A clear day – so we head to Westerham and the Tudor Rose café...

When I first woke up this morning I clearly remember catching bits of the news in between drifting back to sleep. At one point I couldn't quite make out what was going on. The news had ended and I could hear music. There's rarely music on Radio Four, that's left to Radio One, Two and Three, so what had happened? I figured somebody had messed with the dial. For a split second I wondered what day it was and there was a temporary, mild disappointment at the thought of it being Monday until I realised it was Sunday, a whole day stretched ahead of me and I should be up and out of bed and preparing for today's ride.

Outside the Tudor Rose, Sunday 11th April

The music on the radio was from Something Understood, but because I'd drifted in and out of sleep I didn't catch the beginning of the programme, so I had no idea of what it was about.

Jumping out of bed I headed towards the rear window where I pulled aside the curtain to find a bright, clear day with little sign of rain. There was a light frost on the lawn, but it didn't phase me. Time to make myself a cup of tea. And now, here I am sitting at the dining room table, lap top in front of me, writing a few words for the old blog.

Yesterday the rain continued on and off for most of the day. A fine drizzle sprayed the earth and later on the day brightened up, but while I considered 'a late ride' I knew that it would have disrupted the day. That's why Andy and I get up at the crack of dawn at weekends, it's not only about less traffic, it's about having the rest of the day free to do family stuff.

We'd planned a visit to the Tudor Rose this morning, which was great news for me as it meant I wouldn't have to carry a heavy flask full of hot water plus a mug, tea bags and milk. And I tell you what, it was something else having a virtually weightless rucksack.

I messed around on the computer and answered the call of nature, which made me a little late. I didn't leave the house until around 0706hrs. By the time I was on the road it was easily 0710hrs so I decided to push it and raced off up Ellenbridge, into SouthCote, then Elmfield and Morley and up Church Way. I was putting in a decent pace and didn't stop as Church Way turned steep. As I rode past Sanderstead Pond, I ruffled a few pigeons' feathers and then, once on the Limpsfield Road, I powered towards the green, passing all the usual places, such as Hamsey Green. When I reached the green I couldn't see Andy, but I did take a quick glance at the clock and I'd certainly made up some time. Andy was already on the road and beckoning to me to keep going. This I did and as we made our way towards Knight's Garden Centre and the quieter, more rural parts of the 269 we both agreed it was 'heads down' until Westerham.

The faster pace continued as we both kept our heads down, watching the moving tarmac as we progressed towards Botley Hill. The weather was dry and fairly warm, there were blossoms on the trees – always a good sign – and not a rain cloud in sight. We rounded the roundabout and rode into Clarks Lane, past the Tatsfield Bus Stop and down the hill in Westerham. The speed was maintained down the hill and along the road into Westerham, there was no let-up and soon we arrived. The Tudor Rose café was under new management – and had been for some time – and it had a cosy appearance about it. There were cakes on display – bread pudding, carrot cake, iced buns, you name it – but I decided that bread pudding for breakfast simply wasn't cricket, so I opted for two slices of white bread toast and a pot of tea for two. Andy ordered a sausage sandwich.

Matt and Andy at the Tudor Rose café

The sun was out so we sat outside and chewed the fat about David Cameron and the European Union and then tucked in to our breakfasts. It was absolutely fantastic. If the truth be known, this was one of the best rides we'd undertaken in a long time and I must admit that I was truly energised. Clearly, not having the haul the heavy flask and the milk and the cup in my rucksack gave me a new found energy that was clearly having a good effect.

There were plenty of Lycra monkeys around. I checked the immediate surroundings in case there were any auctioneers in the vicinity, but I couldn't see any and that probably explained why nobody had shouted 'Gavel!!!!'.

We saw Phil's mate Steve, but he didn't see us. Andy, of course, didn't know him from Adam, and he clearly hadn't noticed me. Alright, I could have attracted his attention, but that might have meant explaining who I was and I hate having to do that. "You remember, don't you? About a month ago? You, me and Phil rode the long way to the Tatsfield bus stop? You had a puncture along Beddlestead Lane?" Perhaps the explanation wouldn't have been necessary, who knows, but he didn't see me so it's all academic at the end of the day.

We headed for home. The worst part of the ride from Westerham to Warlingham (where Andy and I part company) is the bit from the town centre to the bottom of the hill. It seems to take an age, but today we took it in our stride and then knuckled down for the hill itself, which continues all the way to Botley Hill. From there onwards it's a doddle and we flew along. The entire ride was energising in the extreme. Andy and I parted company at the green, vowing to ride out next weekend and then we continued on our individual journeys (Andy to Caterham and me to Sanderstead). I powered along the Limpsfield Road and made good time, arriving home around 1010hrs.

It was to be a chilled out day. I sat and watched Andrew Marr on the iplayer, listening to Nigel Lawson's interview about the European Union – he's a key Brexit campaigner – and then Jeremy Corbyn discussing the issue of David Cameron's hypocrisy and the wider problem of tax havens, like Panama.

There was little to do. I put a couple of lightbulbs into the ceiling lights of our bedroom and chilled until lunchtime when I made cheese salad and cheese and pickle sandwiches. Lunch over I drove to Banstead Woods, having decided that four quid for the Headley Heath car park was a fucking rip-off – thieving bastards! The woods were wonderful and, on reaching home, I've been chilling out, re-reading bits of Mike Carter's One Man & His Bike, the most wonderful book. I might even re-read it just as soon as I finish Willy Vlautin's The Free. I've read all of Vlautin's output and so far it's all good. Other books on my agenda? Platform by Houllebecq and Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon. I'd also like to read David Ceserani's The Final Solution, but it's thirty quid so I'll need to do a bit of saving.

Right now, I'm enjoying a glass of Malbec, sitting on the sofa in my conservatory writing this blogpost. Work tomorrow, more's the pity, but as my dear old dad would have said, "That's life I guess, that's life." Never a truer word and all that.

Rain stops play...so I have a few words to say (as usual!)

It's raining. Rain means no cycling. Andy's just sent a text and we've agreed to abort. No Westerham today, which was the plan. It'll have to wait until tomorrow – unless it rains.

Okay, so here's the deal. I've got 17% power left, which means I won't be writing for much longer. Phew! I hear you say. Well, for now, here's something to try. Try sitting on the floor cross-legged and then try to get up without using your hands or, indeed, your knees. It can be done but not by yours truly. My daughter can do it, but that's about it. In all honesty, I find it depressing. Well, not the fact that I can't stand up from a cross-legged position without using my hands or knees for support, but the programme on which I saw it being done. It was one of those programmes that make me anxious about life. You know the sort of thing: you could live to the age of 100 or more... if you are a vegan and don't drink or have any stress in your life.

In all honesty, on the food front, I'm not doing too badly. On average, I eat two vegetarian meals a week, roughly speaking. So I might have, say, lentils and rice with roasted aubergine once a week and possibly a mushroom risotto – or something similar – on another day. I tend to eat red meat just once a week – normally cottage pie, and my alcohol consumption has been drastically reduced over the last four years.

But when I watch programmes that seem to exist purely to make me feel afraid of life in general, I get depressed. I go to bed early and try to forget about human frailty, but then I wake up in the morning and it all comes flooding back.

Our plan today was to ride to Westerham and nip into the Tudor Rose for a mug of tea and some toast, but that still didn't stop me from making a bowl of cornflakes with a scattering of blueberries and a piece of toast. The healthy element of the meal was the blueberries. I've got 12% power left and guess what, the archbishop of Canterbury has had a DNA test and discovered that his old man was a diplomat and the man he thought was his father, well, he isn't! David Cameron is under pressure after it was revealed that he has been benefiting from an offshore bank account. Apparently, he's not broken the law, but he hesitated for a few days when asked a few difficult questions about his financial affairs and the story is rumbling on. Who can you trust? The answer is simple: nobody; particularly not the Prime Minister. It's the usual thing of one law for 'them' and another for 'us'.

I went on Facebook and raved about Cameron, but then, later, I realised that I'd probably have done the same thing. I mean, put it this way: if you heard today that in a couple of days from now something you created – a novel you wrote, anything – was going to net you a cool £3 million, what would you do? Well, if you did nothing you'd end up giving the honest Mr Cameron 50% of the money in taxes and that's the last thing you want to do. Me? I'd investigate how I could keep most of the money myself. To be honest, if keeping the money meant leaving the country, I'd be on the first flight out of here to wherever I could live and keep my hard-earned cash. Even if it was one of those odd scenarios where I would have to fly out of the UK once or twice a year, stay somewhere for six months and then return, I'd do it – I'd do anything – to avoid giving my money to the government. Who wouldn't? It's easy to sit there without having any money to invest in offshore accounts berating those who do, safe in the knowledge that the dilemma will never be yours to have; and that's my position if I'm honest.

Where Cameron went wrong was the way he hesitated; he must have thought 'I might be able to get away with this', but then thought, 'hold on, this ain't going away' and eventually he realised the game was up and the only way forward was good old honesty. Now you might be asking, quite rightly, even if you say that you'd do whatever you could to keep as much of your own cash as possible, you might be asking how can you trust Cameron now that he's hesitated, considered saying nothing until he realised he's been rumbled and then came out with the truth. The fact is this: you can't trust him. And that then makes you wonder about all the decisions he's making on your behalf, like supplying arms to Saudi Arabia, like supporting the Saudis despite the nation's appalling human rights record, cosying up to the Chinese, getting them involved in our nuclear power strategy, letting them ruin our national steel industry. All these things now need to be questioned for one simple reason – he's not to be trusted. Should he resign? Yes he should.

Here's a library shot of my Kona Scrap by the roadside

So there's no riding today. Apparently the weather is going to clear up as the morning progresses, but right now there's a fine drizzle and the ride is off. We've agreed to meet on the green at the same time tomorrow. The weather guys say the rain will ease off soon, which means I could ride over to mum's, but in all honesty, once a ride is cancelled due to the weather – especially rain (because the roads are wet and there are puddles, which means I still get a soaking) – it invariably means no riding. Hey ho!

Three Years Ago – click here.

St. Leonard's Church and the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Saturday was a wonderful day, but we didn't venture very far, and despite the fact that it was only yesterday – today being Sunday – for a minute I found myself trying to remember the reason for such a short ride. Well, I've remembered it. I was due to make a long drive to a place called Perch Hill near Burwash in East Sussex (long in the sense that I was knackered). Perch Hill is the name of a house, not a place. Perch Hill is in Brightling, which is a short drive from Burwash. If you like 'life style' stuff (like soaps and candles and books) and gardening – I wouldn't say I was a keen gardener, but Perch Hill is a nice place to go if you want some ideas, not that I want any ideas. It's very boring, but having agreed to go, I needed to be back off the ride early so we rode to St Leonard's Church, just Andy and I. Phil aborted, but then realised that his reason for aborting was next week, not this week.

Our bikes at St. Leonard's Church, Chelsham. Pix by Andy Smith.

So Andy and I rode to the church, entered the churchyard, found a bench and then ate biscuits and drank tea. After taking a few photographs we rode home, parting company at Warlingham Green and vowing to ride to Westerham in Kent for breakfast at the Tudor Rose café today (Sunday). The rest of my Saturday was characterised by feeling tired. I should never have driven to Burwash and beyond as I was knackered. A lot of things had conspired against me – cycling followed by a long drive, a stressful week at work. It was bad. Falling asleep at the wheel kind of bad and dangerous too. On the drive out I stopped at a McCafé for a cup of strong tea, which seemed to do the trick; but then on the way home it happened again. I could barely keep my eyes open, until, for some reason, we reached Tunbridge Wells, but either way, I was more awake from then onwards.

When I reached home, the weariness continued and I was glad to get to bed, having realised that Jonathan Ross wasn't going to be very entertaining – he's been superseded by Graham Norton, in my opinion, who seems to attract all the best guests and the best banter. Ross, in my opinion, should be put out to pasture.

By Sunday morning I'd forgotten all about our plan to go to the Tudor Rose for breakfast. I woke up at 0600hrs and listened to the news, none of which I can remember. Then I got up, dressed and went downstairs for Shredded Wheat, tea and toast. I made the tea for the ride, as usual, and it wasn't until Andy later reminded me about the caff that I remembered, but by then it was too late and besides, I really wasn't up to Westerham. We decided upon the Tatsfield Bus Stop and headed off, but while I had brought the tea, Andy hadn't packed the biscuits. It didn't matter. When we reached our destination we engaged in more chat and our usual game involving flicking tea bags off the back of a teaspoon – I managed to fling mine the furthest, well, the first one at any rate. The second fell short. Andy put in a similarly unimpressive performance.

Earlier, as we approached the bus stop, a thick fog had descended over Botley Hill. It had been raining overnight too so everything was damp and there were many roadside puddles. And yes, I got a wet arse too. The Lycra monkeys were out in force, some alone, murmuring psychotically to themselves about their pension plans, while others rode in large groups, occasionally shouting "Gravel!" or "Car!" at the slightest sign of either. I suggested to Andy that if a Lycra monkey spotted an auctioneer on the road ahead, he'd probably shout "gavel!"

We chatted about bicycles and how expensive they were getting and how even our bikes were far too good for what we do. It was a tired conversation that we'd had many times before and we both agreed that despite the fact that our bikes were too good for what we do, we liked them and wouldn't consider replacing them – not yet at any rate. My bike still needs a service, it still needs a front brake and it still needs a gear service.

Tea finished we mounted our bikes and headed for home. The thick fog had lifted as we reached Botley Hill so we sailed down the 269 bidding 'good morning' to passing monkeys. At Warlingham Green we parted company, vowing to meet up again next weekend AND to visit the Tudor Rose café for breakfast. "Send me a text to remind me," I said.

I reached home at just gone 0930hrs, but fortunately there were no plans to go driving anywhere, apart from John Lewis at Home on the Purley Way. I love that shop, but I can't afford to buy anything, which gets a little frustrating. I sat on sofas I couldn't afford, messed around on desk chairs with wheels, like a little kid, and rummaged around the 'gifts for men' area – torches, telescopes, multi-purpose tools and stainless steel and enamel mugs, sadly with the words "I'd rather be in my garden" written on the side. I'd rather be on my bike – or in my garden in the sunshine, drinking a cool beer, but the weather ain't hot enough yet.

Andy's Kona Blast. Pix by Andy Smith.

For lunch a cheese salad sandwich – one of my specialities – was followed by a walk around the block (roughly 45 minutes) and then I drove over to mum's alone in the late afternoon listening to the Stone Roses on the outward journey and REM on the way back. I need more music in my life.

Bad weather, chocolate, cakes and biscuits – and no exercise!

Home Alone 2: Lost in New York

Easter Sunday was 'changeable'. By that I mean one minute there was rain, the next there was sunshine. One minute there were blue skies, the next there were grey clouds. It went on like that all day and in between I had lunch, I ate cake, and biscuits and, while it was all very nice, there was one thing missing. Exercise. From a cycling point of view the Easter weekend had been a complete waste of time, thanks to the bad weather. The only decent day was Good Friday, but I didn't go out. Talk about Lazytown.

I'm sitting in front of the television now, writing while watching Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, the one with the woman with all the pigeons. I put Home Alone into the same category as Back to the Future. I've never sat down and watched it from the beginning; it's always on, normally over bank holidays and  and what's really needed now, of course, is a cake. A cake and a cup of tea and nothing on the agenda. Except there IS something on the agenda. It's minor, but it's nagging away at me: the bins have to be put out and I've got to do it. But not right now. Right now I can just sit here, writing (some might say typing – that's what Truman Capote said of Jack Kerouac's On the Road). Not that I'm in any way equating what I'm writing with either Truman Capote or Jack Kerouac, although I tend to agree with Capote's view of Kerouac's masterpiece. Apparently he fed a roll of paper into his typewriter, took a load of speed and started typing or writing, depending on your point of view.

This afternoon the weather has been fine. The wind has dropped and the sun has shone, but now – at just gone 1800hrs – the skies are darkening and there's spitting rain. Last night in bed the wind howled and moaned. Trees have been uprooted all over the place and this morning there was 'travel chaos'.

I sent Andy a text around 0625hrs saying abort because of the wind. He agreed and that means we didn't go out all weekend. Andy went out on Good Friday, but that was it. My bike has sat in the garage and hasn't been out since last weekend. What a sham.

Oddly, the weather seems to have improved from 14 minutes ago. The grey clouds have gone, there are trees silhouetted against bright blue skies, but nothing much to look forward to other than going to work for the rest of the week. That's the worst thing about a few days off, soon enough the time comes when you've got to head back to work or school or whatever it is you class as normality. Or perhaps being at home is normality and working and studying is abnormal. Who knows? Who cares?

"You make that sound rather shitty, Lewis."

Nothing much was said. Normally somebody mentions it, but if they did I didn't hear anything. A family member might bring it up, but again, not a dickie bird, and no, I'm not talking about the cricket bloke either. In fact, I'm sure the expression 'not a dickie bird', has nothing to do with him.

This morning I found myself awake in the dead of night, but it turns out not as dead as I thought. I suddenly remembered and asked myself, "Have the clocks gone forward?" There was only one way to find out. I looked at the digital radio alarm clock. It was almost 0450hrs. I'd been awake almost an hour. There was a programme about somebody whose name I can't remember, but the former mayor of Toronto, who died last week, was mentioned and the guy in question recently got married – to another man and banned what Americans call cellphones from the wedding. Having not listened to the whole programme, I haven't the faintest idea what it was about, although I know one thing: the guy that was getting married hates secrecy and when the reporter asked another guy why that might be, the other guy asked if he could go off record – but still didn't answer the question.

Clear skies? No, just driving rain...

The Six O'Clock News soon followed – the clocks had gone forward – and a story about planned cuts to the UK Border Agency was the lead. Why, I wondered, would anybody want to make cuts of 6% to the UK Border Agency, I found myself thinking, when we've got the so-called 'jungle' on the other side of the Channel and terrorist bombs going off in Brussels. Labour's Andy Burnham feels the same way. Perhaps we can expect another U-turn by the government. The rest of the news was given over to the various Easter messages we can expect from the Vatican, the Church of England and, of course, the Prime Minister.

Something Understood, the programme that always follows the news on Sunday morning, was all about renewal, but, as always, I have to get up so I rarely listen to it; and yet it's quite a relaxing, Sunday morning, half asleep sort of programme with strangely mesmerising music. It's the same week in and week out and one of these days I'll just lie there and listen to it.

So the clocks had gone forward and, of course, technology had already proved itself to be one step ahead of everybody. My iphone, for instance, changes time automatically. Had I set the alarm on the phone I would have woken up in time (had I not been awake already) but I hadn't set it so today might well have been a disaster. Fortunately, it wasn't a disaster, but ultimately it all proves to be a little 'academic'.

I moseyed on downstairs, made tea, toast and Weetabix with blueberries and then remembered there was no milk. Yesterday in Waitrose they didn't have the big two-litre plastic bottles, unless I fancied buying the extortionate Duchy of Cornwall brand – and to be honest, I didn't. One thing I really hate is when there is no alternative other than buying the expensive alternative of something. I'm always suspicious of garages when they place locks on the low cost petrol under the possible pretence that it's out of stock. Rather than fill my car with the 'supreme' petrol, I prefer to find another gas station that might not be ripping me off. That, of course, is the problem. It's hard to know when you're being ripped off these days. "It's the actuator, mate," a mechanic told me recently. "£210." Really? But not being an expert at car mechanics, I had no option other than to accept and pay up. At least now I don't have to struggle into the driver's seat via the passenger door – that was a pain, I can tell you.

There was just enough milk for one strong cup of tea and an almost dry cereal and now, with the time approaching 0700hrs, I could do with another cuppa, but if I want one I've got to go out in the rain to the corner shop, only to find, no doubt, that it's closed today. Today is Easter Sunday, a kind of Super Sunday – Sunday Extra, perhaps, when, everything reverts back to the olden days when nothing opened on the Sabbath. Not that those days were bad. It was kind of accepted that everything was shut and in a way it made for an interesting day. The pubs would open at noon and shut at 2pm and not re-open until 7pm, only a newsagent would be open, but only until lunch time and it would only sell newspapers and sweets, not food. It was a time for lolling around or walking aimlessly through parks and fields, or simply going round to somebody's house or punctuating the day with a trip to the pub, but having the rest of the day wandering about and, strangely, being of no fixed abode.

Andy and I have been liaising this morning on Facebook. "Has it stopped raining at your place?" he asked me earlier. I got up and peered outside. "It's raining now. Abort?" We decided to leave it until 0730hrs before making our decision. I haven't even checked if Phil is standing on the front drive, although I doubt it. He was up for a ride on Saturday, but I couldn't make it. The best day was Good Friday – beautiful sunshine and clear skies – but I couldn't make that either due to 'driving' responsibilities. If we don't ride today that leaves just Bank Holiday Monday and the weather is promising 'more of the same'. In fact, the promise is Hurricane Katy, possibly 'Storm' Katy, although it's widely believed to be heading off north early on Monday morning.

This weekend could be a complete wash-out as far as riding is concerned. If it does stop raining it's going to be wet, which in turn means a wet arse for yours truly – unless I can find my waterproofs. And before you ask, I've not yet serviced the bike or bought mudguards. I simply don't have the spare cash. It's the same old story, I'm afraid.

Hold on, though! The skies are getter bluer, the birdbath is calm, Andy's suggested meeting at 0800hrs. Yes, I've replied, but first let me get some milk from the local shop...if it's open! It's taken two days, but at last it looks like we're game on for a ride. Better find those waterproofs!

Or perhaps not. Just as I was preparing to head out to the local shops the heavens opened. Abort!

Later...

It's now 1014hrs and it's been raining on and off all morning. One minute there are blue skies, or bluish skies, the next it's cloudy. As I write this there are grey skies with an occasional appearance from the sun and then some rain. As Jon Voight said in Deliverance, "You make that sound rather shitty, Lewis." 

And below (courtesy of WikiQuote) is a slice of dialogue from the movie Deliverance:

Lewis: Machines are gonna fail and the system's gonna fail...then, survival. Who has the ability to survive? That's the game - survive.

Ed: Well, the system's done all right by me.

Lewis: Oh yeah. You gotta nice job, you gotta a nice house, a nice wife, a nice kid.

Ed: You make that sound rather shitty, Lewis.

Lewis: Why do you go on these trips with me, Ed?

Ed: I like my life, Lewis.

Lewis: Yeah, but why do you go on these trips with me?

Ed: You know, sometimes I wonder about that.

The Futility of Gardening – all over the UK now!

People say that one of the longest-running stage plays in the UK was Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap. Well, I've played the board game, that's all I'm saying. But there's a new play in town and it comes round once a year and runs for the whole summer. In fact it doesn't run out of gas until late in October. It's called, quite simply, The Futility of Gardening and it has a cast of thousands, mainly men, who, from around this time of year until the end of October, haul lawnmowers from their sheds or garages and walk up and down the garden moving from left to right or right to left – or a bit of both.

I went to a matinee performance today. It was my day off, you see, but these days, there's no such thing. And now that The Futility of Gardening is showing every weekend – everyday when you consider the fretting that goes on midweek about the forthcoming weekend performance – even my weekends will be taken up with 'work' in some shape or form. These days, there's no such thing as a day off.

The Futility of Gardening is all about that word 'futility' or 'futile' and it sets out to prove that gardening is basically a futile activity. In the same way that it's impossible to hold back the tide of the sea, it's impossible to hold back garden growth.

Rod Stewart used to sing about the first cut being the deepest. Well, when it comes to mowing the lawn after the winter 'break' – inverted commas deliberate because there's no such thing as a break in my world – the first cut has to be on a high setting otherwise the mower jams and has to be turned on its side so that the grass clogging up the rotary blades, preventing the thing from working, can be cleared out.

The height of summer in my back garden...

Up and down I go and then I decide to crank it down a notch to the next slightly shorter setting and move from side to side until I reach the bottom end of the garden. I don't really mind mowing the lawn. It gets me out in the fresh air and in many ways it's like cycling as it allows me to switch off and think about stuff I wouldn't normally have to the time think about if I was in the house trying my best to avoid a household chore. And believe me there are a lot of chores on the list: painting the woodwork on the stairway, hammering out a load of bathroom tiles from the downstairs toilet, boring stuff like stacking or unstacking the dishwasher or, horror of horrors, taking out the rubbish. You name it, it's there to be done.

So I was walking back and forth from the bottom to the top of the garden, wondering how stupid I would look to the neighbours if I was pacing up and down the lawn without a mower, when I looked over to the rather daunting flowerbed on my right. It was full of tufts of grass and a plant I like to call the Devil's Forget Me Not because it's not the light blue of the harmless Forget Me Not, it's this angry deep blue and it has a long, thick root that's impossible, most of the time, to pull out completely – meaning it'll come back when I least expect it to. At the moment it hasn't flowered and it won't for a couple of months, but when it's out, it's out and it's not a bad-looking flower, it's just that it spreads, and when it's not flowering, like now, it's just a bunch of floppy, green, cabbage-like leaves that spread like wildfire. I've given up all hope of taking out the Devil's Forget Me Not (I certainly won't forget it either; I can't, it's always there, goading me, laughing at me).

And then there's the tufts of grass; they've got to go too, but what amount of hassle is that going to create? I'll dig down and get it all out, but it'll take a month of Sundays and guess what? It'll be back next year – if not earlier. And once I've got it all out and I've dealt with the Devil's Forget Me Nots, I'll have to do the worst job of the lot: 'bagging up'. I hate bagging up. It's bad enough with twigs and sticks that poke through the plastic bag, but it's even worse with tufts of dirt-laden grass that I shake half-heartedly before dropping them in the bag, which becomes heavier and heavier and eventually has to be hauled across the lawn like a corpse. 

And what about that prickly, creepy thing that's entwined around the conifer? And the bushes pouring on to the lawn that need cutting back? What about the stinging nettles that grow back no matter how often they're cut and the moss on the patio?

At the moment it's all quiet on the western front. Not much is happening, but in a few weeks I'll have a big battle on my hands, the fight being to keep it all down when perhaps what I should be doing is taking a leaf out of Donald Trump's book. I should be building a wall around the house, like sea defences, to stem the tide of growth that's about to hit. And we've yet to talk about the front garden. I'm surrounded! It's as if I live on a suburban atoll in the middle of a stormy sea of weeds, thistles and shrubs and all I have to defend myself with is a trowel and a rake and a mower and a rusty old saw and some aptly named 'pruning gauntlets'. Because that's what you're doing when you head outside in your 'old clothes'. You're running the gauntlet or rather the gauntlet has been thrown down – by Mother Nature.

And don't for one minute think that when you've mowed the lawn and pulled out a few weeds it's game over. Far from it. And when you hear somebody say, "Shall we eat outside, it's such a lovely day," be afraid. Be very afraid. Because within minutes of making yourself comfortable on that garden furniture that cost you an arm and a leg, the wasps will arrive and you will spend the rest of your alfresco lunch swatting them and then, when all is lost, running indoors, plate in hand, to sit in a cool, darkened living room from where you watch those who remain outside waving their arms around frantically in a desperate attempt not to be stung.

Perhaps Astroturf and plastic flowers are the answer. But they will need dusting. I could concrete over the entire garden, front and back, but imagine how depressing that would be in the rain. There would be puddles too and I'd probably be saddled with a few troublesome potted shrubs.

Ultimately, there's nothing I can do about it. I'm a houseowner. I have a front and back garden and they both need tending from March through to October. As my dear old dad would have said, "Get on with it." And to be fair, I've done just that, and now that we're in March, it's all about to kick off and I haven't even mentioned hay fever. We'll leave that for another post.

Down and out at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

There are two 'slow ways' to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Two slow ways to the churchyard and the village and, if you like, two slow ways to anywhere. In the case of our regular cycling, there's a choice of turning left off of the 269 or right. Normally, we opt for the former and wind our way around the country lanes, down Hesiers Hill and then up Beddlestead Lane – a long, torturous incline – until we emerge on Clarks Lane.

Down and out at the Tatsfield Bus Stop? Not really. Just pretending to be asleep. We needed a different image.

To go the 'other slow way' we turn right on to Slines Oak Road and follow the route we normally take to Godstone Green, a route far less travelled mainly because of gear problems that persist to this day (and still need fixing). In fact, the last time we rode through leafy Woldingham and the golf course was about a year ago. I remember it clearly because it was snowing and I took a load of photos. We stopped, if I recall, at the car park halfway along the Ridge. See Twats of the Antarctic.

So Andy suggested turning right off the 269 and we sailed down Slines Oak Road, hung a left and then a right across a patch of 'off road' track, which was full of mud and puddles, and through Woldingham, a place that's jam-packed with well-heeled people who are a little exposed during the winter months by the bare trees, which give passers-by – especially cyclists – a good view of huge gardens with massive houses and gatehouses and loads of space.

The weather was fine, although there were signs that there might have been overnight rain – wet roads here and there. It was certainly not cold, even if it was still 'gloves' weather. The gloves stay on until at least May.

Normally I find this particular ride hard going – normally when we reach the golf course I start moaning – but not today. I did remark to Andy as we turned left on to the Ridge that it was a tougher ride that the other slow way. He agreed and we continued along the Ridge, past some huge houses, including Al Fayed's mansion. Is he still living there? I don't know, possibly not, but just past his gaff there's a short incline and then it's pretty smooth all the way to the bus stop. By the way, when I said I normally moan as I go through the golf course, I don't mean that I really moan, in a whingeing, irritating manner; I merely mention that it's not my favourite part of the ride. I thought I'd mention that in case you all thought I was a pain in the arse. I'm not, although Andy might beg to differ.

So we were headed towards the bus stop and all was good with the world. The weather was holding out and it was soon time for tea and biscuits. There were Lycra Monkeys around, quite a lot them, shouting 'Gravel!' and 'Car!' whenever the fancy took them; and Andy and I were just sitting there chatting – about pensions. Yeah, you heard correctly. We were talking like Lycra monkeys.What is it with some of the monkeys? They've taken to wearing luminous over shoes and matching gloves. Why? Well it's quite obvious, innit? Visibility.

"Why don't they just buy some lights?" asked Andy as we headed towards Botley Hill.

Time runs out in Dusseldorf

The Burns Art Hotel – time to check out

With business tied up by just gone 3pm I embarked upon another long, long walk across the city. It took, like yesterday, just over an hour, and the weather was a little colder. I reached the hotel around 1630hrs and then, after a little bit of faffing about with my suitcase, I bade farewell to the Burns Art Hotel and hit the streets.

Late afternoon/early evening is a funny time of the day because it's a good couple hours off dinner and it's too late for a snack, like, say, a cup of tea and a millionaire's shortbread. In fact, that's something I never really got together while I was out in Dusseldorf. I never found a cosy place to drink tea, munch on something sweet and read my book – The Moth, a collection of short, true stories, some good, some a little disappointing, but an ideal book to read in a Starbucks, if I could find one.

I'm always looking, but never finding, peace. That's what I need more than anything else: a bit of peace and quiet. A  cup of tea, an almond croissant and some time to sit and read the papers or a book or both. Coffee shops are the best place to be in this respect and, dare I say it, Costa, Caffé Nero or Starbucks fit the bill, especially mid-to-late afternoon in an American city. I remember a good occasion of this sort in Indianapolis a couple of years ago and one in Chicago last October – both courtesy of Starbucks.

On Wednesday I found myself in Dusseldorf's old town – or Alt Stadt – trying to find somewhere that fitted the bill. I eventually stumbled upon a Starbucks, but it was getting round to lunch time and I didn't want to start ruining things by eating cookies or whatever just prior to tucking into lunch. Not that I should have worried. On that particular day I'd already walked for what seemed like miles and then I walked round and round the Alt Stadt, not even window shopping, just walking and that's how the Starbucks came into the picture. But as I said, I passed on it and walked a fair old way back to the street where my favourite restaurant is located. But there was no room at the inn. I've written about this – how I went to the Thai restaurant instead – so I won't go on about it.

Stumbled across this sculpture in the Alt Stadt

So Friday afternoon's kind of similar, but in a sense the other way around. It was as if somebody had one of those huge old sand timers – what are they called? You know what I'm talking about, an hour glass, that's it. It was as if somebody had taken an hour glass, turned it upside down and I had to fit everything into an increasingly smaller space of time. And I was a little tired too. You would be had you just walked all the way across town like I had. I stopped off at a few shops on the way, like I did on Thursday. I bowled into a supermarket looking for God knows what. White hot chocolate, German tea, German breakfast cereal, a bottle of wine, but I didn't buy anything. Then I went into one of those posh but weird shops that sell odd stuff like upmarket-looking shaving brushes, pens, clocks – "men's stuff" – and I ended up trying some aftershave.

The long and the short of it is this: I ended up at the airport miles too early. Like four hours too early. I couldn't even check in so I found a restaurant and ordered tuna and penne and one of those big, balloon-like glasses of red wine and sat there reading The Moth. And then I made the mistake of ordering another. I say 'mistake', it wasn't so much a mistake, but I could have done without it.

Dinner here was not good, but not bad either

I went through security, had to take my laptop out of my suitcase and endure all the hassles – laptop in it's own tray, coat in another tray, suitcase in another, it's such a fuss, but it's all for a good cause – mine and my fellow passengers' safety. Once on the other side, time flew past and soon there was only 30 minutes before my flight was due to take off. But of course it never took off on time. Everyone was standing around at the gate and there was some kind of delay, but soon we all filed on board. I had seat 3a so I was soon sitting there, seat belt on, reading The Moth again. But other passengers delayed things. We eventually got off the ground about 30 minutes late. I hate night flights. You can't see anything. It was pretty smooth all the way over and having already enjoyed two glasses of wine I didn't order anything from the hostess.

We made good on lost time and hit the tarmac at Gatwick around 2122hrs. A cab journey followed and I was home in time for the news. Iain Duncan Smith  – otherwise known as IDS – had resigned from the government over Osborne's plan to cut benefits for the disabled, while giving the rich a tax cut. What a fucking bastard! Actually, they're both bastards. IDS is a bastard too, but I understand that his resignation letter is going to cause Osborne a few problems. Some have called for his resignation. Not good when you consider that Osborne has prime ministerial ambitions.

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.