Tatsfield Bus Stop, twice!

Two rides to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and they were both great. On Saturday, the weather was good. We met on the green as always and headed towards our destination having a bit of a moan about the way the media are treating the Coronavirus (basically over-reacting). Why is it that if most people are only going to experience mild symptoms, to the extent that some people won't even know they've got the virus, why is it that there is talk of closing schools, bringing in the army, having no-go zones, people working from home, football matches being played 'behind closed doors' and so on? It does, of course, provide world governments with a great excuse for everything as, indeed, it does for the man in the street. Skivers must be loving it, they can calmly announce that they're 'self-isolating' and have two weeks off work. Companies can fire people willy nilly and blame it on the virus, under-performers can blame their incompetence on the virus and so on. Boris Johnson, of course, can blame the virus for continued austerity, which will probably kill more people. The whole thing, quite frankly, is utterly ridiculous. Why is it that the Government is happy to say that around 100,000 people could die when Italy, which is in the thick of it, hasn't had THAT many casualties? But of course, it's not really the Government that is the problem, it's the media claiming, for example, that Coronavirus deaths in the UK have doubled  - to two!

Daffodils on the roadside at Warlingham

When we reached the bus stop we enjoyed two excellent cups of tea courtesy of Twining's English Breakfast tea and a brand new flask, purchased from Robert Dyas during the week. We needed one, the old Stanley, caked with limescale and weighing (as it always had) a tonne, was getting a little old, the water quality (I think) was poor, we were getting funny-tasting tea, so a new flask was the order of the day. The tea was fresh too, straight out of the Co-op and opened at the Bus Stop. Wonderful!

Sunday was similar, although it was pouring down when I woke up at 0600hrs so I aborted, only to reinstate the ride half an hour later. We agreed to meet at 0745hrs and then repeated Saturday's ride, talking as we went about the virus and then enjoying more excellent tea when we reached the bus stop.

My bike needs a good clean. It's smattered and spattered with mud from the wet weather we've been contending with, the storms and what have you. I won't bother just yet because there will be more rain, more deep puddles and muddy pathways to deal with. Even today, as I rode along the off-road path I encountered a stretch of thick mud. While I tried to ride through it, it proved impossible, the bike sludged to a stop and I had to dismount and push the bike through. Thicker tyres might have got me through. Then there's my front brake, it needs looking at. But right now I think I'll keep it oiled and that's about it, although I'm not going to let things slip. It's important to fix things as they happen rather than let them build up until there's loads of stuff to be done.

On the way back it rained hard. I'd just said goodbye to Andy at The Ridge and down it came. I got soaked. But then the sun came out and I dried off as I rode along the off-road path, reaching home around 0945hrs. I'm dry now, well, almost. I'm not wearing socks and I'm about to head over to mum's (in the car). I know for a fact that a chunk of fruit cake awaits me, although I might take one of my sweet orange Tazo teas with me as I've been drinking miles too much 'normal tea', although I'm thinking why bother, there's nowt wrong with black tea even if there is a bit of caffeine to contend with.

Outside the sun is shining, the skies are blue and there are, believe it or not, blossoms on the trees. When I leave to ride to the green in the morning I don't need my lights and soon the clocks are going forward and summer will arrive.

To Westerham - the long way!

There was no way in hell we were going out yesterday. Rain was promised for most of Saturday and sure enough, when I woke up there was rain hammering down on the roof of next door's conservatory (or extension or whatever it is). So I resigned myself to no exercise and later stuffed my face with venison and cappuccino cake and a few cups of tea. As the day progressed the rain lessened and all was looking good for Sunday.

Venison with mushrooms, pears and potatoes

Andy sent a text suggesting we ride to Westerham, the slow way - a first for us! I rattled off a reply, something along the lines of 'yeah, great, let's do it', but then I started to regret it. I knew I was going to have a late one on Saturday night and began to worry and fret and wonder whether I'd be sending an abort text in the morning. But all was fine. I woke up around 0515 and simply lay there until the birds started chirping and then I got up, checked the phone and went downstairs feeling surprisingly fine. Special K. It's easier than making porridge so I chucked a ton of the stuff in a bowl, poured in a bit of milk, chopped up a banana, made some tea and chilled before it was time. Time to get up and head outside.

There were problems. I need a new flask or some kind of container (or containers) to hold the hot water to make the tea. But not today. I text Andy saying let's go the caff, but when we get there the caff is closed and so is Costa, so we end up in Deli Di Luca munching almond croissants and these weird pastries filled with chocolates and almonds.

On the way down we talked about the Corona virus and then I noticed an Italian was sitting behind me in the cafe. What was he doing there at such an ungodly hour? Had he sneaked into the country, had he avoided being tested, did he have the virus? I was more interested in my almond croissant and eavesdropping on a couple of Lycra monkeys, well-to-do Lycra monkeys, talking about fitness regimes, among other shit. The cafe was busy, probably because nowhere else was open, and we sat there chewing the fat, talking about joining cycling clubs. Soon it was time to go and while I usually don't feel overly motivated about tackling the hill, it was fine and so was the weather: blue skies, sunshine, warmth. I didn't need the balaclava.

Nowhere else was open, not even the Costa

When we reached Botley Hill we stopped. It was time to split, time to say farewell until next week. Andy headed off along The Ridge, I rode the 269 and it was great. The sun was out, it was warm, there wasn't too much traffic around and soon I found myself circumnavigating the green and heading along the Limpsfield Road and then crossing the Addington Road and free-rolling down Church Way, doing no-hands and then coming to my senses as a car drew up in a side road. I turned into Morley then Elmfield, left into Southcote, right on Ellenbridge, left on Barnfield.

Tea, almond croissants

And now it's gone 1pm and it's Bon's birthday today, he's 59. I just finished watching Bill Burr, the American comedian, he's extremely funny, and now it's time for a fish cake or fish fingers and there's no mayo and it doesn't really matter.  Here's to next week's ride.

What a great day! The cycling was energising and to top it all off I watched Season 3, Episode 13 of The Grand Tour - really, seriously, television simply doesn't get better than this. Please watch and enjoy! Good night.

In praise of Jonesy's Jukebox...

This article is all about one person: Steve Jones. For those of you who don't know about the Sex Pistols, Steve Jones was the lead guitarist. In short, the man is a legend - and not just in his own lunch time. He taught himself to play the guitar some three months before the Pistols first went on stage and, along with Paul Cook, John Lydon and Glen Matlock (my knowledge is a little sketchy here, but I'm going to assume that Matlock did play on the Never Mind the Bollocks album) went on to make history, changing the face of music forever. Hats off for that alone, guys.

On air - Steve Jones on Jonesy's Jukebox...

The reason this article is all about one person (Steve Jones) is because of Jonesy's Jukebox, a radio show that I stumbled upon whilst on You Tube. In essence, Jonesy's Jukebox is a chat show, but not like the usual stuff you get on the television. For a start, it's a radio show, but it's filmed too as it appears on You Tube. It's not like 'the usual stuff' because Jones is a musician and a legend so he knows about the music industry, he has insider knowledge and he doesn't go in for the usual chit chat rubbish offered by the likes of Jonathan Ross and Parkinson; and I think that is why he manages to attract the big names, like Slash, Brian May, Robert Plant, Iggy Pop, David Coverdale, John Carpenter, Billy Idol, Paul Cook, Alice Cooper and Todd Rundgren to name but a few. I've listed these guys off the top of my head, but there are many more (John Lydon and, I think, Pete Townshend have also been on).

Invariably, Jones kicks off most of his interviews with the phrase, "How are you doing?" Or "what you been up to?" Simple questions, but perfect. And what's more there's no boring chat based on the fact that the interviewee has a new album out or a tour. Alright, there might be a bit of it, but by and large, because Jones let's them talk and is not interested in anything sensationalist, the rock stars relax, they know that Jones is on the level, part of the whole rock thing, and they open up to him. And let me say now that it's an absolutely fantastic thing as there is clearly mutual respect between Jones and his guests.

I can't get enough of Jonesy's Jukebox and while half of my love of the programme is the guests, the main facet of the show is Jones himself, he's so down to earth, so inoffensive, a pleasant man who means no harm and is keen to share his knowledge with his guests and learn anew from them. It's great listening to the conversation, which is like eavesdropping on a pub conversation or, better still, being a part of the chat.

Jonesy's interview with Brian May was fantastic as both men clearly wanted to be there; May was chuffed to bits to be in the presence of Jones and while they did chat about the time when they shared a studio back in the day, the chat revolved around vegetarianism, veganism and whether or not there is life after death. And this is when Jonesy comes into his own because he's not the great intellectual (who is?). Well, Brian May I suppose, but my point is that Jonesy puts across the layman's view, he's not trying to be Melvyn Bragg or David Starkey, he's the man in the street.

I fully intend to read Jonesy's book because his early life was not your average upbringing, far from it. He was no angel – and readily admits, even on air, that he was famed for stealing musical instruments and equipment from bands prior to being in the Pistols – he was abused by a family member, and there's a strong hint of a life of crime had music (and being a member of the Sex Pistols) not saved him from law courts and prison cells. And I must say that I'm glad for him and saddened, I must add, when he announced on air that he had suffered from a heart attack. One person the world doesn't want to lose (not for some time, at any rate) is Steve Jones.

Jonesy lives in LA - or close by, I'm not exactly sure where - and I think he enjoys the sunshine and riding his motorcycle to work, doing the radio show. I mean, what a life! He's one of those people I'd love to meet, one of those people I'd like to chat to as we're roughly the same age (he might be a couple of years older than me, I'm now 62). I think if I was a rock star I'd want to be on Jonesy's Jukebox ahead of anybody else's show. Forget all those American chat show hosts, forget Jonathan Ross, James Corden, all of them, I'd settle for Jonesy's Jukebox and it seems as if the rock star fraternity feel the same way.

What else can I say to Jonesy other than keep fit, keep healthy and keep on keeping on with Jonesy's Jukebox, it's a great show.

Woodmansterne Saturday, Bus Stop on Sunday...

It's Sunday morning, 0643hrs and Andy and I have decided to wait until 0700hrs before we decide on whether a ride is on the cards or night. All night the wind has been blowing hard and I awoke early and listened to it gusting around outside as I lay there, right hand on forehead contemplating an abort text.

Library shot of the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Today's weather similar to this.

Now I'm up, sitting in front the laptop with two pieces of toast long eaten and a cup of Earl Grey decaff (without milk) wondering what the light will bring. If it's anything like yesterday I probably will go cycling. I remember sitting here in exactly the same position having resigned myself to not going out when Bon texted to ask if I was going. I called him and said it was a bit blowy out there, but somehow decided it was okay and agreed to meet him around a quarter past eight on Woodmansterne Green.

I left the house around 0750 and headed down the road, turning left on to West Hill and then riding through Purley, along Foxley Lane, now decimated by the development of flats, and on towards the turn-off for Woodmansterne. It was a very pleasant day with the occasional gust, but generally fine.

When I reached the green there was no sign of Bon. Normally he gets there early and comes down the road to meet me, but there was no sign of him. I parked up by Jean Merrington's circular bench and waited and suddenly there he was, in his car! Now, normally I would have been pissed off with this, but clearly something had occurred. The problem was that my phone had run out of power so I didn't know what, until he told me: he'd reached the garage and found a puncture, texted me to abort but of course I didn't get it so he drove to the green instead. It was fine, we drank tea and chatted and then, around 0908hrs headed back to our respective homes.

Library shot of Woodmansterne Green...

And now I sit here, a full day later, wondering whether Andy and I will meet at the usual time on Warlingham Green, it's looking highly likely. In fact I'd better get a move-on, clean up the cups from yesterday and sort things out.

Yesterday's weather was far better than today's. Yesterday the occasional gust of wind, today a mild drizzle, wet roads and gusty winds, but on both days it's been warm. So warm that I instinctively didn't wear the balaclava this weekend. There are daffodils all over the place and some of the trees have started to blossom so there are signs of better weather to come, but we're not out of the woods yet.

Warlingham Green on Sunday morning

We decided to ride the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and it was a good ride. We kept pace with one another, chatted about various things en route and when we reached the bus stop and found the bench to be wet (and our respective arses) we stood up and continued the conversation as we looked out on the drizzly greyness of the scene before us. There were a few Lycra monkeys around, but not many.

Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and vowed to be back in the saddle next weekend (weather permitting). I rode along the 269 and now I'm home and changed and back on the lap top writing the last few words of this blogpost. There are no images this weekend, or rather no fresh images were taken as my phone ran out of power and Andy didn't take any. The shots that you see above are what the BBC would call a 'library pictures', meaning they weren't taken on today's ride but are from the archive.

We were mesmerised by the media...

Both of us. Andy and yours truly. We'd both been listening, watching, reading about Storm Dennis, which has followed hot on the heels of Storm Ciara. It was due to hit overnight, last night, and I probably did hear some gusts of wind, and when I woke up around 0600hrs, having stayed up later than usual because I figured I'd be aborting the ride, I did just that: I aborted. I went back to bed, but not for long. Once I'm awake, it's not long before I get up and head downstairs for breakfast, and by 0630hrs I was looking out of the window trying to see the puddle on next door's roof, but it was too dark. Too dark to see what the weather was doing. But I'd aborted the ride, it didn't really matter.

When things brightened up, it didn't look too bad outside. I couldn't detect any rain, or not much of it, and the wind wasn't by any means a constant. Why the hell did I abort? I'd been mesmerised by the media! And so, incidentally, had Andy. I texted later to see if he went out and the answer was no. He had banked on Storm Henry hitting hard and had resigned himself to not riding. We both felt cheated, but there was nothing we could do.

As the day progressed, the rains came. I stood outside of Pearson's, a cycle shop in Sutton, Surrey, looking at the wet pavements and the puddles. There was a bit of shopping to do, but that was it and eventually I was home listening to the rain. My iphone said there was a 100% chance of rain all the way through to the morning and beyond so I started to think I'll abort before hitting the sack and that way I won't have a fretful night's sleep worrying (or wondering) what the weather will be like in the morning. "Just assume it's going to be crap," I said to myself later while watching Basic Instinct and being singularly unimpressed by the much-publicised 'full vadge view' offered to the film's detectives. Back in the day it was one of those scenes men felt they ought to have some kind of opinion on, the stereotypical opinion being little more that Phwoar! But I remember at the time not finding Sharon Stone that appealing. Nothing's changed.

So I'd better hit the sack, get some sleep. Got to stop eating shit. Coffee and walnut cake has to go, along with too many visits to the cafe.

To Westerham! And a visit to the Tudor Rose café...

Why have I got a wet arse? It's a question I asked myself when we reached Westerham and was standing outside the Tudor Rose café. The roads were wet, there were big puddles lining the 269 on the ride down and it had definitely been raining overnight so I put it down to that and then we bowled into the caff and ordered breakfast: Sausage sandwich for Andy and scrambled egg on toast for yours truly, plus a pot of tea. The last time we did this was 2019, at the Costa Coffee just up the road. On that occasion we sat outside, but today we took a seat inside and enjoyed the ambience of the whole thing. We could have had cake but opted for a proper breakfast instead.

Saturday morning at the Tudor Rose café

Why have I got a wet arse? That was the question. And while I blamed the wet weather, the puddles and the dampness, the reality was a little depressing. In a nutshell, two of those thermal mug thingys full of water in my rucksack had started leaking and the resulting dampness soaked through the rucksack and on to my backside. How annoying is that? Anyway, I thought I'd mention it.

The ride was good, there and back. In fact, on the way back I felt energised enough not to even worry or whinge about the hill. Normally, it pisses me off having to ride back up the hill towards Botley, but not today because I'd eaten that scrambled egg on toast and enjoyed a cup or two of tea; add to that the light-hearted conversation with Andy and you have the perfect recipe for feeling good.

Oh, and we ought to discuss the weather. Apparently there's a storm brewing and it's going to hit later today. It's going to be really bad news apparently, lots of rain, lots of wind, the usual stuff, and it might mean we don't ride out tomorrow. Well, look, if it rains I'm not going out, but if it's just a bit of windy weather, well, I can handle that and we can ride 'the slow way' to the bus stop. Here's hoping.

I suggested we pay more visits to the caff and we will.

Making my way home...

It was too cold to be out in the air for longer than five or 10 minutes, so I took shelter in the warmth of a shopping centre, wandering around and realising there was absolutely nothing I wanted. I found myself in a Huawei shop where it turns out that the Chinese company is going for the Apple market. They have some smart-looking smart phones, tablets and laptops, not forgetting a few watches too, and they're much cheaper than Apple phones. But I've just signed on the dotted line to keep my old iphone 5S on a Sim-only deal for just £13 per month. Not bad when you consider I have 5GB and unlimited texts and minutes.

Lunch at Hard Rock Helsinki

I decided to grin and bear the cold and walk to Stockmann's where I took another look at a lantern I was considering buying, but decided not to; then I checked out everything from saucepans to teapots and nothing appealed. Nothing made me want to reach for the credit card and buy it.

Across the road was a Hard Rock Cafe, time to get myself acquainted with a Hard Rock Helsinki fridge magnet and lunch, which was very pleasant as the restaurant was half empty. Afterwards I had to head back to the hotel to pick up my case and then head for the central station and a train to the airport. I jumped on the 1356hrs from platform 5 and was feeling a little bit sleepy. For a short while I read Serotonin by Michel Houellebecq and then drifted off to sleep. Fortunately I was awake when the train arrived at the airport.

It was then a case of logging on to one of those terminals to check in. I discovered they'd given me an aisle seat, which I didn't want, but it said I couldn't change it, which was annoying. However, as I'd reached the airport ahead of schedule I decided to seek out a bag drop-off desk to see if it was possible to get a window seat. It was! I was seat 11c but I'm now seat 9a - result!

And then, of course, it was time to go through security, which was fine, and then run the gauntlet of the society of the spectacle. I never buy anything off of those bastards, but I did spray myself with a couple of the aftershave testers before proceeding through the rest of the muck: alcohol, chocolates, watches, you name it, they're trying to flog it, but no way, I've wised up and I'm now sitting in Nordic Kitchen eating a cinnamon roll and drinking a mint tea. A small bar of Karl Fazer chocolate made it all very special.

Helsinki's Central Station

I tell you what really confuses me, people from South East Asia who walk around wearing masks as if they know something we don't - or is it out of politeness because they don't want us to catch their cold or flu or whatever ailment they might have picked up? Who knows? Certainly not me.

Anyway, the noticeboard says I've got to go to the gate, which is two minutes away. There's not much more to say so I'll sign off.

Later...
The flight was good and roughly on time. It was clear skies all the way until we reached the UK and we landed with a bit of a bang. I'm home now, watching the news.

A brief word about Finland: What a fantastic country and what lovely people. It was my first time and I hope I'll have cause to return again soon.

Mooching around Helsinki in the cold...

Night view from the window of room 659

I feel sorry for any fashion victims who live in Helsinki and find themselves wandering the streets of the Finnish capital in jeans with slits on the knees and elsewhere on the garment: they must be chuffing freezing! Alright, I've experienced worse weather in Sweden some years ago, when it was minus 26 degrees in Stockholm and a whopping great minus 40 degrees further north in Lulea, but here in Helsinki today the temperature is minus 5 degrees and if you factor in the wind coming in off the sea, well, you're talking fairly unpleasant. Not the sort of weather that makes a stroll around the city anywhere near pleasant.

Tonight, leaving a restaurant that was easily a mile away from the hotel, my colleague asked if I wanted to take a taxi. "No, let's walk," I replied, only to regret the decision as we put our best feet forward. It was brass monkey weather, put it that way, and I was so glad to reach the warmth of the Scandic Simonketta. As soon as the reception doors opened automatically - you have to watch automatic doors when they open outwards - a blanket of warm air revived me.

Helsinki Cathedral

I wouldn't want to be a beggar in Helsinki either, not in January, because the same applies: how the hell can they stay warm? I can't imagine sleeping rough on these streets, it would be SO unpleasant and probably life-threatening in weather the Fins are describing as 'postively balmy' for this time of year.

Fortunately, I am neither a fashion victim nor a beggar. In fact, as I write this, I'm ensconced in my room enjoying the warmth of the hotel and thanking my lucky stars that I'm not outside. I can't imagine how awful it would be on a bicycle. I would need my balaclava and that's a fact. I wonder if there's a bike share scheme?

I did take a mooch around yesterday afternoon, around 4pm, and paid a visit to Stockmann's, Helsinki's answer to a big London department store like Peter Jones. But I wasn't really looking for anything in particular and simply wandered about, taking the lift from the ground floor to the second, moseying about for a while and then going up to the 5th to look at the homewares. I managed a walk too, probably around 30 minutes or so, but the cold stung my face and I simply had to grin and bear it.

Stockmann: Helsinki's answer to Harrods

I've found out some interesting facts about Finland, the main one being that it has a population of 5.5 million. Think about that for a minute: 5.5 million in the whole country, which is a considerably bigger land mass than the UK, which has a population of over 60 million and counting. It's very pleasant in that respect: there's very little in the way of traffic jams and there's never too many people on the streets. Something else I've noticed about this great city is that all the doors open outwards, not inwards, and this, I am told, is fire regulations as it means people on the inside can kick outwards on the door to get it open in the event of fire inside the building. How considerate! I've also learnt that the Finnish language is phonetic so that I could simply read out a page of Finnish writing even if I didn't understand it; apparently the idea is that you emphasise the first syllable of all words. I've probably picked up other facts about this great country, but I can't remember them right now. The main thing is it's freezing out there and I'm glad to be in my room.

I sleep with the lights out and the curtains drawn back so that the illuminated logos on the building opposite bring some light into the room. I lie on my back looking at the ceiling, which is peppered with devices like a fire sprinkler, a smoke alarm and spotlights, listening to the sound of trams as they rumble and creak their way up the hill, but invariably I wake up after a fretful dream of some sort and then find it difficult to get back to sleep. This morning when I check the clock on my iphone it was almost 0530hrs, not bad in a sense, but I didn't hit the sack until midnight. This time I did fall back to sleep and had a strange dream about a group of people, young and old, playing football in the street with a tennis ball. There were other dreams, but I can't recall them. The alarm went off at 0730hrs and I decided to loll about in bed until a quarter past eight before showering and heading downstairs for breakfast. I had a bowl of porridge, a smaller bowl of raspberry or blue berry yoghurt, two cinnamon rolls, which were fantastic and a small sour dough roll. I enjoyed two green teas while simply chilling and looking outside at the sun shining, but knowing it was minus five out there. I woke up with a mild headache, but it's gone now.

I could do with a bar of Karl Fazer milk chocolate. I might nip to the supermarket later and get some to take home. There were two bars in the minibar, but as you can imagine, they're gone now. Yesterday evening I was flagging a bit, but the chocolate pepped me up a little bit.

Check-out is at noon and I've got to pack, but fortunately I travel light, much to the amusement of my colleagues who, fortunately, aren't here to see the tiny bag I'm using for this two-day trip. I say two days but really it's three, but two nights. Somehow I manage to get everything into what amounts to a small bag like those they hand out to conference delegates. I've got it down to a fine art and even manage to get the laptop in there too. No waiting around at the baggage reclaim for me! I can even stow my bag under the seat in front of me.

I need to check out how to get to the airport without using a taxi, nothing worse than taxis and I try not to use them. There's a bus operated by Finnair and I'm sure there must be a train too so I need to pay a visit to the front desk to find out. After that I'm going to brave the cold, head outside, mooch around for a bit and then grab a coffee somewhere. There appears to be an abundance of Roberts coffee outlets dotted around town so I'm planning to dive into one of them later for a mint tea and a read of Michel Houellebecq's Serotonin, my current book.

Notes from flight D82952 from London Gatwick to Helsinki...

I was wide awake at just after 0400hrs and unable to get back to sleep, not for want of trying. I tried taking measured breaths and closing my eyes, but I wasn't sleepy enough. It wasn't like the old days, when waking up in the middle of the night was the ultimate pleasure because I would feel luxuriously sleepy and ready to fall straight back to sleep. Back in the day I looked forward to a broken night, sometimes I used to set my alarm too early just so I could reset it and fall back to sleep just so I could experience the joy of lying there thinking pleasant thoughts. Somewhere along the line things changed, those thoughts became fretful and now, if I'm awake, I'm awake and it'll take a while to get back to sleep. Sometimes I fail and I simply get up and go downstairs.

Healthy breakfast at Gatwick's South Terminal

Just before 0500hrs I jumped out of bed and switched off all the alarms that I had thought would be necessary to wake me up, but, as I suspected, I didn't need them. After making myself fruit, porridge and toast I put the finishing touches to packing my bag and then waited for the taxi to arrive. When it did I noticed Gupta was at the wheel. He's a bit of racist, but believe it or not he's alright, he's simply one of those people that likes to moan about virtually everything and, of course, now he can no longer moan about the European Union because we're out. Although he still moans about immigration, one of his chief bugbears, but let's not forget his son's messy divorce and his various health ailments. But deep down, this ex-services cab driver is alright and despite previous posts, in which I probably paint a bleaker picture, I quite like him.

At Helsinki, still in the plane, looks drizzly

He arrived on the dot at 0600hrs to take me to Gatwick airport and an early flight to Helsinki in Finland. I have never been to Finland before so I'm looking forward to the trip.

On the way to the terminal building after Gupta had dropped me off, I met a woman who lives in Pimlico, London, somewhere close to Lupus Street. She hailed originally from the West of Ireland and was on her way to Dublin to watch her own racehorse compete in a race, although she wasn't 100% sure that the horse would run, but was going anyway. She was flying Ryanair on the basis that they're cheap. I was flying Norwegian. In fact I refuse point blank to fly with Ryanair: I never have and I never will and it's all down to to the fact that I distrust them and the guy who heads up the budget airline.

Once I'd checked in I milled around for a while, spraying myself with expensive aftershave. It's the only time I smell nice. I bought a few things and then went in search of something to eat, nothing special. I visited the Wonder Tree restaurant where I ordered and enjoyed a mint tea, a slice of toast and something called a Berry Yoghurt Bowl (£11.45). My flight appeared on the destinations board at 0800hrs and was due to depart from gate 18 so I paid up and went in search of the gate.

On the bus waiting for the stragglers...

I am on flight D8 2952 and sitting in seat 12a, a much-appreciated window seat, affording me excellent views of tiny cotton wool clouds some distance below me. It's fairly clear outside (now that we've cleared the cloud hanging over Gatwick) and even at 39,000 feet I can still see land and sea, roads and rivers below me.

The flight isn't full. Who else would be so foolish to fly on a Sunday morning? I have an entire row to myself and that means I can spread out a little bit.

I had been under the impression that the flying time to Helsinki was roughly three hours, but no, it's two hours and 25 minutes, which is a relief, although I must admit that I'm nice and relaxed and enjoying every minute.

I've brought a 500ml bottle of Pellegrino on board, but I swear I heard them say that passengers must buy everything from the airline so I've not opened it - until now - as I think the service is over, but they will probably admonish me for my insolence.

Toasted cheese and ham and mint tea at Moi Bar, Helsinki

Last night I was on top of the world chilling out at home watching (on Netflix) The Great Escape, but conscious that I needed to be up at 0500hrs I stopped the movie after David McCallum had exited through the tunnel and will have to watch the rest on my return.

My room at Scandic Simonkentta, Helsinki

Down below I can see land, mainly a mix of large and small (some very small) islands. Miraculously the sea is blue and off in the distance there is a hazy smattering of thin cloud. This is what pilots call 'excellent flying weather' or 'conditions' and I love it when I know things are going to be relatively smooth and free from too much turbulence.

There's probably about an hour left to run on this flight and outside the land has given way to the sea, so there's little to see. In addition to being a window seat, 12a is also an engine seat.

I'm taking sneaky swigs from my bottle of Pellegrino because right now I'm really into Pellegrino sparkling mineral water. All week at work I've been downing a one litre bottle just after lunch having purchased it for £1.50 from the Co-op. It's something I haven't done for a long time, but there's nothing better and now that I'm not drinking alcohol (it's been just over two years and two months and I'm getting boring about it) I've decided to drink more Pellegrino, mainly because non-alcohol beers are piss poor and I can't be bothered to pretend anymore. In the same way that Sir Bobby Charlton and Arthur Scargill should have swept their comb-overs aside and announced, fuck it, I'm bald! Well, metaphorically I'm doing the same. It's a bit like my vegetarian sausages theory which I will now explain.

The view from my hotel window...

Okay, if you're a vegetarian why bother eating vegetarian sausages? Why would you want to eat something that resembles the very thing you've decided not to eat anymore? In the same way, why should (or why would) somebody who has given up drinking want to be drinking something that looks exactly like what he or she has given up? No-alcohol beer will never taste the same as real beer so why drink it? It's horrible and simple serves to remind you of what you are missing by not drinking. Not that I'm missing alcohol, not one bit as it happens. There are people who drink no-alcohol beer to hide the fact that they are not drinking, which is fine for a while, but once you become comfortable with being a non-drinker and don't care what others think about your decision, that's when it's good to start on the Pellegrino. Perhaps a no-alcohol beer with a curry, but that's about it.

It's 1105hrs (UK time) and I reckon there's around 30-40 minutes left to go. Outside there is no sign of land, just wispy clouds below me and the sea. I think I might read a bit more of Michel Houellebecq's Serotonin. There's 25 minutes to go according to the captain and we will shortly be starting our descent into Helsinki where it's 5 degrees, cloudy and rainy. Ugh! Just like England. As we descended through layered cloud I saw nothing that resembled land until we had virtually hit the tarmac. The landing was perfect, so smooth and soon the plane parked up to await a few buses that were being sent to ferry us back to the terminal building. We were all waiting inside the plane, some people were standing in the aisles, but I chose to simply sit there and wait it out. Soon, I was up and out of the plane, on the staircase leading down to the tarmac and the waiting buses. There was rock salt on the stairs, a clear sign that things get pretty icy here in Finland.

Where doors open outwards...

In fact, I was told that the current weather in Helsinki was out of character with the time of year. There should have been at least a foot of snow on the ground, but apparently the Finnish capital is experiencing the warmest of temperatures for January 'since records began'. It was good in a sense because it meant that I wouldn't be slipping and sliding all over the place and possibly even falling 'arse over tit' in the process.

After clearing passport control I followed signs to arrivals and found myself wandering through lairy displays of alcohol, cigarettes, fragrances and watches, not forgetting fur coats and anything else you might care to throw in. Talk about the Society of the Spectacle, it's obscene. And rather than stop and buy anything I simply used the testers to make myself smell good again, based on the assumption that the Allure I'd sprayed on my face at Gatwick had worn off.

I found myself in Moi Bar opposite Starbucks where I ordered a cheese and ham toastie and a mint tea. It was fantastic and there was a real risk that I'll eat another one so took a wander.

To brighten up winter streets in Helsinki they keep the festive spirit alive

I made my way to the Hilton hotel just outside the airport where a car drove me into the centre of town and a lovely hotel where I am staying now. It's very pleasant and I'm looking forward to breakfast. The room is good, there's a minibar, a television, a decent bathroom and a desk. Add in WiFi and you could say I'm as happy as Larry.

Residing in an edgy part of town...

It's 29 January 2020, the year has hardly got airborne and yet I'm on my second foreign trip, this time a quick one-nighter in the European capital of Brussels, and the UK is on the verge of leaving the EU, much to my dismay and, indeed, horror.

Dress it up as much as you like, it's a cheese & ham toastie

I had an angst-ridden lunch in Le Pain Quotidien (see pic above) just across from where travellers board the Eurostar at St Pancras International. It's not my favourite restaurant and the reason is simple: they take their time and I always get the feeling that they've forgotten my order, especially when the waiter I've already given my drinks order to comes back and asks me what I'd like to drink. It doesn't bode well for catching the train. And to think that I arrived well ahead of time, a good hour before departure, but slowly time runs out. One minute I'm looking at around an hour to eat a cheese and ham toasty - alright, it was dressed up with some fancy name, but it was basically a cheese and ham toasted sandwich with a small salad and some tomato ketchup on the side. It was nothing special, but it did the job and I hurriedly asked for the bill before rushing off to go through the fafferama of security, although it's nowhere near as bad as the airport.

The train departed from Platform 10 and the journey - all two hours of it - passed by pretty smoothly thanks to Serotonin by Michel Houellebecq. And when I jumped off at the other end I got my bearings and headed off for what my iphone was telling me was a 9-minute walk to the hotel, the Mercure. For a brief moment I thought I would get lost as it was dark and I'm never 100% sure that I'm walking in the right direction when I'm using the phone's GPS system. However, as I trudged along I suddenly saw the hotel, separated by a few road works and now here I am in room 209 on the second floor after what can only be described as a speedy, efficient and friendly check-in.

Suddenly, there was the Mercure Hotel...

It's a great room. Alright, it's pretty standard, although instead of the usual twin beds pushed together there's a real double bed with cushions, loads of them, well, six in total including two little purple ones. Unusually, there's a separate bathroom and toilet, which I rather like, there's a flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a shower room observation window, frosted in the middle to spare embarassment and, of course, there's a desk, a table and a chair.

The WiFi was simplicity itself and, well, I'm thinking about going out and finding somewhere to eat as the hotel offers a few snacks like pizza, baguettes, chips and two mains (chicken tikka masala and spaghetti bolognaise and I'm guessing they're not homemade, although I suppose the pasta dish might be). I could stay in and order room service, but where's the fun in that? And besides, if I get back early, I can continue reading Houellbecq, which was my Christmas present.

I feel at home in this room for some reason. Sometimes hotels have it, other times they don't and it's not down to how posh they are either, it's hard to explain, but this place has it. It's not a hotel to be impressed by because it's a standard, average-priced establishment that does what it says on the tin. For me the acid test is always the breakfast. There's no restaurant, but there is a small bar by the front desk where all the items on the room service menu are going to be available, but it's not a very comfortable-looking place and I'm not keen on being downstairs close to the bustling lobby, not that it's bustling.

Room 209, Mercure Hotel, Brussels...

Out on the streets in the dark, I'm aware that the district through which I tread isn't looking too good. Outside of the extensive roadworks that have ripped up a lot of the streets, there's a menacing air about the place, brought about largely by the groups of bearded young men who seem to be peppered around as I walk in search of somewhere to eat. There are plenty of dodgy-looking cafes with Formica-topped tables and dull lighting, packed with, yes, you've guessed it, bearded men who haven't bothered taking off their coats. There are hardly any women on these streets and when I do spot one she is wearing a headscarf.

I am pretty close to an area called Molenbeek where, according to an article by a GQ journalist, all nine 'known perpetrators of the November 2015 Paris attacks had a connection with the neighbourhood'. And it gets worse: The March 2016 Brussels airport bombing was planned here by associates of Salah Abdeslam who grew up here; the guns used in the Charlie Hebdo attack were sourced from the area... need I go on? Terrorist attacks are always linked to Molenbeek, but fortunately that's not quite where I am, although, judging by those I meet on the streets, the scenario is kind of similar, although I hope I'm not sounding too xenophobic, perhaps more concerned for my own welfare.

Being somebody who unwittingly walked through LA gangland back in 2013, I figured the mean streets of Brussels were fine, even after dark, and while I passed many a bearded gentleman, three of whom approached me for money (but didn't accept Mastercard) I continued to mooch around. I thought it was kind of okay. It was only when I started to read about the district that I began to feel a little uneasy. I walked some distance down one street hoping the neighbourhood would improve or that I might stumble upon a decent restaurant, but the hotel had already recommended La Ruche, a French place offering a lot of meat in the shape of mainly beef and ribs and burgers. After walking away, I decided to bite the bullet and go inside. I was shown to a table for one, squeezed between a couple on my right and a young family on my left. I went against the beefy grain of the place and ordered a chicken burger with sweet potato fries and a bottle of Pellegrino and then sat down and noticed that I was the only person without a beard and a Mediterranean complexion. If this was an Isis stronghold, then I was easy meat. As I awaited my meal I looked around to see if there were any other westerners in the restaurant. I couldn't see anybody, but the place was civilised, the food was good and the service excellent and soon I forgot about the potential danger I might have been in; in fact I began to wonder if it was all a load of hot air. Everybody seemed perfectly respectable, it was just me letting the media brainwash me, albeit temporarily. I'll always remember my dad telling me never to be 'mesmerised by the media'.

La Ruche restaurant - nice burgers!

This is not, however, a pleasant part of Brussels, Molenbeek or not, and nothing like the area surrounding the famous Grand Place which, I was told by the woman on the front desk of my hotel, was only 15 minutes away. But it was getting late and I couldn't be bothered to go hiking around in the dark and then find it was too late to eat. La Ruche was fine and very reasonable: the bill hovered around 15 Euros, which was good by any standard, and the food was top notch. The restaurant was very French with its marble-topped bar and waiting staff sporting black aprons tied around their waists. There was a huge wooden-framed mirror behind the bar and elegant lighting, high ceilings and a pleasant hubbub and nobody appeared to be giving me strange looks of an Isis nature.

In all honesty, I could easily have been mugged outside on the dark and edgy streets. I was wandering around, alone, in a foreign country, in a considerably downbeat district, I was accosted on three occasions by bearded men of Mediterranean origin asking me for money, there were saunas and sex shops, men standing around in groups smoking, hardly any women about and those I did see sported a headscarf; this wasn't exactly Knightsbridge, although, these days, perhaps there's not much difference.

Just as I was about to get up and pay my bill, a man looking distinctly western was led to a table. For a moment I thought he might be English and that we could exchange knowing glances at one another. He had that Bill Bryson look about him, but without the weight, and it was only when I noticed he was wearing thick, patterned trousers (which were slightly lairy) that I figured he couldn't be English, he didn't look drab enough. Either way he appeared a little concerned about something, probably the idea of dining alone, and seemed to be looking at me for reassurance, which I don't think I provided. He and I were the only westerners in the restaurant, not that it mattered.

Inside La Ruche

I paid up and left after what I can only describe as a very pleasant dinner, and while I'm going on about being the only westerner in the restaurant, apart from that bloke I just mentioned, there was nothing wrong with the place or its clientele, everyone seemed to be getting on. It was only a short distance to the hotel, but before I got there I was approached by the last of three men who had accosted me to ask for money and for each one I had the same excuse, "I haven't got any money, just a credit card I'm afraid," spoken assertively, slightly impatiently and in a very clear and English manner, and it confused him enough for me to carry on without further conversation. The weird thing was the way the last guy came out of nowhere.

So I got back 'home', which is what a hotel becomes when I'm away on business and now I sit here writing in the room, in my little oasis of calm and safety, happy that next on my agenda is to hit the bathroom and then hit the sack. Next stop: breakfast!

It's now morning, 0618 to be precise, time for a shower and a shave and then breakfast. I won't go for a walk because it's all pretty unsavoury out there, nothing worth looking at other than a sex shop and there's nothing very appealing about it, not that I know, I just passed it by, as you do, whilst on the hunt for a restaurant. There was an old man peering through the window at the various appliances on display and I pitied his sorry soul.

The more I read about the district in which I am currently residing, the more I'm thinking twice about my nocturnal mooching last night. My local metro station is Lemonnier and there are bad things being said about the place and its surroundings online, mainly that it's dangerous and 'a Mediterranean district' of town peopled largely by North Africans. Knife attacks and theft are not unheard of round here and there appears to be some kind of argument going on about identifying certain districts of Brussels as 'Mediterranean'. The liberal David Weytsman has spoken about the unacceptability of dividing the city into districts by ethnicity in an article in Le Soir, which is roughly a year old. I'm rather glad that I'm travelling light and not hauling a massive suitcase behind me. I'm guessing you need to be nimble on your feet around here.

Chicken burger and sweet potato fries...

Breakfast was good, but I didn't over indulge. I could have enjoyed frankfurters and mustard, vegetables, baked beans, mushrooms and scrambled egg, but I opted for a bowl of granola, a glass of real orange juice (they have a machine that squashes oranges so it's fresh and real and not concentrated) and a cinnamon tea, plus a tiny bread roll.

View from room 209, Mercure, Brussels

A busy day lay ahead of me; instead of taking the metro from Lemonnier I was advised by the hotel receptionist to walk to Brussels Midi and get the train from there to Schuman. The walk back to Midi was very short, under five minutes, which made me wonder why it took me around double that on the way in. It's not a problem. Schuman, I think that's how you spell it, was further away than I thought but it was only a short walk from there to my destination. Soon the work was done and I headed back to Brussels Midi to catch the Eurostar, the 1252. But I missed it by around eight minutes. I knew I would because the seminar I attended ran over by 30 minutes thanks to a keen Chinese journalist asking too many questions, and then there was a problem on the trains, but I was rescheduled on the next train out and now I'm sitting in a restaurant across from the terminal. I've got to be back there by 1420hrs at the very latest - not a problem. Although that said, it's 1339hrs and I'm still sitting here typing this blogpost and editing it as I go along.

I've ordered home-made lasagne and a half litre bottle of Chaudfontaine mineral water and the restaurant is busy. The bill was 21 Euros, not bad. I'll be back in London by 4pm.