television and a mini bar (that's full – not that I use minibars, but it's nice to know that the hotel trusts its guests, some don't). Then there's a bathroom where everything works, nothing is 'trendy' – meaning a tap is a tap, there's a plug in the sink that I can understand and use and all is well. At the other end of this double aspect 'room' is the sleeping quarters (a wardrobe, double bed, a desk and a flatscreen television plus, oddly, one of those cabinets in which a television is normally found,  but it's empty and surplus to requirements. The floors, throughout the hotel, including the rooms, are marble tiled and it's very quiet. There's also a fairly good wifi.

A late dinner at Da Bruno last night...

There isn't a restaurant, but that's not a problem as my all-time favourite Italian is under five minutes' walk away. There was, however, a decent breakfast offering down in the hotel's basement. The last time I was in Dusseldorf I stayed in the Friends Hotel, which was also a 'boutique' hotel characterised by 'trendy' things. The problem with the Friends was its breakfast offering, which I thought was piss poor. In fact, one of the chief reasons why I am not there now is because I didn't want their breakfast. Here at the Burns Art Hotel it's good: a selection of cereals, cooked meats, pastries, breads, fresh fruit and fresh fruit juices.

One thing did bug me slightly – the tea. It was wrapped up in sachets that were impossible to open so I did without and opted for a small glass of fresh orange juice instead.

It's costing me £280 for three nights, which ain't bad, and if you saw the size of the room you'd be amazed, honestly.

On the passing of Keith Emerson...

The first time I heard Brain Salad Surgery was in Great Bookham in Surrey. I was 17 years old and sitting in the living room of my friend Neil Palmer's bungalow on Blackthorne Road. I remember being immediately taken by it (the album, not the bungalow) because it was unusual and far from the norm of music at the time – although I didn't really know a great deal about so-called 'prog rock' at that time. Had I been more clued up I would have realised that Emerson Lake & Palmer were behemoths of the genre.

Brain Salad Surgery is one of two 'ELP' albums I bought and 'internalised'. By that I mean I played it so much that I could recite it note by note in my head whenever I fancied it. I would later brag that I didn't need a Walkman as I had all the music I needed going on in my head. Another album I had already stored on my own internal hard drive was Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells.

The cover art remains intriguing to this day...

What I found slightly odd – in a good way – about Brain Salad Surgery was its contrasting musical styles. It kicks off with a version of Jerusalem, Hubert Parry's amazing hymn, and then moves on to an intense and 'busy' version of Alberto Ginastera's Toccata before reaching the album's 'signature dish', Karn Evil 9 impressions one, two and three – a strange apocalyptic, science fiction tale put to music and ending with some amazing Moog work by Keith Emerson that, if I recall correctly, moves increasingly faster between speakers. This was the time when it was cool to have 'quadrophonic' sound in the house and with that last minute or so of Karn Evil 9 impression three, the Moog work spun around the room and then suddenly stopped – time to take the record off the turntable.

When I mentioned 'contrasting musical styles' I was refering to the other tracks on the album, namely Benny the Bouncer and Still You Turn Me On. I don't know, but these two tracks were mildly annoying as they detracted from the mood and theme of the rest of the album; they were, in my opinion, superfluous in the same way that My Wife, written by John Entwistle, was out of place on Who's Next.

It was a similar story with their second album, Tarkus, the other ELP album I owned (and loved). Tarkus was half World War One tank and half armadillo and while there were officially seven tracks taking up an entire side (of the vinyl LP) they all merged into one solid chunk of music with a similarly apocalyptic theme every bit as complex, if not more so, than Brain Salad Surgery's Karn Evil 9.

Part of Tarkus – I think it was Iconoclast – was so syncopated that a mate of mine and myself would be transformed into jumping beans whenever we encountered it. In fact we loved it so much we always stopped what we were doing whenever we knew it was approaching and enjoy it to the full. But it was all good: Eruption, Stones of Years, Iconoclast, Mass, Manticore, Battlefield and Aquatarkus.

But again there were the 'novelty tracks' on side two: Jeremy Bender and Are You Ready Eddie? The other tracks – Bitches Crystal, The Only Way, Infinite Space and A Time and a Place were all brilliant. On The Only Way, Emerson opens with some amazing keyboard work on St Mark's Church Organ in a haunting song that includes the line, "why did he lose, six million jews?" Stuff like this sticks with you and it stuck with me and always will.

Iconoclast turned my pal Andy and I into jumping beans...

I kind of stopped listening to ELP after those two albums. When they lurched towards The Works and stuff like Fanfare for the Common Man they became more populist and I left them behind for punk rock, although I remember briefly borrowing, from the late Paul Hooper, a live triple album that opened out into three sections, spelling out E.L.P. From that I remember Hoedown for some reason.

Soon, for me and my aforementioned pal Andy, ELP (as they were known) gained cult status. Tarkus became our preferred composition, especially the highly syncopated bit on Iconoclast that turned us into wincing jumping beans.

And then I heard that Keith Emerson had died and that it might have been suicide and another 'era' came to an abrupt end. Yesterday on a drive from South Croydon to Sutton to see my mum, I decided to bring Brain Salad Surgery with me. I skipped the novelty tracks and found myself repeating (at least half a dozen times) the opening track, Jerusalem – powerful stuff – and then Karn Evil 9.

I can't say I wasn't disappointed when Jim Davidson chose Brain Salad Surgery's Karn Evil 9 – or bits of it – for the theme to his Generation Game. That's when you know you're old: when the music you love becomes a Saturday night television staple and no longer that edgy sound you once thought it was.

To the Tatsfield Churchyard in the fog...

The mist was there from the outset. It was hanging around outside my front door and it followed me – or did I follow it? – all the way to Warlingham Green. It stayed with us – Andy and I – all the way to the Tatsfield Churchyard where we stopped for tea and biscuits.

Everything was, at best, damp, and at worst, wet. Water fell off the branches of trees overhanging the road and, as we passed Beech Farm, somewhere in the mist, shots rang out. Shotguns. Even in the mist grouse shooting was considered safe. I began to wonder how they would spot the birds and whether Andy and I were sitting ducks, but I'm still alive to tell the tale so I guess there wasn't a risk of being shot.

Andy and Matt, Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 13 March

"I wonder how we would've got on without mobile phones," I said, sitting on a bench in the churchyard and surveying the wet and misty landscape surrounding me.
"How do you mean?" asked Andy.
"If one of us got a puncture or was running late."
"We'd just to have wait," said Andy.
"Yes, assume there's been a problem, give it half an hour and then go on without whoever hadn't turned up."
"We'd have to agree a meeting point and time on the landline before setting out," said Andy. "Just like in the olden days before mobile phones."
"And if we were out and, say, Phil wanted to join us later, he'd have to visit all our known haunts until he found us. I wonder what the best plan of action would be?"
"Ride first to the bus stop, then into the village, then down to here and then Westerham," said Andy.
"Only to discover that we'd riden to St Leonard's Church instead," said I.

"It's definitely not camping weather," said Andy, looking at the wet grass and the dripping trees.
"Did you see that homeless programme on TV during the week? A bunch of celebrities, including Willie Thorne, sleeping rough for charity?"
"No," Andy replied.
"If I was homeless I'd definitely buy a tent and head for the woods. The city would be too dangerous. I'd go to Croham Woods and every morning I'd walk into Croydon and beg for money."

The conversation moved on to Lycra Monkeys. We'd seen a few on the outward ride, as always, and now we were engaged in our usual chat about the discourse of the Lycra Monkey, which, for some reason, we thought, revolved around the subject of pension plans and other 'senior management' topics. The dialogue had started as we rode along the 269 discussing the price of cycling stuff. Andy talked about a bike that cost £8,000 and we moaned about the exploitative nature of the 'sport'. I put the word 'sport' in inverted commas purely because I don't think Andy and I consider what we do a 'sport'. We've said on many occasions that we ride out early in the morning to drink tea and eat biscuits. We're not concerned about 'precious grams' and, as avid readers will know, we don't wear Lycra.

We moved on to talk about farting – as you do – and how the very act is a measure of a new relationship moving on to the next level. When you start a relationship with somebody, farting in front of them is taboo, but when it does take place, it means that things have become a little more serious. A hypothetical chunk of dialogue between two women followed when Andy engaged himself in the following conversation:

"How's things?"
"Yeah not bad; 'things' are getting a little more serious between us."
"How d'you mean?"
"Well, he farted."
"Ooh!"

And with raucous laughter disturbing the misty silence of the churchyard, we wheeled our bikes past the headstones and down the stairs and then cycled up the hill towards Botley Hill Farm and beyond. As we passed Beech Farm the shots rang out again. Perhaps they were aiming for us, I thought, but we survived and as we rode on to Warlingham Green we noticed that the fog had all but disappeared. Pulling up outside the Co-op we discussed next week's ride. Andy wouldn't be going on Saturday.  "So enjoy your ride," he said with a smile and the expected sarcasm that always accompanies the remark.
"Unless Phil goes, I'll probably cycle over to mum's," I said, and with that we rode off in different directions.

Mist opportunities and the death of Keith Emerson...

At 0111hrs I woke up. I'd gone to bed early in disgust at the rubbish on television and spent some time listening to Radio Four, eventually falling asleep, but then, at the aforementioned hour, I was lying there, fully awake and determined to sleep. It must have worked. At some stage I found myself in a boat, loaded with refugees and out at sea. It could only have been a dream. Before long I was back in bed, lying there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And so it continued.

During this time I considered an 'abort' text to Andy and Phil, but I figured it could wait until the morning. It was unclear whether I'd be riding on Saturday due to a meeting in Carshalton, but it was far from certain.

Time crept on. Soon Radio Four sprung to life: the news followed by Clare Balding doing a spot of rambling. I caught bits of it – a young boy recovering from leukaemia and somebody else from the Fleet Air Arm. I got up and decided to abort. When I reached my phone, which was switched off and resting on the console table, I switched it on and waited. An abort text from Phil as I penned my own for Andy. Later Andy texted me saying he'd had a cold all week and was glad of the lie in. Personally, I wanted to go for a ride. You can imagine, therefore, my frustration when the aforementioned meeting was cancelled.

There had been an early morning mist. Thick fog would be a more apt, but it was all irrelevant as nobody went out. Phil aborted because of the cold, Andy was relieved to miss the ride because of illness and I was supposed to go somewhere, but didn't. All-in-all, a load of old tosh, as my dad might have said.

Right now it's 1155hrs, the sun is shining and there are hazy blue skies. We're game on for a ride tomorrow, just Andy and I, but possibly Phil too, who knows?

Hard at it – Keith Emerson of Emerson, Lake & Palmer

I read online this morning that Keith Emerson of Emerson, Lake & Palmer fame, has died. There's a rumour of suicide, making a sad story even sadder. Back in the day I used to love ELP. I had Tarkus and Brain Salad Surgery, two brilliant albums. Personally, when they moved on to Fanfare for the Common Man I got bored and then, when Jim Davidson used music from Brain Salad Surgery as a kind of soundtrack for some television game show he was fronting, I realised it was time to stop liking them altogether. Things get like that: they deteriorate gradually and soon turn to dust. What was once slightly leftfield, mildly underground, becomes mainstream and then slowly dies. When I hear once cult rock tracks fronting television advertisements or game shows I know it's time to admit defeat and consign stuff I once considered cutting edge, or just plain edgy, to the wastepaper basket. Like when I saw John Lydon being interviewed by Piers fucking Morgan.

ELP was a great prog rock band, one of the very best, and those albums I mentioned above – Tarkus and Brain Salad Surgery were excellent. Whenever I see an image of one of those old World War One tanks I immediately imagine ELP's half tank/half armadillo on the cover of Tarkus.

There seems to be a spate of ageing rock stars dying off at the moment. It started towards the end of last year with Lemmy and was followed up by David Bowie, some guy from the Eagles and now it's Keith Emerson's turn. Oh well, as a pal of mine might have said, "We've still got Rick Wakeman."

We'll probably take a drive to the coast and then a walk along the beach. If we do I think I'll take Brain Salad Surgery with me, not that my choice of music will be appreciated – or understood – by the other passengers.

Solo ride to mum's and then Andy and I head for Tatsfield Village...

Never listen to anybody when they try to put you on a downer over the weather. On Friday people started talking down the weekend. "It's going to be terrible this weekend," some would say and I'd be left wondering whether I was going to be riding out on Saturday morning. "It's going to be nice on Sunday," they might add. As it turned out, it was fine on both days and I managed to cycle alone to mum's (on Saturday morning) and then to Tatsfield Village with Andy (Sunday morning).

Boiled egg, fingers, fresh fruit, bread and tea...

The weather on both days was fine. Clear skies, a crescent moon and a slightly chilly air, but not chilly enough to smack me in the face.

I took the usual route to mum's. This time, when I got there, I opted for the breakfast menu: tea, chopped orange, sliced banana and apple, two small slices of brown bread and, of course, light conversation. We sat in the new room – the room that's not new at all – and outside, while cold and crisp, the sun was shining. It was a nice day.

Breakfast at mum's is always good. We spoke about a wide range of 'stuff': mum's next door neighbour is fixing up his house. He's been knocking down walls, turning the back room into a large living space embracing a kitchen and a play room for the kids and somewhere to sit and lounge about. "But he's still got a front room," said mum.

"That's what I wish I had," I said, explaining how our house is all very 'open plan' – it was built when the 'lounge-diner' was all the rage, but it means that everything takes place in the same space: watching TV, reading, eating, everything. Fortunately we have an extension. We call it the 'conservatory' because it has huge picture windows and a flat roof, but it's not really a conservatory, it's an extension, a room in its own right and it's where you'll find my bookcase and desk and a couple of sofas that have seen better days.

Right now there are hassles at home. No hot water. It could mean a new boiler, but with the central heating still working, it's probably not the boiler – some say that won't stop British Gas from condemning what might be a perfectly decent, albeit old, boiler. It's amazing how we all take so many things for granted and hot water is one of those things. Try living without it for a few days and you'll know what I mean.

The ride back home was uneventful and I arrived at 0908hrs after a decent enough ride. As the day progressed, the rains came, but I reached home dry and that was good news.

Sunday – Andy and I ride to Tatsfield Village
Sunday was an equally pleasant day, possibly a little colder than Saturday, but again there was a crescent moon and a dreamy water-colour sky to greet me when I pulled back the curtain. No sign of Phil, but we all know how much he hates the cold. The truth of the matter, though, was that it wasn't that cold, or at least it didn't seem too bad. I didn't really notice the cold until Andy and I were riding south along the 269 towards Botley Hill. My feet were cold, but other than that I was fine and I didn't have the balaclava either.

My bike on Warlingham Green

We headed for Tatsfield Village where there is a covered wooden bus stop similar to the legendary Tatsfield Bus Stop on Approach Road. Out came the chocolate BelVita biscuits and the tea and we both sat there discussing the European Union, admitting that we don't really know enough about the real issues apart from immigration and not being beholden to Brussels for our legislation.

I'm quite torn on the issue in many ways, but in others it's a clear-cut case; and by that I mean I'll vote to stay in because I like Europe – as a place. I like the people too and I suppose like a lot of people, I buy in to the view that it's best to be a part of Europe than on the outside. Also, I'm not a 'little Englander'. I don't subscribe to the view that by being out of Europe we can make 'Great Britain great again'. We can't. And besides, it seems to me that all the people that want out of Europe are, well, a little bigoted in their leanings. I've always maintained that nationalism is unhealthy and that's what the so-called 'Brexiters' are pedalling. Union Jacks, 'who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler', casual racism in some cases (we've all watched those pre-election UKIP documentaries).

Sign near Tatsfield Village pond...

But then there's TTIP – the Transatlantic Trade & Industry Partnership. Why hasn't it received any major media attention? Nobody talks about it and yet it's being negotiated behind closed doors by faceless, unelected European bureaucrats and it will enable big corporations to sue foreign governments for loss of earnings, among other things. It will also bring into alignment EU and American quality and safety standards – but which way will those standards fall? Will EU citizens be winners or losers? Nobody knows.

What about 'ever closer union' and that whole sovereignity issue? What about the Euro, what about open borders and immigration? What about 'Operation Fear'? I'm hoping that over the next few weeks we'll all get a clearer view on what it's all about, but I suspect we won't get anywhere near it. Ultimately, it'll come down to our views on migrants and whether we believe the bigoted, nationalistic, Dickensian 'Brexiters' – like IDS – or those who say we'll be better off if we stay in the EU, like the Government...but should we trust the Government?

Andy with the bikes at Tatsfield

Tea and biscuits finished, we packed up our stuff and prepared for the ride home. The sun was still out, the skies were clear and the crisp air was still crisp. As we rode past Beaver World we both commented on the cold. I said it wasn't that bad, but I did have cold feet. Andy felt roughly the same. We turned right at the end of Approach Road, headed towards Botley Hill and parted company on Warlingham Green.

And another thing that annoys me!

 The Archers on Radio Four. I don't like it and, for that reason alone, I never want to listen to it. I find it boring and, dare I say, mildly irritating. The annoying thing about it is this: whenever I have to nip out in the car somewhere OR whenever I think, 'I know, I'll listen to the radio', it's ALWAYS either on or about to start. "But now let's go over to Ambridge and see what's afoot in the Archers..." one of  Radio Four's announcers will say and soon, that well-known theme tune will play and I'll be compelled to quickly switch channels or turn off the radio altogether. This happens a lot. It's a bit like when you drop a piece of buttered toast on the floor and it lands butter side down or if you switch on a commercial radio or television channel and the ads are on.

Is Redhill railway station the most depressing place in the world?

Platform 2, Redhill station

Do you ever feel depressed? Nothing too serious, just a bit down; a bit pissed off? I do and I'm sure we all do at times. For me, there is nothing more depressing than standing on Redhill railway station in Surrey waiting for a train. Invariably, whenever I get there, I find that I have a good 10 minutes to wait before my train arrives – I've either just missed one or there's a delay of some kind. Missing a train is depressing enough, but more depressing still is having to wait on a cold, dreary and unpleasant railway station – and it's not just Redhill. I've noticed two trends of late: one is to tart up some waiting rooms with fake leather sofas and pot plants – Purley Oaks, Purley and Merstham all spring to mind; another trend, however, is to go the other way and offer uncomfortable, uninspiring and depresssing waiting rooms like those on Redhill and East Croydon stations.

But let's stick with Redhill for the moment. The waiting room serving platforms one and two is piss poor. It has glass walls and a few hard, wooden seats – two rows of them – plus glass sliding doors. At the far end there's a service desk where it's possible to ask for travel information, but there's nothing welcoming about the place, especially on a cold day, but even in the height of summer it's not nice.

There's really only two things you can do if you find yourself on Redhill railway station waiting for a train: sit in the dreary, uncomfortable waiting room or walk the length and breadth of the platform until your train arrives. A third option would be to leave the station altogether and walk for five minutes to the Costa Coffee where you can enjoy a cup of tea and a millionaire's shortbread, but that option invariably means you will miss your train. How often have I stood looking at the train times wondering whether there was time to walk to Costa? Many times and the answer is always the same: there's never enough time unless I decide to catch a later train than planned. It all leads to one sorry scenario: waiting, pacing the length and breadth of the platform and longing for the moment when the train arrives and I can settle in to the 15-minute journey to Purley.

There are two travel alternatives open to me. I can take the train from Redhill to Purley, change trains and then ride one stop to Purley Oaks. This way I have a 20-minute walk at the other end. It's not too bad, but it's a longer walk than the one I have to and from Sanderstead station. If I ride from Redhill to Sanderstead I still have to change trains, but instead of Purley I change at East Croydon where I'm greeted with an even more unpleasant waiting room – the one serving platforms five and six. In the morning at least there's a rack full of newspapers. By 1800hrs the rack is bare and while there is a Pumpkin Café – or something of that kind – it's not a proper sit-down establishment with round tables, and it's adjacent to a couple of fruit machines.

If I had any say in the future development of Redhill railway station – should it be on somebody's agenda – I know exactly what I'd do. First, I would get rid of the glass waiting room serving platforms 1 and 2. I would replace it with a cosy railway station café with round wooden tables and chairs, with possibly even a small tea light on each table, and a door with a narrow glass window in the middle with a net curtain concealing the cosy interior from those standing on the platform. There would be an inviting glow from the tea lights to attract passers-by.

As for foodservice, a small menu of home-made cakes, a range of teas, coffee and hot chocolate and possibly, during lunchtimes only, a limited hot food offering of traditional favourites, like cottage and shepherd's pie, chicken stew and so on. I would apply for a liquor licence and offer a small selection of fine wines – for all price points – and, of course, some cask-conditioned bottled ales. In other words, I would go some way towards making Redhill station's catering offer more like the Manningtree Station Buffet.

People would look forward to missing their train and they would enjoy the prospect of visiting Redhill railway station.

His judgment cometh, and that right soon!*

There's nothing like a bit of perceived injustice to fuel a sleepless night. I awoke at 0300hrs and started compiling vitriolic emails in my head while getting more and more agitated... and more and more awake. I kept looking over at the clock as time crept by and while I considered an abort text to Andy, I knew that I had to go for a ride.

We don't have ceiling tiles otherwise I'd have been lying there working out the area in square feet, which always proves a problem when there are halves or quarter tiles involved. When I was an unruly teenager I spent many an early hour trying to work out the area of the ceiling tiles that dad had spent long hours sticking to the ceiling back in the 70s, but last night my ceiling was giving nothing away.

Mum's living room...

Whenever I have something fretful on my mind in the dead of night I'm told that I tend to put my left hand on my forehead; and sure enough I was doing that now as the time crept slowly round to 0330hrs. By 0449hrs, still unable to sleep, I got up and made myself two slices of toast and a cup of tea, not forgetting two Weetabix with hot milk. I sat in the living room doing nothing in the grim light, waiting for the clock to edge it's way around to 0700hrs when I would leave the house and head for Warlingham Green.

But it was not to be. Andy sent a text message aborting. He had a migraine. And with Phil not available all weekend it was down to me to motivate myself. I strongly considered not going out, but having aborted yesterday's ride due to an early Saturday morning commitment, I felt I had to get out there. The choice was simple: Tatsfield Bus Stop or mum's house. I opted for the latter and headed down West Hill towards the Upper Selsdon Road, hanging a left and riding the usual route, down Jarvis Road, across the Brighton Road, up the hill towards Pampisford Road, across the mini roundabout and then skirting around the housing estate with Purley Playing Fields on my left. I crossed the A23, cut left behind a few warehouses, emerged on the Stafford Road and then continued west towards mum's. I arrived around 0730hrs. The roads were deserted. There wasn't a soul around apart from a couple of people walking dogs.

The weather was fairly mild, but I was equipped for the cold and was wearing my green balaclava and beanie hat. I hate that phrase, 'beanie hat'. My hatred – although that's miles too strong a word – dates back to a woman from Norwich called Lindy who is probably dead now – she was a heroin addict. I have distant memories of her talking about a beanie hat in a strong Norfolk accent in a house in Thorp Road, Norwich, many years ago. In fact, my memory deceives me as she referred to the beanie hat as a 'Benny hat' after the famous Crossroads soap star of the time (the actor Paul Henry).

Mum answered the door and offered me breakfast, but I declined having already eaten Weetabix and toast – albeit at 0500hrs – but I did have a banana and opened up my own flask to make tea. Why waste perfectly decent hot water? I also opened a sachet of Duchy Original Organic tea, which I don't think is THAT good, but others like it so who am I to argue? It comes in boxes of 25 tagged teabags and I just know that we'll run-out in the middle of the week. Still, there you have it. In fact, talking about tea reminds me that there might be a digestive biscuit in the cupboard back home, but even if there is one, I shouldn't be considering it. And besides, where biscuits and chocolate and cake are concerned, I was at mum's. I could indulge at any time!

"I thought you were Jon," said mum.
"Does he come round early?" I asked.
"Sometimes, yes," she said, as I took my seat at the round pine table in what we've always referred to as 'the new room'. It's not new at all, it's been there for years and years.

Mum made her breakfast. Special K, sliced banana, sliced and peeled orange, but no milk, and sat there crunching away as I made short work of the banana.

We talked about all sorts of things, one subject being babies. Mum likes to talk about babies.
"You and Jon were very easy babies," she said, having swapped seats.
"What about Criss?" I enquired.
"Oh, no, she was difficult," said mum, referring to the birth.
"I wanted to have all my babies close together," she said, explaining how she once had three children under three on her hands.
"I remember when I brought Jon home. You and Criss were in the front room and Jon had toys for you both under his shawl," said mum with a smile.
"That was my first ever memory," I told her. Jon had brought me a toy train, a steam locomotive. I was three years old.

It's Jon's birthday next week on 1st March. At the moment he's four years my junior but on Tuesday it narrows down to three years. I'm the oldest.

"How old is Jon?" asked mum.
"Fifty five," I said.
"I got married in 1955."
"And three years later I came along."
We laughed at the thought.
"You were a very good baby," mum told me and I smiled. There was a moment of silence.

"Women have babies much later these days," I said, but mum had moved on to discuss her 'courting' days and how she and dad both worked in Croydon at one point.

"He used to come into Kennards to buy a tie – it was just an excuse to see me," said mum, warming to the memory. "He had quite a few ties," she added with a giggle.

Mum recently had a cataract removed from her left eye and will be going back soon to have the other one done. Like most things, she took it in her stride. It all went smoothly and now she simply has to put drops in for a while. She claims she can now read 'her book' without the need for glasses, which is good news. We talked for a bit about the pills she is taking, nothing too major, and moved on to the health benefits of cider vinegar. "It unclogs the arteries," she said. "Get some, Math."

My mum calls me 'Math' and so did my dad. Oddly I was never any good at maths.

"I used to take a lot of vitamins: zinc, selenium and cod liver oil with multi-vitamins," I said.
"Well, that's good, Math; you should get some more."
"I might," I said.
I haven't taken any vitamins for about three or four years and I can't say I feel any different. That said, I used to feel so alive whereas these days I'm always a little weary. Perhaps I'll start taking them again and see if I perk up.

"Can I use the facilities?" I asked mum. The 'facilities' being the bathroom. I didn't need to ask.

When I reached the bathroom, which has changed since I last lived there, I was reminded of my adolescent years when regular visits to this space were often accompanied by many a Skipper's Tablecloth. Looking at the airing cupboard door, which has remained in the same place, I wondered whether my copy of Susan Strong's Exclusive was still wedged behind the lagged copper cylinder. I wonder, I thought, rubbing my stubbly chin with cosy apprehension. But of course it wasn't there and I didn't bother looking, although the thought of finding it was quite funny. I might well have knocked one out just for the sheer fucky offiness of it.

Back downstairs I found mum in the kitchen. There's always a gas ring burning. "It keeps the house warm," mum says whenever anybody mentions it. It must cost a bomb too, I thought, but said nothing as that gas ring has been burning through the winter months for many years and mum ain't destitute yet.

"What are your plans for the day?" she asked.
"Er, not sure," I said. I always say that because in truth we don't often do a great deal. "Might take a drive later on." And we did, to Westerham.
"Where's that place you used to go to. Petersham?"
"You mean Petworth?"
"Yes, that's it, Petworth."
"We went there a few weeks ago. You'd like it, lots of antique shops," I said.
"Sounds lovely," she replied.
There was a moment's silence, which was broken by yours truly.
"Right, well, I'd better be going," I said, looking at the clock on the wall and then standing up and readying myself to leave.

For old time's sake, I rode down to the bottom of the cul-de-sac where my old pals Nigel and Tim used to live and then, as I rode past mum's house I waved to her. The ride back was roughly the same as the ride out. The traffic had picked up slightly, but was still relatively sparse and soon I was home and ready to face the rest of the day.

* Sign on the wall in Warden Newton's office in the Shawshank Redemption.

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.