Rain stops play...

'Sleek lines, ergonomic design...'

I awoke on Sunday morning to the sound of rain hitting the windows. Yesterday evening I had aborted based on having been on a shortish ride to check things out and finding that I was still in a bit of pain. Don't get me wrong, not major pain, but enough to produce a wince, particularly riding uphill. But, as I've said before, things are getting better by the day, so next week I'll be on the bike, back in the saddle and heading off for Tatsfield or Westerham or wherever we decide to roam.

Sending an abort text is a bit like having a Get Out of Jail Free card in Monopoly, but when you use it and then find that you wouldn't have gone out anyway, it's kind of a waste of an abort, if that makes sense. Not that we have a finite number of aborts and then we have to go cycling regardless; it doesn't work that way, but I do always feel that I've cheated myself, let myself down for no reason, if I've played my hand, delivered an 'abort' and then woken up to find it's raining. Andy would know, for example, that had it not been raining, I wouldn't have been on the bike. Of course it works both ways, but, as I say, it's not as if we each have a finite number of aborts, perhaps we should have, although there are no rules so nothing really matters. The key thing is to get out there and go for a ride.

Peace of mind - subject of this morning's Something Understood

So, as I write this it's sunshine outside, but it's been raining, drizzling, you name it, it's not been pleasant. And it's a little cold too, but in all honesty I needed to rest up another week, chill a little, lie in for longer than usual. This morning, for example, I listened to an entire episode of Something Understood on Radio Four. It was all about peace of mind and how those awful insurance ads on the television depict people enjoying 'peace of mind' financially, lazing around on hammocks or looking out from a glass-fronted beach house on to a sunny coastline. But peace means something else. Peace means no war, which is good, but there's always a war going on some place in the world. Peace, it was argued, is a fugitive state, but what about silence? Is silence peace? It could be, but there's never really any silence. Even if you're in a room, a padded cell, there's still the sound of your own breathing. Anyway, that was the subject of the programme and when it was over I got up and made some tea and started doing things: looking for dust sheets in the garage, checking out my bike in the process, admiring its sleek lines and ergonomic design and wishing it wasn't raining and cold and that Andy and I were heading towards the village or somewhere on our usual early morning jaunt.

Just before the streetlights came on I went for a ride around the block; it was great, albeit a little repetitive, but it was good to get out. The rain had stopped and the roads had dried up and I followed a route along Ellenbridge, into Southcote, then Ridgeway, left into Arkwright, left again on to Church Way and left on to Morley; and then I did a few loops: Ridgeway to Arkwright to Church Way to Morley – repeat and fade – until it was dark enough to make it dangerous (without lights). So I headed home, locked up the bike, turned on the TV and found that Naga had been voted out of Strictly, if you're interested.

In Dubai, part three...

I didn't want to check out of the hotel if I'm honest. Or rather I wanted to check out and get home, but I also wanted some time in the heat. It was nice being out in the sun so I decided, based on the fact that I didn't have to be out and on my way immediately, to wander over to the metro station and buy myself a one-way ticket to Terminal One of Dubai's international airport, 14 dirhams.

Gits welcomed? I didn't have time to find out.

Ticket purchased I ambled back to my hotel, past the Pizza Express and the Café Nero and lingering awhile to take a photograph of the Gitex exhibition entrance hall. Gitex. An exhibition for Gits? No, it was something to do with technology, like most things these days. I got back to my room, realised I didn't have to be at the airport until around 1145 and moseyed on over to the supermarket to buy a lock for my suitcase. I didn't want anybody to steal my Lipton's teabags.

I checked out and headed for the metro again. It was even hotter than earlier, hotter than it will ever be in the UK, I thought.

"The train for Rashidiya will arrive on the Rashidiya platform," said a voice. "The train for UAE Exchange will arrive on the UAE Exchange platform." Seemed pretty straightforward to me. I boarded the former and around 20 minutes later arrived at Terminal One. The trek home had begun. I found my way to the check-in where I met a girl from Syria. Her brother was still in Aleppo, she told me as she checked in my bag. She was living here in Dubai and her parents were in Turkey, but she wasn't Arabic. I wished her (and her brother) well and continued to security where I had to take my shoes off (thanks, I think, to a dirham in my trouser pocket). But all went smoothly and soon I found myself in the familiar surroundings of perfume and booze and raffles for top-of-the-range sports cars. It all leaves me cold so I searched around for somewhere to sit down. I didn't want loads to eat and turned down a Wolfgang Puck gourmet pizza offering, not to mention KFC and McDonald's, but I settled for a Lebanese beer, Almaza, in (of all places) a Giraffe restaurant. I couldn't bring myself to order any food. In fact, I'm considering another Almaza before I make my way to the gate, which is now open.

Almaza Lebanese beer at Dubai airport

It's very peaceful here, there's not that many people around and if I'm honest with you, I'm looking forward to boarding the plane and heading home. I've ordered another Almaza, because it's nice, but there's little more to write about, you're right up to date and I feel like Gromit, the dog, sitting on that toy locomotive in The Wrong Trousers, throwing down the track in front of the train. In other words, I'm right up to the second here; I'm sitting in Giraffe, my second Alamaza has arrived, music is playing in the background, there's no more than four people in the restaurant and I'm just chilling, thinking back to the Ibis World Trade Center Hotel, which was good. Did I have any complaints? Not really, although I wish that I'd made use of its Cubo restaurant. I saw the menu this morning for the first time and it was fine (pizza, pasta, the usual stuff, but just what the doctor ordered).

My gate is open, according to the sign in the restaurant, but there's nothing worse than going to the gate early and having to sit around waiting to board. I hope the plane back is a jumbo, like on the way out, because I pre-booked an exit seat so I could get the leg room. I've also got a window seat as most of the flight back will be in daylight and it's good to see what's happening. I'm looking forward to the airline food, the little bottle of wine (I always ask for two) and it's just a shame they don't have any Island Bakery Lemon Melts, like they did on a recent flight to Vienna. Still, you can't have everything.

British Airways' in flight meal – my idea of luxury

The old Almaza is going down nicely and I know that if I had more time I'd probably order another, but I don't want to push it. Besides, I've got to leave room for my airline meal, something involving chicken, no doubt, but that's what I like. I love British Airways, by the way. Everything about the airline is good: the planes, the pilots, with their Biggles-esque way of talking, the cabin crew, the food, everything. They're brilliant. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome aboard this British Airways flight to London Heathrow. My name is Captain Roger Finnegan and with me on the flight deck this morning is first officer Peter Throughton. Our flying time to London is six hours and fifty minutes and the flying conditions are good all the way. The weather in London? Not as hot as here in Dubai, in fact it's considerably cooler, a bit of light cloud...".

A wonderful flight home to Heathrow...

But I'm not there yet. I'm still in Giraffe, sipping on my Almaza and writing this here blog post. In addition to the Liptons black tea I've bought in bulk, I've also purchased a box of Lipton's Spices and Mint, perfect.

You know what? There's only so much to say and I think I've run out. Alright, I could talk for England. I could go on about all sorts of stuff, but what's the point? So I'm going to sign off and go find my plane. It's at Gate D2 and I'm in seat 30A. I love Giraffe, though, especially this one here in Dubai Terminal One, because it's peaceful, laid back, virtually empty. You know what? I could stay here all day just 'chatting' like this and drinking Almaza. But I'd better go, my flight takes off in under an hour and I have no idea how long a walk it is to the gate.

I was reading an article by the American author Douglas Coupland in last weekend's Guardian. He was talking about where he writes. It seems that writing in hotel rooms and on planes is where it's at these days, certainly for Coupland, and I really get that. Hotel rooms are great places to write. Not sure about planes, but I'd add places like Giraffe, where you get left alone with a beer or two and can write until your heart's content, like I'm doing now. Right, it's now saying my flight is boarding, so I'm off. Laters!

Windsor Castle from the air as we approach Heathrow T5...

In Dubai, part two...

Tall buildings, there are lots of them in Dubai

Dubai is a bit like a city made up of all the duty free counters of every major airport in the world. Imagine it, all the perfumery, watches, expensive suitcases and top-end clothes brands, not forgetting the Toblerone and the Blue Man Group, all rolled up together and turned into a city, made ultra-comfortable by the temperature being hotter outside than it is inside. It's a glitzy, gaudy, glamourous place full of aspirations and tall buildings and I can't make up my mind what to think of the place. Do I like it? Or do I hate it? I'm not sure. Half of me says no, I don't like it. The other half begs to differ, although I would say that Abu Dhabi is more my style – quieter and a little more refined, perhaps, whereas Dubai is a place full of brands, even awful brands, like Nando's. But I've seen Pizza Express, Applebee's, Costa, Café Nero, Starbuck's; it's one of those cities that likes to make its visitors feel at home and if you're a Brit, well, all the brands you love and hate can be found here.

Dubai is defined by its tall buildings, its vertigo-inducing structures that loom up large from virtually everywhere, peppered with little golden windows that betray a hotel or black holes that identify an apartment block in which nobody is home. And why should they be? They're too busy out on the town enjoying themselves, marvelling, no doubt, at how wonderful it is to cover everything in Christmas lights, and gawping, wide-eyed, at magical fountain displays. It's the Vegas of the Middle East, a city that never sleeps with restaurants – some restaurants – open until 0300hrs and the heat of the night, which, at this time of year is not as oppressive as you might think, making strolling around after dark a pleasurable experience. All year round you can get away with shorts, flip flops and a tee-shirt, not that I've had the time to wear any of them, although I did bring the flip flops and the tee-shirts.

Dubai comes alive at night...

If there had been a swimming pool I would have used it. Put it this way, it's now almost 2330hrs and I would happily dive into an outdoor pool at this very moment, although, right now, I'm no longer outside but in the air-conditioned coolness of my hotel room. I can hear the air con system now as I write this and, believe me, I'm very grateful for it. And if I was going to sleep rough anywhere, here would be the place. It's so warm out there that I'd imagine it might even be a little uncomfortable bedding down for the night, I wouldn't need a sleeping bag, put it that way, although I'm guessing the temperature drops a little bit as the night progresses.

Today I checked out the metro system, which runs through the city in both directions. I think there are two lines, the red and the green, and today I was on the former, although, just like in London, probably even more so, it's jam-packed with people, so much so that in the end I didn't bother to take it and took to wandering around, checking out different restaurants as possible venues for my last dinner in Dubai, eventually settling for Le Pain Quotiden, which is also to be found in the UK (at St Pancras International opposite the entrance to the Eurostar terminal). I ordered salmon and quinoa risotto plus a couple of mint lemonades, a new experience for yours truly and worth every drop. I finished off with a mint tea, a Chia raspberry pudding, which was a bit like putty, although I managed to eat the lot. Later a Tiger beer and then a taxi back to where I write this.

I fly back to London tomorrow, but I don't have to get up too early, unlike today. I had to be in the Ritz Carlton for 0800, which was difficult after a broken night. When the alarm went off at 0630hrs I pressed the snooze button and then, 10 minutes later, resigned myself to getting up, going through all the motions and then heading downstairs for breakfast (Coco Pops, tea, scrambled egg, something akin to Bombay aloo, two slices of buttered toast and I think that was it). Then I jumped into a cab and headed in the direction of where I would be spending most of the day – the Ritz Carlton. Then, having spoken to the concierge, I decided to buy a metro ticket and head back to my hotel, which I did without too much grief (it wasn't until later that I found myself unable to get on the train due to the sheer weight of numbers).

Who left the vacuum cleaner in the corridor?

One thing I will say about Dubai, it's a safe city. Somebody told me earlier today that it's so safe you could leave an iphone on a table in a busy restaurant and nobody would steal it. I saw a decent-looking bike unpadlocked outside a shop, so I'm guessing it is safe as you wouldn't leave it outside a shop in the UK, and certainly not in London or Manchester or any town or city in the British Isles for that matter. Everybody seems friendly enough and life goes on: trains run on time, cars roar back and forth along the highway, people interact with people, meals are eaten, taxis hailed and people like me sit alone in hotel rooms blogging. I might watch a bit of TV as there are English language channels and then I'll drift off to sleep, pack my suitcase in the morning (after a hearty breakfast) and then head for the airport and my flight home.

My hotel is no more than a 20-minute cab ride from the airport, then it's the usual security hassles followed by a leisurely cup of tea and a read before boarding the flight and heading for London. Goodbye room 417 of the Ibis World Trade Centre, it's been nice knowing you, and goodbye sunshine as I'm heading back to an autumnal England full of cloud and rain and Strictly Come Dancing.

In Dubai...part one

I set off early, around 0930hrs for London Heathrow's Terminal 5. It was a pleasant day for October, but then again, October is always fairly pleasant and, let's be fair, the weather in the UK seems to be getting milder by the second. I know, I've said it before, but we rarely have serious cold spells and when we do, they're soon over, so who cares?

I was en route to Dubai. I'm told that it's not pronounced 'Dew-by' but 'Doo-by' - or Doo-bai, perhaps. Not sure, but anyway, that's where I was headed on the 1310hrs British Airways flight. As always I lost my shaving foam at security and, fortunately, I hadn't packed any toothpaste. You see, the thing is this: pack shaving foam and toothpaste, but you'll also have to check in your cases and have to wait around at baggage reclaim when you reach the other end; or, I suppose, do what I've just done and go to a local supermarket and buy it there, when you reach your destination.

My Jumbo Jet at Heathrow's Terminal Five...

The flight was smooth and fairly trouble-free. It was a jumbo jet, which was good, and I was in an aisle seat, sitting next to two real 'business' types, reading the FT and so forth, one of them even 'guffawed'. I sat there with my Guardian, which I read from cover to cover, and then a short burst of Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which I'm taking an age to read.

Whenever I have the time to read a newspaper from cover to cover I realise what I'm missing out on; there's a couple of good books out at the moment, one by Peter Hook on life with New Order, and another by somebody whose name escapes me, a book about glam rock, both seem perfect for me and perhaps one of these days I'll buy them. My preference will be for Hook's book, having already read Touching from a Distance, a book about living with Joy Division's Ian Curtis, penned by his wife.

The plane hospitality was the usual affair: a chicken-based hot meal, chocolate mousse, small bottle of Cabernet and tea. Then there was the usual sitting around simply waiting for the flight to end. I played a couple of games of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and on one occasion won $125,000, shame it wasn't for real. The rest of the time was spent reading the paper and Cuckoo's Nest and watching the plane's progress on the map.

Kids on a plane - worse than snakes
Kids on a plane are a fucking nuisance, though, crawling up and down the aisles like over-sized rats in nappies or moaning and crying and generally being irritating. I think a lot depends on how you're feeling and once the food is out of the way, the wine consumed and the newspapers read, well, I could wish them further. At one stage I fell asleep. It was daylight outside prior to my nodding off, but when I woke up (I'd been dozing for no more than 30 minutes, if that) it was night time and there's nothing worse than flying at night because it's one less distraction. Not being able to look out of the window means that you have nothing much left to do if you've already read the papers and eaten your meal. At one stage I went to the back of the plane and sat in the chair reserved for the cabin crew. It enabled me to stretch my legs a bit, although I had to keep telling people that I was not waiting to use the toilet.

Early morning Dubai's hazy heat...

Time for a snack...
Towards the end of the flight, snacks were offered and I chose a chocolate chip cookie (two biscuits wrapped in the usual packaging). In the small basket containing the 'snacks' there were small chocolate bars, like Twix, Mars Bar and so on, so I asked if I could also have a Twix as well as the biscuit - often I eat purely out of boredom. In fact, I picked one up, but was told 'only one snack per person, sir'. I liked the 'sir', although it was a loaded 'sir', a 'sir' that said, 'put it back you greedy bastard!'

We arrived on time, I cleared immigration, jumped into a taxi and here I am at the IBIS World Trade Center hotel, it's not too bad. It's hot, though. Or rather it's hot outside. The hotel is air-conditioned, thankfully. Not too hot, though. I remember coming here in July a couple years ago and it was unbearable heat, something like 45 degrees. Now it's only 32 degrees and bearable, although my hotel doesn't have a swimming pool, more's the pity.

The room is fine, pretty average, like the view from the hotel window, but it's all good and I've just had breakfast, taken a stroll across the road to the supermarket, stocked up on Lipton's tea (it's British, but we don't get it in the UK) and, of course, I've bought some toothpaste and shaving foam. I'll have to check in my bag for the return flight.

Worthy of mention 
Something worth relating to the group is that I'm sure somebody entered my room during the night while I was sleeping. I awoke to find a notice resting on my shoes explaining how 'nature needs a rest too' and that I should do my bit for the environment by placing the notice on the bed IF I want my bed linens changed. I couldn't figure it out; it certainly wasn't there last night when I took my shoes off, but there it was, bold as brass, resting against my shoes when I got out of bed. It's a little disconcerting to think that while I slept somebody was in my room, but it's true nonetheless.

I wouldn't have minded so much, but I had a wad of Dirhams – 'look at the size of my wad!' – and a passport sitting on the desk (nothing was stolen, I hasten to add) and, well, you just don't do that sort of thing, do you? Or rather, 'do they'? I'm assuming they knocked, got no answer as I was out for the count, and simply barged in and placed the notice on my shoes. Perhaps they didn't barge in, otherwise I might have woken up, they probably tip-toed in, like Secret Squirrel, left the card on my shoes and tip-toed out again. I would have died of shock had I woken up and spotted the intruder, although I'm assuming it was one of the chambermaids, but who knows what's going on? Not me.

I'm here for a conference, which doesn't start until this afternoon. Thank the lord for that! I'm wondering now whether I should have travelled on Saturday and given myself a day to acclimatise, but I didn't and, to be honest, I feel fine, they're only three hours ahead of the UK. I must have had around five hours' sleep so apart from feeling a little heavy-lidded, I'm fine. Fine enough to find this computer, the hotel's 'business centre' and start writing the blog.

Avid readers (if I have any) will know that I haven't been on top form of late, but I'm amazed at the power of the human body to heal itself. This time last week I was hobbling around and in a fair degree of pain, but now, a week later, things are healing and I'm almost back to normal, although I can't run (as I remember every time I make a dash across a busy highway). If ever you damage your knee, like I did, then the key is to use it, exercise it, unless, of course, you've broken it. I had two days taking it fairly easy, but I was back in work last Wednesday and every day since the accident, things have improved slightly. I'm now virtually back to normal, which is good, and next Sunday I'll be back on the bike again.

The view from room 417 in Dubai...

A good breakfast...
I almost forgot breakfast, or should I say I almost forgot to write about breakfast. It wasn't bad. Lentils and rice for breakfast tomorrow for yours truly, but today it was a mish-mash of stuff: tea, of course, two mugs of the stuff; then scrambled egg, sausage, a few lentils (why not?) and, it goes without saying, some Coco Pops. This might seem odd to you, but whenever I travel abroad I always have Coco Pops for breakfast (or their equivalent) but here in Dubai, it's Coco Pops. What else? Oh yes, a pastry (there's always a pastry) and fresh fruit, although I almost mistook strips of carrot for melon, now that would have been an unpleasant surprise, I can tell you! Have I forgotten anything? Oh, yes, I had a flat bread and I was going to try this semolina-based Arabic dessert, the name of which escapes me, but that can wait until tomorrow – or the day after.

I keep seeing people in shorts, but I know that I'll have to wear a heavy suit all afternoon and into the evening and then I've got a full day tomorrow also in a suit, probably the same one (definitely the same one). Then I've got to head back to the airport for a lunch time flight home. It's so important to build in a bit of downtime, but as I said earlier, there's only three hours of difference time wise, they're three hours ahead of the UK, so it's not that bad, but downtime is necessary, believe me, or you'll burn yourself out. So I'm heading upstairs to room 417 where I'll take a shower, have a shave and then, if there's time, I'll find somewhere to chill before the conference begins. It's going to be a long day.

A visit to the 'minor injuries unit'...

The original plan was to take today off, laze around, paint a door, go for a drive, the usual stuff I might get up to if I was 100% fit. But I'm not anywhere near it. For those of you who don't know, I came off the bike over the weekend, hit my left knee badly and cut up a few fingers in the process.

Saturday night wasn't too pleasant. I was finding it difficult to put one foot in front of the other, getting up stairs was a case of one at a time and I had to devise a way of getting in and out of bed without hurting myself. Getting into the shower, also a problem, although I'm only ever in pain when I lift my leg too high. By and large, like now, when I'm sitting or lying down, there's nothing in the way of pain. Perhaps a dull ache, but that's all, and each day I seem to be making progress. Each day I can do something I couldn't do the day before. In other words, thank the Lord, it's a minor injury and that, of course, is why I took myself down to the Minor Injuries Clinic. The last time I was at the MIC was back in 2005 when, God knows how (faulty running shoes I'm guessing) I developed a back problem. This was before any regular cycling took place, a good two years prior to that occasion when Andy and I, plus Dave and Geoff, met for a curry in Whyteleafe and Andy and I resolved to ride to Westerham over the weekend. The rest, as they say, is history. In fact, in those days, cycling was a once-in-a-while thing and it involved yours truly riding alone to Botley Hill, no further, on my Marin Bear Valley SE, a great bike, never EVER had a puncture and I'd riden it all over the place (London-Brighton, London-Oxford, London-Cambridge).

The Minor Injuries Unit, Purley, Surrey...

I detected the aforementioned back problem back in 2005 in the middle of the year. It got worse and worse until, eventually, I was X-rayed at the MIC (it was called Purley Hospital in those days) and my spine was keeling over to one side. I went to see an osteopath, she prodded around and then I went as far as cancelling a planned trip to Portland, Oregon (had I known how good it was out there I would never have cancelled it). As for the back problem, I awoke one morning and it had completely disappeared gone and has never come back. Very odd.

Anyway, I'm digressing. I drove down to the MIC, sat around for 20 minutes or so reading an old edition of Hello! magazine – about Peter Andre and his new wife, about Ron Wood and his new wife or girlfriend and then I whizzed through an edition of Country Life and checked out the big-money gaffs with their private beaches and swimming pools.

There was only a handful of people waiting to see the doc and soon my name was called. An Indian doctor sat at his computer screen and I launched into my diatribe about falling off the bike on Saturday and my knee swelling up to the size of a Navelina orange and so on and so forth. I rolled up my left trouser leg, revealing my swollen knee, he prodded about a bit and then told me to take a few Ibuprofen (to reduce the swelling). I knew that he was going to prescribe pills. That's what doctors do, so I'll probably leave it for a day or two and then pop a Nurofen before bed. He reckons a few days will see me alright.

I'm still limping a bit, but, as I said, it's getting better by the day because I've been resting it, taking life easy and so on; it's the best policy and I don't really do enough looking after myself. I'm going to start now, though. Not that this minor scrape has in any way changed my perspective on life, it's just that I do rush around, I do stay up too late, I am tired all the time as a result and it's got to stop.

With nothing better to do, I completed the Waitrose Weekend magazine crossword, found the correct food-related word and sent off my application for the £100 prize. I never win and don't expect to this week.

Here's a joke for you, courtesy of Weekend magazine: What's a monkey's favourite pudding? Answer: Meringueatan. Geddit? Meringueatan? Sounds like Orangutan? No?

Thoughts on yesterday's unfortunate series of events...

My left knee has swollen and it's one of those situations where I have to take stairs one at a time. Sleeping, oddly enough, is fine, once I manage to get into bed (what an ordeal that was last night). I went to bed early, around 21.30 hours, having spent the evening lying on the sofa. I felt odd, feverish almost, but certainly 'hot', although I don't think I was running a temperature. The news came on as usual this morning, but I wasn't getting up to go riding, I simply remained where I was, on my back, my left knee stiff and my fingers stiff too, and bandaged.

It took a while to figure out how to get out of bed without hurting myself, but once I was standing up I realised that I could put my full weight on the damaged knee and I was a little more mobile than I was yesterday. But not by much. The knee is still swollen and I somehow doubt if I could ride a bike today.

The old Kona Scrap (above).

The whole thing annoys me somewhat and I mustn't forget my role in the whole thing, taking the corner unnecessarily fast in wet conditions.

There's nothing worse than being incapacitated. I'm sitting here now with bandaged fingers and a swollen knee and even typing is harder than usual. And it goes without saying that, while I'm okay (at least I think I am, I'm seeing the doc Monday) I've started to re-appraise things. Perhaps it all happened because I was tired, perhaps I should go to bed earlier than I do and then I wouldn't be so whacked out all the time and if I'm not tired I might have been thinking clearer when I approached the Tatsfield village bus stop. Who knows? But I believe I'm invincable, I believe in my own immortality, it's pathetic really.

I'd come back home late on Friday night from Sheffield and then I stayed up watching Graham Norton and it's never as good as I think it's going to be, so why not just go to bed earlier? I used to go to bed at 9.30pm, but these days it's nearer to 11.30pm and sometimes even midnight and all I'm doing is sitting around doing nothing of any great importance, just putting off the moment when I hit the sack, as if I'll miss something.

I feel quite ashamed of myself for one reason or another; covered in bandages, limping, unshaven, unable to do things because of my general state of health. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not ill, just nursing some minor injuries, but I'm totally incapable as a result and I hate it.

I'm hoping that when I see the doctor tomorrow that he (or she) says I'm fine and should simply rest up, leave the knee well alone, lay off the riding for a week or two and things will improve. I don't want X-rays and all that probing about bollocks. I feel fine.

And here's a ridculous thought for you, while I was on the ground, in pain, dealing with the shock of the whole thing and unable to move, I found myself thinking, "Andy, take the shot, get the shot," but never managed to vocalise the thought.

It's almost 1pm and lunch beckons. I'm sitting in the conservatory chilling out. I should do this even when I'm not incapacitated and that, of course, is the problem. I don't know how to relax.

The Old Ship at Tatsfield

To Tatsfield Village – where I take a bad tumble...

Despite the fact that it's now October, the weather still held out. There were clear skies and, as Andy pointed out as we rode along the 269, it wasn't cold.

We were heading for the Tatsfield Village – to seek cover if needed against the rain – but there was no sign of it. Overnight it had been raining and the roads were wet, but it was a pleasant morning and all was fine until we reached the village.

Our bikes just outside Tatsfield village last week...

It all went wrong when I decided to pull my usual stunt and take a wide angled turn towards the bus stop. No cars were coming, all was clear, I made the turn left and then wump! I was down (and almost out). There's nothing worse that coming off a bike. It hits you suddenly and then there you are, on the tarmac and in my case not in a good way. I heard Andy ask if I was alright and eventually I said yes I was, but the truth of the matter was that I'd cut my hands and left wrist, did some major damage to my left knee, which is very stiff as I write this and I found that the shock of the whole thing meant I simply sat in the road trying to get my act together.

People came to my aid, which was good. Andy picked up the bike and my phone and I just sat there on the road trying to pluck up the courage to move. Once the initial shock waned, I did get up and thanks to the chef of a restaurant in Tatsfield called The Bakery who came out and helped me to my feet, I began to feel a little better – but just a little bit. I hobbled, with the chef's assistance, towards the open door of the restaurant, my right hand cut in two places, my left wrist grazed and my left knee in a bit of a state. I rinsed my hands under a tap in the the restaurant's bathroom and then took a seat in the main restaurant. The chef brought me a black coffee and I remained sitting there for some time, trying to get back into some kind of zone.

The chef brought out a first aid kit and bandaged up the hand wounds and I decided not to look at my left knee until I reached home. There were two customers in the restaurant drinking coffee and looking forward to some breakfast and we briefly chatted.

"You come far?"
"South Croydon, about a 15-mile round trip," I said.

Everyone was really kind. After my coffee I bid them all farewell and thanked them for their help and went to join Andy who was outside with the bikes. I limped over to the bus stop and we had our tea and BelVita biscuits, but I was still in a state of shock when a white cab (a white 'black cab') turned up complete with white ribbons on the front; it was to be part of a wedding that was due to take place today in, of all places, Walthamstow.

I wasn't looking forward to the ride home, but I knew there were no train stations in the area and even if there had been I didn't have money or cards with me. There was only one option: ride home. Once I got started it wasn't too bad. I could still pedal like normal so I'm hoping there's not lasting damage to the left knee. I made slow progress along Approach Road where Andy told me earlier that Beaver Water World was being evicted from it's Tatsfield location. Sad news, but I was pre-occupied with my general state of health to worry too much about Beaver Water World.

We turned right on to Clarks Lane and continued towards Botley Hill and later, when we reached the off-road bit, I decided it would be safer than remaining on the roads like I normally do. Progress was slow, but not as slow as I thought it would be, but I wasn't in a good way and I couldn't wait to reach home.

No caption needed...

We went back on the road at Warlingham Sainsbury's and rode to the green where we parted company with a view to riding again tomorrow, although I'm not so sure.

After getting over the shock with a mug of tea I eventually took a shower and felt a little better. I've been bending my knee a little bit in the hope that it'll be less stiff, but it doesn't feel at all good. I don't think I've broken it; the fact that I can still ride the bike is something and I'm not in pain unless I move the leg in certain ways.

I made myself something to eat – I'm the only one here – and then watched an uplifting programme on iPlayer about the band Oasis, followed by a bit of Mock the Week, which is losing it a bit if the truth be known. And now, of course, I'm writing this blogpost, sitting in an armchair, the television off and the house silent bar the sound of my fingers tapping the keyboard of my lap top.

I've started to worry about the bike and whether it's right for me, or whether I should have bought another mountain bike.

More importantly, I need to be much more careful.

In Scunthorpe... it's a bit like In Bruges, but not as good...

I wouldn't say Virgin Trains were tasty...

You know what? Jeremy Corbyn is right and I reckon he's there for the man in the street. Alright, if you're Richard fucking Branson, pretending to be the friendly face of capitalism, Corbyn's not for you; for heaven's sake, if Corbyn has his way, the trains will be nationalised and why not? The other day when everybody was having a go at Jezza for his ride on one of Branson's Virgin Trains, I for one, stood up for the Jezzmeister. Why? Because I've experienced exactly what he experienced on Virgin Trains. In fact, it's happened many times. Once I remember taking a Virgin train to Liverpool. It cost me over £200 (and this was a long time ago) and I had to stand all the way.

Today, similar, but let's talk first about the fare. Can you believe that it costs something like £150 to go to Doncaster? It does. I was issued a ticket by a dopey cow on my local station – a Super Off Peak Return – and, later, when I was standing in the aisle of a stationary Virgin train carriage on King's Cross station looking, like Jezza must have, at all the little white tickets sticking out of the seats before me, I knew that I'd be 'doing a Jezza' and sitting on the floor somewhere. Already people were settling in for a long journey on the floor, put it that way.

My ticket cost £90, but it was while aboard the 1535 Glasgow train that I heard the conductor say that Super Off Peak Return tickets were not being accepted – until AFTER 7pm. I couldn't wait that long so I jumped off, at the very last minute, having discovered that it was going to cost me an additional £60. I had to check out whether this was true or not and I was not surprised to discover that it was true. The other day I flew easyJet to Vienna (and back) for £179 and I'm being expected to pay £150 to go to Doncaster. It's beardy's fault. He's so greedy he has to fleece the public. My view: nationalise the railways.

It all got a bit depressing on the Doncaster to Scunthorpe train...

I jumped off through the guard's door, which had yet to be closed. All the other doors had shut automatically and while the guard said I couldn't get off, I did. I then stood around on the concourse for a while and considered my options. Yes, I could sit around in assorted coffee shops for the rest of the day, awaiting the 1903 train that would eventually take me to sunny Doncaster (and then a local train to Scunthorpe) or I could just jump on the 1608 Leeds train, pay the extra money (which was looking inevitable) and get to my destination at a civilised hour. This I did and then I was pleasantly surprised to note that nobody checked my ticket. Yes, they said it would cost me more money over the intercom, but nobody bothered checking so I hopped off at Doncaster having paid an off-peak fare for what I'm guessing was an on-peak journey. Since when has the peak fare period started at 3pm? It's beardy again being greedy.

Not that I was bothered, I'd managed not to give him any extra cash, but then I found myself on Doncaster station faced with a criminal's dilemma. If I boarded (as I was intending to do) the 1830hrs train to Scunthorpe, perhaps the guard would notice that it was not yet 1900hrs and I was travelling with a Super Saver Off Peak Return – don't forget, folks, all I'd asked for when I bought the ticket was a return to Scunthorpe. So I thought I'd play 'the man' at his own game. I'd buy a single to Scunthorpe and not show my ticket from London. No problem. Now all I've got to do is make sure I get on a train to London before 3pm tomorrow afternoon, although I could always hide in the toilet if I see the guard coming my way.

The local train to Scunthorpe weaved its way towards its final destination and I was feeling distinctly depressed. Even up north, I noticed, pubs are being turned into restaurants. My train passed The Shapla, an Indian restaurant in a building that was clearly once a pub close to Thorne South station.

My fellow passengers looked as pissed off as I was, their faces either pensive, apprehensive or fretful. We stopped at Crowle, pronounced 'Croll' and then on toward Althorpe and over the River Trent.

Room 301, Premier Inn, Scunthorpe, UK...

By the time we reached Scunthorpe it was dark. I took a taxi to my hotel and after checking in went straight down for dinner. I found myself in a Beefeater restaurant and, well, it wasn't brilliant. For a start I was alone and bored – not their fault, to be fair – then there was the food, which was the usual pubby grubby affair. I ordered a prawn cocktail, which consisted of about six small prawns on a bed of salad smothered in a Mary Celeste sauce. There was more salad than prawns, but the sauce, oddly enough, made the bland lettuce just about edible. I forced myself to eat the salad out of sheer boredom. Oh, for a newspaper!

For main course, I ordered sea bass, 'gently steamed in a paper pouch' – they couldn't bring themselves to state 'en papillote' –  easily the best dish on the menu, as I felt there was no way it could be mass-produced. I supposed they might have employed cloning, who knows? But it was a fish and I figured it had to be just that, an individual fish. Everything else, almost everything else, might well have been manufactured in Basingstoke and shipped around Beefeater's national estate in frozen food lorries.

A glass of red wine and a bottle of still mineral water...

I ordered a large glass of red wine (Campo Viejo Tempranillo Rioja) and a small bottle of still mineral water and spent the entire meal time messing around with my phone. There was little else to do, other than people watch, but with some of the clientele, including the waitress, sporting tattoos, I thought it best not to stare too much. Perhaps they should ban people with visible tattoos from restaurants, that's what they were discussing on LBC the other day. Stick them outside with the smokers and 'vapers' and those with body piercings. Vaping is even worse than smoking in my opinion, that awful sweet stench exhaled from people's mouths is enough to make any sane person vomit. Mind you, I'm amazed that Branson hasn't cashed in on it.

In the end boredom beat me so I skipped dessert and asked for the bill. That said, why would I even dream of having dessert? Everything seemed incredibly unhealthy: not just a nice apple crumble and custard, which I would have ordered, but a "Salted Toffee Apple Crumble". How awful! Or a warm chocolate brownie or a baked cheesecake or a Banoffee Pie, a Mississippi Mud Pie, a Trio of Sponges (not just one, but a trio), Black Forest Gateau and, one nod towards healthy eating, a fruit salad with lemon curd sorbet. And let's not forget the range of heart-stopping sundaes. 'Nil by mouth' I thought as I waltzed back to my room. Alright, I skulked back.

View from Room 301, Premier Inn Scunthorpe.

Now I'm in my rather dreary hotel room, with its purple curtains, its 'tea and coffee-making facilities' – but no biscuits – and it's unruly coathangers, not forgetting the black Samsung television, the cheesy hotel art and the extra pillow stuffed at the top of the 'wardrobe' without doors. I almost forgot the bible 'placed by the Gideons' no doubt. I would love to enter a hotel room and catch a Gideon in the act of placing a bible in the bedside cabinet. Equally, it might be a worthy excuse for a criminal if caught in the act of trying to steal valuables from hotel guests.

"Oi! Who are you?"
"Me? Why, I'm a Gideon and I've just placed a bible in your bedside cabinet."
"Yeah, right! I'm calling the police."
"God bless you, son."

At least there's WiFi, but I can't be bothered with it, I'm THAT bored!

I'm looking forward to breakfast, though, as I know that this particular hotel chain excels with the most important meal of the day. I think the best Premier Inns are the ones not attached to a Whitbread pub brand. I prefer an integral restaurant, which, like most hotels, doubles as the breakfast room in the morning. Tomorrow morning, however, I'll have to nip outside, cross the road and make my way around to the Beefeater before I'll see any Coco Pops or buttered toast.

It goes without saying that there's no minibar here – perhaps they don't trust their guests – and, worse still, I can't really go for a walk as there's nowhere to go. The hotel is part of a complex of garages, fast food joints, a Morrisons supermarket and residential housing. Yes, housing, it's like being in the middle of a northern housing estate. No quaint little squares, no shop windows, nothing of merit, and the last thing I want is to be accosted by a tattooed, hooded 'youth' with a knife asking me for money, which I don't have. It happens, believe me.

So it's a night in front of the box, perhaps a bit of reading and then a bit of shut-eye. I'm reading Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a great book, it has to be said.

The rain stops and we hit the road...

Radio Four sprung to life at 0600hrs as usual and I listened the news headlines before getting up and peering out of the window. It was raining heavily outside. Stair rods hitting the puddle on next door's flat-roofed extension. Surely, an abort, so I texted Andy to this effect and then went about my business of making breakfast. Something said the rain might stop and when Andy replied saying that his weather app was claiming it would stop by 0700hrs, I was prepared to say, yes, okay, if it's all quiet on the rain front, we'll go for a ride. It was quiet and we did go for a ride. There was no rain and things had brightened up considerably.

Our bikes just outside of Tatsfield Village. Pic: Andy Smith.

We met on the green as always and decided that the best bet would be Tatsfield Village, bearing in mind the old Tatsfield Bus Stop was still taped off and out of bounds.

When we got there the tea and biscuits came out and Andy told me about a photographer who had sold a shot of a potato for one million dollars. A shot of a potato. This sort of thing annoys me – and I know it annoys Andy too. We start to think of the people in this world starving or living on the breadline and we think, What fucking arsehole is stupid enough to spend a million dollars on a photograph of a fucking potato?

"We're heading for a revolution," I said, looking over at the pub, The Old Ship.
"We've already had one," said Andy, referring to the recent EU referendum.
"That sign over the pub door doesn't really do anything for the pub, does it," said I. "And nor does all that writing on the windows," I added, having noticed writing advertising a "BBQ" and a live band. Why write all over the windows, it lowers the tone, I thought, remarking how, if The Old Ship closed what would happen to the Tatsfield community.
"Pubs aren't the heart of the community anymore," said Andy, and I had to agree with him. These days people are insular, preferring to 'stay indoors' watching Sky Movies and drinking supermarket beer.
"Technology is isolationist," I said.
"It is," Andy replied.
"Everything's designed to keep us indoors," I added, making reference to Skype. "Instead of a meeting in New York, we just go on Skype and stay in," I added. Andy nodded.
"I just want to know how one gets into a position to sell a photograph of a potato for a million dollars," Andy said, mildly peeved at the whole situation.
"I'm not sure," I said, checking Google on my phone and finding the story, about a man called Kevin Abosch, a photographer. The potato, incidentally, was Irish and organic and you can read all about it, by clicking here.
"It's probably a case of who you know," I said, "but I understand what you mean: how the hell does he get himself in a position where he can sell a photograph of a knarled old spud for a million dollars?"

We both wondered how. Andy filled me in a little on the story. The guy specialises in portrait photographs with black backgrounds. He was,  according to The Independent a 'celebrated photographer'. Celebrated for what? For somehow selling a photograph of a potato to some gullible idiot for a million dollars? It made me wonder whether the photograph he sold was a one-off, or whether he'd given the guy a JPEG. If the photograph was digital, that would mean it wouldn't be original or rare and that Abosch could sell exactly the same image to somebody else, making it far from being exclusive and valuable. He could print off loads of them and sell them to Ikea and we could all buy one for £20. That would put the buyer's nose out of joint and reduce his million dollar investment (if that's what it was) to dust. Did he check this, I wonder? I wouldn't pay a million dollars for a photograph unless I was the only one in the world with the image, the print. Fucking hell, I'd want the camera that took the photograph. Imagine how you would feel if you forked out a million dollars on a potato photograph only to find an identical image on the wall in your local McDonald's a few months later. You must have more money than sense if you're prepared to spend a million quid on anything, unless it's a decent house or life-saving medical treatment for somebody.

I know we live in a free country and that America is the land of the free and all that, but surely there ought to be some kind of law against people squandering so much money when other people are in dire straights.

We enjoyed our two cups of tea and Belvita biscuits and then we rode home. The rain held off and never really returned apart from a few brief showers later in the day. The ride home was very pleasant. As usual there were a few Lycra Monkeys around, but when we hit the 269 we put our bikes into top gear and roared towards Warlingham Green where we parted, promising to meet again next weekend for some more cycling.

I reached home around 1000hrs.

To Woodmansterne Green and then round to mum's...

Saturday 24 September: There was a light, blue-grey sky and a few wispy clouds and everything looked like a water colour painting when I drew back the curtains and peered outside. Somebody had left the plastic bin from the council on the lawn in the back garden. It was stuffed with cut-down shrubbery. What caught my attention was the huge, white figure 5 that I had painted on the side of the bin. It stared back at me and I felt quite proud of my handiwork.

I dressed in the usual garb and headed downstairs to prepare my breakfast of fresh fruit – blueberries, black grapes, raspberries, strawberries and sliced banana plus tea and two Weetabix with cold milk – and then set off on the ride.

Andy wasn't riding today and nor was Phil, he was preparing for winter hibernation and it will soon be time for the cardboard box, so I was heading to Woodmansterne Green for a meeting with Bon and then on to mum's for tea and biscuits.

Following the off-road trail home...

The weather was wonderful. It was dry and warm and bright. Perfect cycling weather, I thought, as I rode along Foxley Lane in Purley heading west. I half expected to see Bon, but we didn't meet until I reached Woodmansterne Green. 

Woodmansterne Green is a great place. It's peppered with big trees, there's the occasional wooden bench and it's a very pleasant place to wander around. Bon turned up seconds after I arrived, on his Cannondale mountain bike, and we walked around, chatting about old times. He remembered the time when we, that is Bon, Andy and yours truly, met at here at the green in the pouring rain and were forced to take cover under the church gateway. I mentioned how the occasion was well-documented on this here blog (click here to reminisce).

And here's a post in which you will find shots of Bon and Andy soaked through prior to taking cover under the aforementioned covered gateway. Click here. What you will find hard to believe is that it was SEVEN years ago – almost to the day.

Mind you, it is quite incredible how summery the weather was back in November 2009. Here's a few shots of Woodmansterne Green taken the weekend after our soaking. Click here.

It was nice being on Woodmansterne Green and I began to regret not bringing tea with me, but then mum's beckoned. It's a short ride to Carshalton along rural (ish) roads into Carshalton Beeches and then across the Carshalton Road towards mum's. We did this and regretted not taking the off-road path, which I later took on the return ride.

Mum was in fine fettle and made us tea and biscuits. We sat in the 'through lounge' as we used to call it, talking about old childhood memories. The 'through lounge' used to be two separate rooms and was knocked through in the seventies, when people did that sort of thing. I remembered when the space we were occupying was the back room. Where John was sitting there used to be a television set and I recalled a moment, long, long ago, when, aged six or seven, or not much older, we used to sit on the floor with a Bakewell tart, watching Doctor Who, in the days when William Hartnell was 'the doctor'. Back in those days there was no patio window, just French windows (or French doors) and I remember the 'radiogram', a Ferranti, that was a record player and radio in one polished wood unit. Dad had a number of Beatles singles (on the Parlaphone label) and we remarked how they would be worth good money if we still had them.

And then there was the gas fire. Make that 'the gas fires' as we had two of them, one in the back room and one in the front. The back room fire was a strange, petrol-coloured affair, brand name Cannon, and mum reminded us how we used to make toast on it. She hated that because of the crumbs we left behind. And then I remembered how we used to make chips in an old asbestos garage using a pair of pliers, a jam jar lid and a candle, not forgetting some cooking oil and a chopped and peeled potato. That in turn reminded me of the old wheelbarrow and how, when it had been raining, we used to pretend it was a swimming pool for our toy soldiers. The slant of the wheelbarrow gave it a deep end and shallow end, which we loved. Bon remembered how, one year, when, for some reason or other, we didn't go on holiday to the south coast, we once used a puddle behind the old garage and a broom to simulate the waves and the sea. How sad was that! But, as far as I can remember, we always went on holiday, so we weren't always using brooms and puddles to keep our dreams alive. In fact, it might have been that we had been on holiday and were just reminiscing, thanks to the puddle and the broom, I can't remember.

Further along the off-road trail...

Mum's house is full of good memories of days when it was always the summer and the sun was always shining. Days when the summer holidays seemed endless, the back garden was always bathed in hazy sunshine and populated by white butterflies, not forgetting the odd bee or wasp to make us run back to the house, and there was nothing to fret about. We didn't have a care in the world.

Soon it was time to leave and Bon and I would be parting company at the end of the road, he turning left and me right. I rode into Carshalton Beeches and back past the smallholdings and along an off-road section we hadn't used on in the inward journey, eventually turning left on to the Croydon Road and rolling into Purley, past Cycle Republic and home. Bon rode into Sutton towards Epsom, where he lives.

I reached home around 10am and later drove to Forest Row, which is near East Grinstead, where I found the Forest Row Festival in full swing. I nipped into In-Gear, the local bike shop, and purchased some oil for my chain and then enjoyed a millionaire's shortbread and a cappuccino in Java & Jazz before driving home along the A22, which is peppered with speed cameras, so I was constantly slowing down to keep within the speed limit – very annoying. Came home, watched Strictly Come Dancing – well, I had to see Ed Balls strutting his stuff – and then I hit the sack, after a bit of messing around on the lap top and reading the newspapers. All told, a great day.