Lockdown, Part 27: A need to recalibrate - and a sense of foreboding

I suppose if you really want to know what's bugging me it's my lack of cycling. I completed my last full week on Tuesday just passed having riden just 74.7 miles. The previous week I'd covered around 83 miles and this week, well, let's not talk about it. After last Tuesday, when I noted the 74.7 miles, I took my traditional day off on Wednesday, meaning I needed to ride Thursday through Tuesday (this coming Tuesday) to build up a reasonable mileage. But no, it wasn't to be: there was rain on Thursday and Friday and while I managed between 27 and 30 miles on Saturday, I didn't go out today (Sunday 14th June) leaving me just tomorrow and Tuesday to up the ante, but it will only be by 30-odd miles meaning, at best, this week's total will be 60 miles. It's not good and I can't say I'm happy about it. In a nutshell I need to get my act together.

Andy leaving the churchyard last weekend...

Yesterday I almost rode to the lakes, which was good. I was in the saddle from 0910hrs until around noon, so almost three hours and I must have averaged around 12 miles/hour so I'm guessing I put in around 27 to 30 miles. My iphone ran out of power so I couldn't rely upon Strava to give me an accurate mileage, but I know I'm in that ballpark. And now I'm sounding like a Lycra monkey obsessing about miles and my Strava.

Not cycling bugs me a lot and I'm prone to fretful thinking. I've noticed that all my fretfulness revolves around achievement (or lack of it). It's a kind of obsession and it used to be much worse than it is now. I mean, up until lockdown I cycled twice a week at most, which could mean anything from a mere 30-odd miles per week to, at best, 66 miles if Andy and I managed, say, three trips to Westerham (at roughly 22 miles per trip). The latter, of course, was extremely rare and could only really happen if there was a bank holiday. Invariably, we'd average 32 miles a week and the rest of the time we'd be working and I'd probably get a couple of walks in at the office. I say 'at the office' but I mean in the surrounding area, clocking up a couple of miles on each walk.

We're all eating too much...

But because, since lockdown, I've been riding daily I think that's why when I don't ride for a few days I start to feel guilty and I shouldn't. But try telling me that, as I do every time the dilemma arises. I just don't listen to myself and I'm not listening now as I write this. 

A bit of armchair escapism!

It's crucial that I do get the exercise. Lockdown's fine, but it involves staying in most of the day; there's no 'lunch break' walk with Paul, no wander around the shops. I tend to spend most of my day confined to a desk, sitting down, so when I don't get that bike ride it's not good, especially when you consider that there are more chocolate bars in my life and more apple pies with custard. Pre-lockdown they were both rare and they need to be rare again, but they were counteracted by the daily cycling, the 100 miles per week that I was doing for four consecutive weeks. Miss a day or two and I start to feel sluggish, fat, heavy, whatever you want to call it.

The weekend weather has been very pleasant. Yesterday's ride along Pilgrim's Lane towards Longford Lake was idyllic. There was sunshine and blue skies and scented hedgerows, it was wonderful. I stopped at the end of Ovenden Road and turned back towards the churchyard where I was meeting Andy. We both estimated my ride to be 'in the high twenties', meaning it could have been anything from 27 miles to 30. I'm gunning for an average speed of 12 miles per hour, meaning 30 miles, but I reckon the reality is probably 28, bearing in mind that had Strava been on, that's what it would have been. I'm guessing, of course, and my plan next weekend, weather permitting, is to leave the house around 30 minutes earlier and head for the lakes. I might even have breakfast there: a small dish of Alpen, a slice of bread and some tea would be amazing, sitting there in the early morning sunshine on a mid-June day just admiring my surroundings. Let's see.

I'm getting a sense of foreboding about things and I don't know why. It's the lockdown and the uncertainty of the future I think. I was driving to the coast this morning and it was bugging me. I think I need a holiday. I need to be in one of those houses on the beach down at Felpham on the Summerley Estate, just a week, although two would be better, doing nothing but reading and walking and possibly even swimming in the sea.

I was remembering times on the beach with my pal Andy back in the eighties. We'd go in swimming and then we would head for the Castle Tandoori in Arundel, the whole thing was a laugh from start to finish, but these days I notice I'm no longer laughing and that's for many reasons not least the awful news we've been subjected to these past four years: Trump being elected the leader of the free world, Boris Johnson being the Prime Minister of England (the least deserving and truly awful leader this country has had since, er... oh, his pal David Cameron, who many commentators have branded the worst Prime Minister in British history (they're not wrong, but I'm sure Boris might take that prize too). Then there was Brexit, engineered by that cock-a-like cunt Cummings. And now the fucking virus that has basically fucked everything, although I'd love to discover that David Icke was right all along and the whole thing was some kind of hoax. If that ever came to light I wouldn't be able to stop laughing, seriously, but it won't ever happen, let's face it.

Lastly, the protests over the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, USA. They're all making out that Floyd is some kind of saint when we all know that the man was a criminal. Fine, he didn't deserve to die over a fake $20 bill and that, of course, is the argument, which I totally understand, but why there are protests in the UK I don't know. This is not a racist country. Yes, there are racist incidents, of course there are, what country avoids them? But I wouldn't say black people or Asian people or anybody gets a particularly rough ride over here. I mean that's why there are so many boats crossing the English Channel full of migrants: everybody wants a piece of the UK - until the realise what a shithole it's become. Unbridled immigration has caused problems and one of them, of course, is Brexit.

So I'm looking out on my garden, the sun is shining, it's 1931hrs and I'm thinking of walking off an apple and blackberry pie I've just eaten, not to forget the Madagascan Vanilla custard. As I've said, it's got to stop, especially if my cycling is sloping off a bit. Next week the bike goes in for a service and a clean. The front brake has been buggered for many weeks, but can I find a cycle shop that will just take it in and fix it? No I can't, so it's got progressively worse. Andy took a look at it when I arrived at the churchyard yesterday and he thinks I might need a new disc too. Well, so be it, I thought.

Putting the bike in for repair, of course, means no riding from Saturday next week for a few days so I need to make the most of next week. I know there's rain floating around, but I'm just going to get done what I can and hope that will satisfy me. I hope that disc is alright, but I'm not going to fret about it.

It was great on the beach today. I love it down there. It's the only place that I feel real, relaxed, at peace with the world and somehow immortal, or at least full of life. I don't know why that is, probably because I have a lot of happy memories from my childhood holidays along that stretch of coastline. For me it's a house with a garden, with a gate at the end of it and beyond that the sea. 

Lockdown, Part 26: Cyclogeography

Shamed by not riding out yesterday, and mildly hassled by the mundane chores of a Saturday morning, I abandoned my attempt to meet Andy at 1100hrs at the Tatsfield Churchyard. Looking at mileage I figured it would be good to go out earlier and get something like Westerham under the belt before other things, like shopping, got in the way. I set off around 0915hrs with the northern Kent market town on my mind, but as I rode along I considered a shorter ride, working out in my head what I'd need to for the rest of the week to keep my mileage respectable. In the end I pushed ahead with the idea of heading for Westerham.

I rode the normal route through the leafy suburbs of Church Way, a considerable hill, across the fairly busy Addington Road and through the churchyard and into Onslow Gardens, a road consisting of fairly large detached houses. I took a right into Blenheim Gardens, hung a right on to Cranleigh Gardens (with my favourite curry house of old on the left hand corner) and then left on to the Limpsfield Road, the B269 no less, which, ultimately, would take me to Edenbridge.

The ride along the Limpsfield Road is pretty standard fayre for me; it's a busy road flanked to the left and right by a variety of different housing types, but mostly a mix of terraced properties and semi-detached all the way to Hamsey and then Warlingham Green where a small war memorial forms the centre piece of the green itself and is surrounded by a mix of old Victorian terraced houses and shops (a newsagent, Co-op, Nisa Today and India Dining (a restaurant) stand out).

Beyond the green I pass an Esso 24-hour garage on my right and Warlingham's village hall on the left, there's Chez Vous, which used to be Villa Sonia, a hotel and restaurant, and then a row of terraced Victorian properties on the left and a mixture of housing on the right, including a large detached house that looks out of place on the main road. More modern housing can be found further along the road, some detached and semi-detached bungalows, some recently built blocks of flats and and then the huge car park of Warlingham Sainsbury's where people queue, for social distancing purposes, prior to shopping.

On the A25 close to Oxted

Beyond Sainsbury's a roundabout offers up a choice of routes: the quieter country lanes to the left and the continuation of the B269 straight ahead. I decide to take the latter route and once past Knights Garden Centre the road offers fields and woods on either side, a small pond at the top of Slines Oak Road and a few houses dotted here and there in woods on the right. Most of this section of the 269 is flanked by fields with an occasional farm house set back from the road.

The Botley Hill Farmhouse pub on the right offers a huge car park and is set back from the road. It used to be a teashop in days gone by, but I've always known it as a pub, although it has undergone a change of management recently. Passing the pub I head for the mini-roundabout and turn left on to Clarks Lane heading east towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop and then the churchyard, both on the left. The covered bus stop, where Andy and I often stopped for tea pre-lockdown is made of wood and provides much-needed shelter from the rain and snow when the weather gets rough. It is located at the top of Approach Road on the left of Clarks Lane. Approach Road heads into Tatsfield village where there is a shop, a restaurant and a pub and a small pond. Not much seems to go on there.

The bike picks up speed as it heads down hill towards the churchyard. There are fields on either side, but those on the right eventually lead to the M25, which can be heard purring in the distance. The road winds it way downwards, past the entrance to the Park Wood Golf Club on the left and eventually past a sign for Kent, the so-called Garden of England. This stretch of road is fast and enjoyable and soon, after going under the M25, I arrive in Westerham, but I decide not to stop. Instead, I turn right on to the A25 and ride west to Oxted, the plan being to ride up Titsey Hill and rejoin the 269 at Botley Hill. 

Riding from east to west I have a strong headwind to contend with and it slows me down considerably as I weave my way through the outskirts of Westerham and on to a route without cycle lanes. There is, however, plenty of visibility as there are fields on either side of me and an open road ahead. The Grasshopper pub, a huge mock tudor building on the right, is under some kind of refurbishment, either flats or a budget hotel. I figure on the latter as I pass the structural steel frame that will eventually be joined to the main building, which I'm guessing they can't knock down because it's of historical interest. I remember having Sunday lunch there on many occasions. It was a carvery and it always reminds me of my father-in-law, a man who had a calming influence on me and everybody he met.

At the top of Titsey Hill near Botley

The A25 has some big houses on its left side, heading west, concealed from sight by trees and bushes and protected by huge gates. Names like Wildwood and Hatchetts and with sweeping driveways, these are the homes of wealthy people who clearly want nothing to do with the outside world. There are keypads on gateposts and little chance of glimpsing the main properties. Soon I find myself in Limpsfield, one of those places that seemingly doesn't exist as there are no houses to be seen, not for a short while at any rate, but then, suddenly, civilisation reasserts itself as I approach the outskirts of Oxted. I've gone from Surrey into Kent and back into Surrey again and now I turn right into Snatts Road and down into Oxted High Street, which is quiet and traffic-free. At the Deep Blue fish & chip restaurant to my left, where I remember visiting just prior to lockdown, I turn right. There's a bank on the corner, a Nat West I think, and further up the road on the right is Oxted Library. I'm looking for Glanville Road on the right, which will take me towards the Titsey Estate and the climb towards Botley Hill.

Glanville Road is characterised by large houses, not as large as those I found along the A25 (Wildwood and Hatchetts spring to mind) but big places worth, probably, at the time of writing, around the £900,000 to £1.2 million mark, possibly a lot more. In Glanville, the houses are a mix of ages, I'm guessing: some sixties and seventies, but others earlier. Towards the end of the road the price dips, the houses become semi-detached and terraced and then I turn right and left and head towards Titsey Hill, a 16% incline that can be an ordeal. I crank the bike down into the low gears, psyche myself up for the climb and then get on with it. All the way up there is nothing but trees on either side of the road and it seems to go on forever. I make at least three or four turns and still can't see any sign of civilisation, or an end to the climb, but soon a road sign announces the roundabout at Botley Hill and I'm back on familiar ground, the B269 heading north this time and flanked by fields and farmland on either side. I pass the pub on my left this time and at one point I have a tremendous view of the whole of London. I can see Canary Wharf and then, what seems about a foot away, the Shard and the City of London, it's easily 20 to 25 miles away, maybe more, or perhaps less, let's settle for 20 miles.

I pass Beech Farm Road on my right and then Ledgers Lane also on my right, then the pond at the top of Slines Oak Road on the left and Knights Garden Centre further along on the right. Sainsbury's is coming up and then I'm heading towards Warlingham Green beyond which lies Hamsey and then Sanderstead High Street. I cut across the 269 and into Cranleigh Gardens, take a left into Blenheim, a left on to Onslow Gardens and back through the churchyard towards the busy Addington Road. I cross it and roll down Church Way, which has parked cars on both sides of the road, and then I turn left on to Morley, right on to Elmfield Way, left into Southcote, right to Ellenbridge and right on to Barnfield. Nearly home.

In total I rode 37.27km, that's roughly 23 miles. I was in the saddle for two hours and five minutes and averaged 17.8km/hour. On the ride there was an elevation gain of 475 metres.

I feel more than compensated for not going out yesterday as I've now riden 39 miles this week, so far.

Lockdown, Part 25: The honeymoon's over

I've always been pretty good at working out when things have taken a turn, often for the worse, when the novelty wears off, when something has stopped working, ceased performing, no longer what it used to be and the lockdown is no exception. To a degree its like the moment when the sun disappears behind the clouds, when the only sound is the crying jetliner circling over Heathrow, when an ice cream van in the distance somewhere can be heard playing Greensleeves. These are all signs of life turning a corner, heading towards its inevitable conclusion perhaps.

Heading into Kent and Westerham on Sunday

When the lockdown started I, like a lot of people, decided to embrace it. We were helped by the weather and the fact that we were working at home and, most importantly, that the sun was shining. The weather played a big role in my happiness from mid-March onwards. There was rarely a cloudy day, hardly any rain, and it meant that I could use lockdown to indulge my favourite hobby, that of cycling. I knew the routes open to me, I've been riding them for what? Thirteen years? Something like that, and I resolved to cycle daily, first around the block (not that I couldn't have riden further, I've been cycling up to 32 miles at weekends) and then I increased my daily rides until I was clocking up 100 miles per week. I did four straight weeks of 100 miles and then last week I rode just 83 miles. Originally I said 84 miles... until I downloaded Strava on to my lap top and discovered that what I thought was a 16-mile ride was only 15.5 miles. Over the last five weeks I have riden 483 miles, 17 miles short of my target of 500 miles and yes, I do feel a little deflated about that.

As I write this the time is 1841 and I have yet to ride out on the bike. I was out yesterday and I was supposed to go out today, but as you can discern, I'm not out, I'm sitting looking out on the garden, listening to the birdsong, watching out for the fox and just relaxing. I feel guilty about that. I should be out riding the bike, but in all honesty I just didn't feel up to it and that could be because the novelty of the lockdown has turned that imaginary corner and I'm looking at the clouds (and the rain we had earlier) and thinking no, not today. I've levelled my decision with myself  (always a good idea) but on the proviso that I do something significant tomorrow, and that means at least a ride to Westerham or perhaps even the lakes: that would be good if I could motivate myself to get out early, if the rain holds off. A trip to the lakes would cover me for not going tonight, but as the rain starts to fall again outside I feel rather good about not going. The rain is coming down fairly heavily out there now; I can hear it hammering on the roof above me and I know it's cold out too. Last night, incidentally, while watching X Files, I put the fire on and wore a jumper, it was like a winter's evening, the candle burning with a kind of festive glow.

My problem in life generally is that I beat myself up unnecessarily. So I didn't go today! I never usually cycle daily, I used to cycle twice a week if I was lucky and was often stopped from doing so by the rain. I've got to stop fretting about such things, accepting life for what it is and moving on. Like now, I didn't go out,  I must accept the fact and get on with my life. What I tend to do is think: right, I'm 16 miles down, that means I've got to ride almost 40 miles to make up. Well, yes, it could be done. A ride to the lakes would rectify the situation, but I know that when I wake up in the morning I'll be far more attuned to a ride to the churchyard to meet Andy, a bit of much-needed social interaction, albeit from a safe distance. The whole thing, of course, is dependent upon the weather and I've simply got to stop thinking about it all the time. It's constantly in the back of mind, will it rain or won't it? Let's check the weather app on the mobile, that's pretty accurate and it has a cloud with some rain underneath it, depicting a cloudy and rainy day ahead. So that ride might be off. I could go early, around 0700, when I know there will be sun and cloud combined and no rain, at least that way I'll get a ride in. I could be really radical and go out now, the sky is blue again, the rain seems to have gone and the weather app says no more rain tonight. As you can I'm fretting when I should be reading or writing about something that isn't fretful, but let's leave it there.

The lockdown is losing its appeal. For a start there are more cars on the road, but also that kind of non-routine is beginning to grate too. Yes, there is a routine: I get up around 0600hrs, have breakfast, start working around 0800hrs, finish around 0430hrs and then consider a ride. But now the ride is becoming a chore, perhaps I've been overdoing it, but when it's time to hit the road a weariness creeps up on me and I put it off and sometimes consider not going at all, like I did a few days ago, but fortunately the sun was out and my neighbour motivated me so out I went and I felt good when I returned home to make dinner.

In the churchyard...

Cycling is energising and since lockdown, when I return home from a ride, I set about making dinner for everybody and then I settle down, listen to music, watch the X Files with a camomile tea and then hit the sack. That's been my routine these past three months and it's been fine, but it's dragging a bit now, meaning a new chapter is beginning. I want to keep up the cycling and I hate it when I lapse, like now, but I've got to be more philosophical about it, not wind myself up, which I'm doing a lot these days, and just get on with it, as my dad would have said.

A brief mention of last week's riding: I did a lot of Botley Hill via Beech Farm Road, latterly discovering it's only 15.5 miles as I said earlier, but on Sunday (I think) I rode to Westerham to meet Andy but when we got there (he before me) there were big crowds on the green so we headed out of town and rode back to the Tatsfield Churchyard for a very brief chat. Andy resembled a cross channel swimmer, he was caked in sun tan lotion as the weather was hot and he suffers if he exposes himself to too much sun. We didn't have much time and soon we were on the road and heading home. Andy left me at the churchyard where I finished my tea and then followed suit, heading up Clarks Lane, turning right at the Botley Hill roundabout and heading along the 269 homeward bound. The riding these past three months has been excellent.

So here's to tomorrow's ride and the big dilemma of heading out early or risking the rain with a later ride. I'll sleep on that one.

Lockdown, Part 24: Memories

What is your first memory? Now there's a question, and I've always answered with the time when my brother was brought home from the maternity ward, a toy train for me concealed beneath his shawl. I was in what was the front room of the house. But was it my first memory? As it turned out, no. I started to wrack my brains for more, but could only initially move forward from the point when my brother arrived home. I started working on actual years to see if anything could jog my memory further. I certainly remember the so-called Ferranti 'radiogram' and Beatles singles on the Parlophone label - Hard Day's Night springs to mind, I vaguely remember watching the funeral of Winston Churchill on our monochrome television and, a year later, the 1966 World Cup Final at Wembley but, for a short while, I had trouble going back from the toy train moment, and yet there were things that started to reveal themselves, like when we moved from the bottom of our road to the top and how I was standing with dad outside 3a, the maisonette, waiting to move up the hill to number 29. Dad said we'd have to wait for 'auntie' Yvonne to walk down the road towards us before we could go up, and to this day I can never understand why we have to wait for her. It will remain one of life's mysteries as both dad and Yvonne are no longer with us. My brother was brought home to number 29 so standing at the bottom of the road waiting for auntie Yvonne pre-dates the toy train moment. I have only vague memories of 3a, with its unforgiving exterior concrete staircase, and even vaguer memories of the interior. There was a brick fireplace, I remember that, and a black dog and a lady called Daphne, but that's about it.

Something that will always stick with me is being awake in the back bedroom of number 29, the waning daylight penetrating the floral curtains, the birdsong, early on a summer's evening, probably around 6pm, dad yet to arrive home from work with his trademark knock on the door and the distant sound of bells from St. Philomena's convent school across the railway tracks. This must have pre-dated the birth of my brother as I don't remember sharing the room at that point. My sister would have been in the box room, mum and dad in the front room with the bay window.

We lived in a cul-de-sac and received weekly visits from what we called the Corona lorry. It was carrying Corona soft drinks, but I can't remember us ordering any, it was simply something to watch out for if we were playing in the streets 'after tea' - a treat at the best of times. There was a laundry and a bakery lorry too, the latter going by the name of Riddington's. The laundry service delivered rectangular boxes made of heavy duty cardboard and containing pressed shirts and trousers for dad. There was the occasional ice cream van playing Greensleeves, and regular deliveries of milk from Express Dairy based around the corner in Shorts Road. I would later help out 'Dynamic Norman', a film buff who chain-smoked, on a milk round through a fairly posh part of nearby Wallington. I can't remember how much I was paid, but whenever my mum, or anybody in the family, asked me if I was going on my milk round, I would reply, "Might, I don't know."

The sun was always shining back then and the long summer days were taken up playing in the garden, getting up close and personal with various wild things such as ants and snails and worms and digging holes with small trowels. There was one occasion when mum made a golf course out of dad's immaculate lawn. He wasn't impressed.

The summer holidays were huge chunks of idle time spent riding bikes and playing in the road or standing around chatting with our pals who, like us, were in the same boat, trying to find things to do during the long school holidays that nobody wanted to end. There was nothing worse than 'back to school' and a new class, one year older but none the wiser and nothing to look forward to but cold weather and the boredom of the non-descript month of October when nothing much happened. November brought fireworks followed by mum's birthday and then my birthday was all that stood between us and the festive season. I remember dad coming home on the days prior to Christmas loaded with Hamley's bags, but we never twigged that he was Father Christmas, thanks to that bell he'd rigged up in the bathroom. 

There were two big moments in our year: Christmas and our annual holiday to the south coast. Dad went the extra mile for both of them. Christmas morning was magical. We would sleep lightly on Christmas Eve, wake up around 0400hrs and sneak down to see what Father Christmas had left us. Dad, for it was he, had spent an inordinate amount of time transforming the front room into a toy shop with three wonderful displays of toys and books and we loved every minute of it. These were the days when the seasonal television was worth watching, when mum's Christmas cake, the turkey dinner, selection boxes of chocolate and other delights made every second worthwhile, but we were forever moving towards January when the tree would come down and we'd have to go back to school.

What sticks with me most - to this day - was our summer holidays on the south coast. Dad rented a house right on the beach and we had two weeks of sunshine (most of the time) playing on the beach, sending clockwork motorboats across rockpools, eating fish & chips, and digging castles in the sand. I still go down there now, still look longingly at the very houses we occupied along with 'uncle' Brian, 'auntie' Yvonne and their son Tim. They weren't really our uncle and aunt, they were neighbours, from number 28. Brian and Yvonne were mum and dad's pals, they often came round of an evening for drinks and cheese footballs and because Brian, Yvonne and dad smoked there was always a smell of cigarettes the next morning, a few left over snacks (the aforementioned cheese footballs and some Twiglets) and Brian would always forget his lighter. I remember playing with it, wearing down the flint, smelling the gas.

As we grew older, life became less magical as the true realities of life started to impinge on our happiness, like passing exams, passing driving tests, drinking and rowing with our parents. Eventually, all that was good became a distant memory to discuss occasionally, like when I meet Bon, that little baby who brought me the toy train under his shawl, on Woodmansterne Green. Our main topic of conversation will always be those holidays in Felpham and we could talk for hours about them before cycling home to our own families.

I worry sometimes that my kids don't have similar memories and I wish that they did, but I fear that today's children are forced to grow up quicker than we did, they don't have trainsets and Action Men and toy soldiers, they don't have wooden forts like I did. Their imaginations come tailor-made in video games and by the time they're in their early teens they're almost adults and look nothing like I used to look with my crepe-soled sandals, shorts, socks and tee-shirt with an anchor motif. We were dressed by our parents in roll neck jumpers and 'slacks' and as a result have never become 'fashion victims' but equally have never been 'snappy dressers'.

There are too many memories to document here, some good, some bad, but when they next surface I'll be writing again. Until then, go make your own memories.

Lockdown, Part 23: Andy and I meet at the Tatsfield Churchyard

Saturday 23 May 2020: There was sun and gusty wind and it was a little on the cool side, especially when the sun hid behind the clouds. I decided a jumper was needed before heading for the churchyard to meet Andy. We hadn't met for two months and a day, since lockdown started, and the plan was to meet at the churchyard where we could socially distance and occupy our own benches.

Passing St Leonard's Church around 1730hrs during the week. 

The ride was fine, but a strong westerly ruffled the cow parsley on the roadside as I headed along the 269. When it opened out I was saved from a blast of cold air by thick hawthorn bushes, but when a gap presented itself the bike was buffeted by the wind and I felt a wintry chill go through me. I was riding the fast way, no country lanes today, my sole aim was to reach the churchyard and chill with a liquorice and spearmint tea and a chat with Andy; and before you say anything about my choice of tea, I know. I know it's a bit twee, but I love it. In fact, since lockdown I've built up a big collection of Pukka and Twining's teas involving ingredients like fennel and camomile and other poncy varieties.

The long and winding road - a little over halfway along Beddlestead Lane

I'd been sitting there alone for around seven minutes when Andy arrived on his Giant racer and it was good to see him after weeks of solitary riding with no reason to stop and chew the fat. We chatted about all sorts of things, mostly linked to the lockdown, like how the cars were coming back and how Surrey County Council was doing little in terms of looking ahead towards a world where the bicycle might play a bigger role in people's lives. Andy had lost a stone in weight and all due to daily cycling. I told him how I'd been cycling six days with one day off and clocking up 100 miles per week. For the record, I've now cycled 48 miles of a fourth set of 100 miles, that's four consecutive weeks. We both said we felt better inwardly as a result and we both agreed that cycling was keeping us in good mental health too.

Fields to the left of me, fields to right, here I am, on Beddlestead Lane...

During the week I rode to Botley Hill via Beech Farm Road and I did one trip down Beddlestead Lane, turning right on to Clarks Lane and following the road to Botley Hill and then back home. The weather was hot, unlike today, but a mini heat wave is promised, or so they say.

You can't beat fields like this on a sunny evening...

Andy's put his Kona Blast in for repair, it's going to take four days as the man at the store has too much work to do. I told him about Cycle King saying no to all but 'key workers' and started thinking about the madness of that decision. My bike has no front brake, but it's heartening to know that when I collide with a car and end up in A&E the doctor comforting me will only be there because he got his bike fixed and I didn't. Andy says it's pretty easy to replace brake pads so I might give it a go, although I think I'll check out Cycle Republic first. Either way something has to be done as I've only got one brake that works effectively and I don't want to start neglecting the Rockhopper like I did the Kona, which, incidentally, is still sitting in my garage with two flat tyres and in need of some major TLC.

The wind and the rain picked up, but the latter was short-lived. There's nothing better than the sound of the wind in the trees, it's like a roaring waterfall. It was time to go and Andy decided to ride through the village while I headed back down the wooden steps towards Clarks Lane. When I reached Approach Road I looked out for Andy and assumed he had long gone, but later discovered that he saw me heading down the 269 as he approached The Ridge. We're meeting again next Saturday - another sign that slowly things are getting back to normal - not that either of us want more cars back on the roads.

Lockdown, Part 22: Men Go and Come, but Earth Abides...

Sunday 17 May 2020: I followed the scenic route to Botley Hill and then rode further, to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. I reckon the distance hovered around 16 miles. While I remarked in a recent post that I found Beech Road, or Beech Farm Road, a little depressing - it's something to do with the field full of furry-legged horses and the trailers visible behind a wooden fence, not to mention the sinister-looking mobile phone masts standing erect across the fields - I've decided it's better than risking my neck on the 269. I think it's also something to do with the faux countryside, the fact that while it all looks very rural, it isn't. Admittedly, the road emerges halfway along the road of craziness (let's not forget the corona cocks in a carrot-coloured Caterham 7), but somehow the more airy section of the 269 feels a little safer (until I hear cars behind me and see cars up ahead). The problem is that drivers behind me won't slow down and wait, they'll try to squeeze past, giving me little in the way of clearance. There is an off-road path, but that means punctures and so far (since lockdown began) I've avoided them. I keep expecting to open the garage door and find a flat rear tyre, the ultimate nightmare in my opinion, it's not only deflating, it's demoralising. I know it would put paid to the ride until I could drum up the enthusiasm to fix it, not always that easy.

Riding along Beech Road heading towards the 269...

Mind you, I've had my fair share of deflation this weekend. One thing I've noticed about cycling daily is that it's given me a lot of energy and positivity. After a good ride I'm ready for most things and I'm kind of up for anything, like making the dinner, something I never seemed to have the energy for when I was commuting to work everyday, I just hoped it was virtually ready or being served when I walked through the door, but not anymore. I've been making the dinner most nights and I'm enjoying every minute. I've even set up my own imaginary restaurant, going by the name of Handel's. Why Handel's? Because prior to every meal served (and during) Handel is playing quietly in the background and it's great. Handel and a candle, well, a tealight, to add some ambience. And we've had some great meals in this exclusive restaurant: Padron peppers with lightly smoked fillet of salmon, a couple of excellent pasta sauces, served, of course, with pasta shells and the list goes on. It's a chilled way of ending each day in an imaginary restaurant with only one table and no need for social distancing.

But I digress. Deflation. That cycling energy got me outside early this morning. I had the mower out and I mowed the front lawn twice, it looks great, then I moved on to the back lawn, which is much bigger. I was motoring along and soon had the mower ready to rock. Well, things started off well and I think I managed five lengths of the lower lawn before the mower conked out, no power, nothing. And no, it wasn't a fuse, I tried that. It was a loose connection and it wasn't something I could fix so it's looking like a new mower is needed. To be fair, we need one. Last April we forked out a few quid on repairing our Hayter Envoy 36, but now it's getting like a secondhand car, when you have to stop spending on it and buy a new one. I can't remember what was wrong with it last time, but it was fixable and cheaper than buying a new mower. Now, perhaps it's a different story. I was up for just going to B&Q and getting a new one, but getting one delivered would be better, so we're leaving it until tomorrow, or some time next week, to assess our options.

At the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Saturday, early evening.

The lawn looks as if it's had a radical haircut, it's half cut, half uncut, and I'll admit the whole thing deflated me, having been so full of beans when I first set foot in the garden. "You mustn't despair." That's what dad used to say and he had a point, but sometimes I reckon a bit of despair does you good. Well, perhaps not. I'm over it now, but it demotivated me so much that I almost didn't hit the road on the bike. I did eventually, bringing my weekly total so far to 74 miles. After Monday's ride it'll be in the region of 88 to 90 miles and I'm currently debating whether to aim for 100 miles every week or just ensure that I get out there and do a minimum of 10 miles per day, or perhaps always ride 15 miles daily, rather than stick religiously to 100 miles. I always get bogged down with dilemmas.

The problem with lockdown, of course, is that when something goes wrong, it stays wrong as there's nobody to fix it. My bike needs servicing, the front wheel isn't aligned properly, the front brake pads need replacing, there's a bike in the garage that could do with a new saddle, but there's nobody to fix it on; the fact is I'm going to have to step up, learn how to do these things myself. I'm fine with punctures and taking wheels off, but I've yet to master replacing hydraulic brake pads or fixing saddles, but fortunately there's YouTube and plenty of willing online lecturers.

I wonder how many people are letting things go to rack and ruin? There are plenty of folk, for example, who can't fix a straightforward puncture, so I'm guessing there are many bikes in garages around the country doing nothing. If my car broke down I'd have to leave it by the roadside or wherever it conks out until there's somebody capable of repairing it. I'm going to have to learn new skills. It's a bit like the novel Earth Abides by George R Stewart (worth reading if you're interested) about a post apocalyptic world where people simply have to get on with life after a mystery disease, dare I say virus, has wiped out millions of people and everything has basically ceased to be: roads eventually get clogged up with weeds, bridges collapse, the power system fails, hospitals are no more, and people (survivors) live in little communities. It's a weird and frightening book and one I might read again and there are echoes of it in the lockdown. Doctors can't be seen in person, bikes can't be fixed, lawn mowers remain stationary on the lawn, slowly the world we know and love changes and we all have to find our own way. I feel sorry for university students, especially those who have just completed year one and were looking forward to university life, but now have to rely upon video conferencing, at least for the time being, it's a big shame for those people and I know some of them.

Fortunately, I suppose, corona virus isn't that dangerous. Sure, it's a killer, but it's not like the disease in Earth Abides. We'll have to wait for the real humdinger - that's probably being designed as I write this - and I'm hoping that those supposedly in charge of the world (Oh My God! It's Trump and Johnson) get together and stop whatever (or whoever) might have caused this.

Lockdown, Part 21: Television is off the agenda

The final ride of my week, which runs from Tuesday to Monday, was, if I'm honest, a little depressing and it's hard to put my finger on why. It was the ride that would take my weekly mileage to 100 miles, but because I'd riden to Oxted on Sunday, which is only a 20-mile round trip, as opposed to a 22-miler had I gone to Westerham, I had to figure out a way of adding the extra mileage and thereby stop the very real threat of only having riden 98 miles.

The weather was fine, albeit a little blowy and colder than it has been these past five or six weeks. I left later than usual, some time around 1800hrs, and that, I suppose, was the first bum note of the ride. Normally I hit the tarmac around 5pm and I know I'll be back at just gone 6pm, but this time I could see the candle of time burning down, narrowing down the window of consciousness before the desire to hit the sack.

Lots of cereals in the house

Instead of riding straight along the 269 I decided to turn left at the small roundabout just past Sainsbury's at Warlingham and follow the route Andy and I refer to as 'the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop', except I didn't follow it to the end. I skirted around the narrow lanes, past St Leonard's church, but instead of heading down Hesiers Hill, I followed the road round and into Beech Farm Road, heading towards the 269. There's something about Beech Farm Road or Beech Road or whatever it's called, it's okay, but I was being held back by the wind, the ride was sluggish and I suppose it simply wasn't as enjoyable as usual. It's a long road too.

I found myself getting depressed about my surroundings; there was something weird about the fields with the horses, something derelict that I couldn't quite pin down and something, I suppose, artificial about everything. Perhaps it was being so close to London that rendered the surrounding countryside a little plastic or might it have something to do with a strange noise that followed me along the road, like the noise of a deep and growling furnace being fired up or possibly some huge aircraft sitting on the tarmac at nearby Biggin Hill airport. I started thinking about the Vulcan bomber for some reason, but there was definitely something roaring loudly somewhere across the fields and it stayed within earshot all the way to the 269 where I turned left and headed for Botley Hill. I was strongly tempted to ride the same way back, but convinced myself that the detour I had already taken definitely amounted to two miles, meaning my 100 mile target was in the bag. Besides, there was something about Beech Road that disturbed me or at best depressed me. I had thought about riding back along Beech and turning left into Washpond and then either right or left into Ledgers, but I was wasting my own time thinking about it and in the end decided to race towards Warlingham on the 269.

The latest tea to arrive

I had a tremendous sense of relief when I arrived back home and put the bike in the garage. Tuesday was my day off from riding so I could chill for a day and not think about heading for Botley until Wednesday. A planned four-mile walk fell by the wayside and after dinner I sat and watched the X Files. I'm on season four, but I'm getting a little jaded by it. I can tell this is the case because I must have nodded off during one episode and woke for the start of another. In the end I switched it off and went to bed and now it's Wednesday and I have to head out on the bike sometime around 1700hrs. It's a bit grey out there, but it's dry and that's the main thing.

The ride was good and while everybody was saying it was cold out, it wasn't. I was going to follow Beech Road, but couldn't bring myself to turn left at the roundabout. Instead I headed straight for Botley Hill and rode back to make dinner (spaghetti bolognaise with pasta shells). Since lockdown I've had a candle burning on the table for some reason, it makes things seem a little special. There's also classical music, last night Hadyn. Since lockdown things have become more cultured for some reason. Television is off the agenda, and by that I mean terrestrial television. I don't want to watch Fergus Walsh wallowing in the virus or Huw Edwards, with his Presley snarl, telling us all the bad news and reminding us that we live in a country run by covidiots. I also don't want to see celebrities on Zoom on the One Show with that awful Alex Jones or Question Time with the equally awful Fiona 'keep the peasants away from me' Bruce, without a studio audience; and when are the soaps going to run out of recorded programmes? So instead I watch the X Files on Prime, or I run through what's available on Netflix and realise that, after Ozark, there's absolutely nothing there worth watching. Roll on 2021 and Season Four!

Padron peppers, very nice

It's now Thursday and the week is drawing to an end. Time is moving fast. We're now in mid-May and it's looking as if the whole year is going to be wasted staying indoors and eating. Every week I buy a sack of Alpen and alternate between porridge and muesli. Just now, for example, I had the latter with blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, grapes and banana - my five-a-day before 0700hrs washed down with a cup of tea and accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich. That will probably see me through to around 1000hrs when the desire to eat one of the hot dog rolls in the bread bin will get the better of me, but at least I'm not eating cake or chocolate at work, although I've had my fair share of Wispa bars.

The Rockhopper really needs a service, or, failing that, its front brake and wheel need looking at. I think the wheel is out of alignment as the front disc seems to be rubbing. I might need front brake pads too, but the bike stores are open only to 'key workers', or they were the last time I checked. Either way, the bike is okay other and I can live with it short-term. The main thing is that the bike is fine and so is the weather, two essential ingredients in my life at the moment.

There was a VE Day street party in our road last weekend. It was good to meet and chat with the neighbours as most of the time we all just go about our business and see nobody, so hats off to the organisers. It wasn't a boozy affair, not for me at any rate, just chatting in the fresh air and sunshine. I found out that Phil has a new addition to his family, perhaps that's what's been keeping away from the ride, who knows? I also learnt that the treasurer for our local literary society lives a couple of doors up from me. The society meets in a local church and I think I'll mosey along to the next meeting, whenever that might be.

Scenes from a street party

So another day dawns, the sun shines, there's classical music on the radio and all is peaceful. A day of work lies ahead of me and then a ride on the bike, it's all getting very samey, but the weekend is almost upon us, there's a lawn to be mowed, shopping to be done and a ride or two to Westerham. Life goes on and I still haven't gotten round to buying and learning how to play that bass guitar, perhaps it's not to be, but for some reason it's something that will always elude me, I don't know, but life is stirring in the house, it's gone seven, there's somebody clanging around in the kitchen, which means my writing time is over until tomorrow. Time to sign off and hit the shower.

Lockdown, Part 20: Oxted High Street is deserted

It's grey, cold and windy outside. Since late afternoon it's been getting steadily worse. What started out as a great day, which saw me riding to Oxted - wearing summer clothes, like a tee-shirt - morphed into a horrible blob of greyness with cold gusts and, in some places, rain.

Oxted was deserted

Looking out now I can see trees swaying about and a general dullness which has been reinforced by the face of Boris Johnson, our Prime Minister, on television talking about the virus and the lockdown and what we can and can't do, and I think the mood of the nation is simple: fuck off, Boris, leave us all alone, we're quite happy self-isolating and we don't want to go back on the building site to start making money for you at the expense of our own health. Or perhaps that would be my view if I was a construction worker. I'm quite happy the way things are, I'm happy with my daily cycling, I don't mind nipping out to do the shopping on a Saturday afternoon, even if it does mean standing in the car park two metres behind the person in front of me. Alright, you can exclude the 'Covidiots', they've never socially distanced themselves, they're too busy at their VE Day parties doing the Conga down the street or the Gap Band's row boat thing that everybody used to get excited about in the eighties.

Titsey Hill is not for beginners...

I think Sturgeon is right to keep everybody in Scotland under lockdown and put paid to the potential of a second wave of the virus that is likely to be caused in England by the aforementioned Covidiots. I love that word, Covidiots, a great name, of course, for a band. "And now, welcome on stage, the Covidiots!"

A dry leaf just cantered past my window and is now stationary until the next gust of wind blows it out of my line of vision, but you didn't want to know that, did you? Perhaps you did. Anyway, there you have it: a prematurely autumnal leaf playing dead as I write this.

Under the new rules we can now jump into our cars and go out for a drive somewhere, but in all honesty, I've gotten used to not doing that. I last filled the car up with gas about six weeks ago and it's still a quarter full now, mainly because we've only used it to drive to and from the local Waitrose. The last thing I want to do is go back to our 'old ways' of driving aimlessly into the countryside or down to the sea just to wander around for half an hour and then drive home again. We've been saving loads of money through not doing that and I'm used to it and don't particularly want to start it up again. I'm eating and sleeping well, getting more than enough exercise on the bike and I simply don't need to tire myself out driving miles to do nothing. I mean, it's not as if we'll be able to get a cup of tea and a slice of coffee and walnut cake, they're all closed and even when they open I don't particularly want to sit there with 'other people', I was getting used to my small circle of acquaintances, namely my wife and daughter. I was hoping the 'new rules' would mean we could see our son, but no, there was no mention of the so-called 'bubble' everybody's been talking about.

Lunch when I got back

Today's gloomy weather was predicted a few days ago and we've all been expecting it, but it's still depressing, even after six weeks of sunshine and warmth. But I think its temporary, I fact I know it is, sort of. This morning, yes, it is another day since I wrote the last sentence but one, the sun is out and the wind has calmed down a little (it was crazy during the night) so I'm hoping that today I'll clock up my second week of riding 100 miles. All I've got to do is ride to Botley Hill, come back, take a right on Ledgers or Beech Farm and make my way home. A straight ride to and from Botley will leave me two miles short and I can't be having that, not after pushing the envelope yesterday and riding to Oxted. Coming up Titsey Hill is not for beginners, but I've done it before and I did it yesterday without much bother. In fact, on leaving Oxted (I rode to the Little Waitrose and then back along the deserted high street, leaving town via Granville Road) I noticed, before the climb, a wonderful lake and I can only assume it's part of the Titsey Estate. I intend to ride to Oxted again next weekend as it's a pleasant ride, although going down Titsey (a 16% drop) is a little scary, especially with a dodgy front brake.

The Rockhopper outside Waitrose after a mid-week ride to Botley Hill

I need to visit the bike shop as the front wheel appears to be out of alignment, I'm guessing the front brake needs fixing and I need to buy a saddle for another bike that's in the garage, something a little more comfortable for the potential riders. That's one of the reasons I rode into Oxted, because I thought there was a bike shop there, but no, it's gone, replaced by a gin palace that is closed because of the pandemic, which seems so wasteful. Oxted needs a bike shop, not a gin palace, and now it doesn't have one, more's the pity.

When I reached home I made lunch for myself using up the last of the Jersey Royals, some brocolli and some scrambled eggs, which sorted me out good and proper prior to my drive to Waitrose to do the weekly shop. And yes, I had to stand there in the queue in the car park, in the cold breeze, watching out for Covidiots, but not seeing any, there's no such thing at Waitrose. Earlier in the week I'd paid a couple of visits on the bike, just to pick up milk and stuff we needed, like a Wispa bar for me, which I ate alone before unpadlocking the bike and riding home. I quite like going to the store on the bike.

Today, yes, it's still Monday morning, I've just heard that it's going to be dry and cloudy with patchy rain in the north, well, that's not down here in the south so I'll get my final ride of the week in. I need to check the weather for the rest of the week.

Lockdown, Part 19: It's not going away any time soon...

You know that weird feeling you get when you walk on to an escalator that isn't moving? It's an odd feeling on so many levels, one being that you know it's not working, but still feel surprised when your feet make contact and the whole experience becomes awkward and ungainly. Well, that's kind of how I felt yesterday evening when I decided to go for a walk. It was strange because I hadn't been walking for a long time due to cycling everywhere so when my feet made contact with the tarmac the feeling was similar to walking on a stationary escalator. It took me a while to get used to it, but eventually I acclimatised and managed a brisk four-miler following the route of my original lockdown cycling. I walked up Elmfield Way, up Church Way, turned left into Norfolk Avenue and made my round to Ridge Langley.

It was a windy day so a jumper was needed, but it was pleasant and there was sunshine, but also cool air in the shade so I chased the sunny spots and, of course, avoided contact with others as you're supposed to do.

What really amazed me was how fit I'd become following last week's 100 miles and all the previous weeks of daily riding. I never tired of the walk when normally, prior to so much cycling, I would yearn for it to end and I would have to stiffen my resolve as I approached a hill, but not last night. No sir, I stormed along, I was never out of breath, I never got that depressed feeling of wishing it was over, I just did it, at a fair pace. It all goes to prove how beneficial daily exercise can be and I'm so glad that I stuck to my guns and cycled throughout the lockdown, which continues and shows no sign of abating, depending, I suppose, on what news channel you happen to be watching. Last night I was watching Newsnight with Emily Maitlis, and by that I don't mean I was sitting on a sofa with Emily Maitlis watching Newsnight, I was watching her present the programme on the television. It was late, it always is when Newsnight is on, it's the last hurrah for me before bed and my hand is always hovering over the remote's off button as I pluck up the courage to admit that the day is over and I must hit the sack. But before I plunged the room into silence, blew out the candle and turned out the lights I listened to the doom and gloom coming out of the black box in the corner of the room and it wasn't good: no vaccine for at least 18 months, social distancing for the foreseeable future, the new normal, you get the picture and, as a result, I went to bed depressed, not just for me but my family, for students whose university life has been ruined and for everyone furloughed or out of work. When, I wonder, will I join them?

It's Wednesday morning and I've taken to listening to Radio 3 instead of the Today Programme on Radio 4. I like choral music ever since hearing Hildebrand von Bingen a few weeks back and now I'm listening to Josquin des Prez. I can tune in and drop out and not worry about the problems of the world and that's what I'm doing right now, sitting here writing after a bowl of Alpen and a cup of decaff tea, there's still around 30 minutes of this luxury to go and I love it.

Claude Debussy is playing Nocturne in D flat major and it reminds me of my childhood and my mum's piano album, or 'record' as we would have called it; it wasn't an album by one particular artist, it was a compilation of music from the likes of Chopin and others and, for some reason, it's stuck with me and will always remind me of the school summer holidays, the seemingly endless days of sunshine and being in the back garden with my Action Man in his Australian bush fighter's outfit, the only uniform with shorts and socks and I loved the Indiana Jones style hat, which, of course, long preceeded Indiana Jones.

It's another day of the lockdown and, as I always say, it's not that bad, but I don't think it's going away any day soon. As they were saying on Newsnight yesterday, we're all going to have to live with Corona Virus for some time and we all might catch it before long. I keep washing my hands, so does everybody else and we all avoid each other like the plague. I've also said it before, but the UK is the sick man of Europe, the Government hasn't been brilliant and people are slowly realising it, so hopefully when it's all over there will be another election and, well, let's hope there's an alternative.

Lockdown, Part 18: A bike = freedom

Not sure how I would survive without a bicycle. Ever since the lockdown I've been riding daily, albeit alone, starting off with 36 miles per week, which seems like an age ago, and now I'm on 100 miles per week, or I will be when I've completed tomorrow's ride to Botley Hill. Over the weekend I rode to Westerham twice (today and yesterday), that's 44 miles in total. On Saturday the weather was wonderful and, by sheer chance, I met Andy en route. We haven't cycled together since 22 March. He was coming from the Lakes, a place we haven't been to together for a very long time, possibly not since April 2011, and a place where, for some odd reason, we tend to visit alone. We stopped and chatted (from a distance) for about 10 minutes and both said we looked forward to when normality returns; and then Andy continued up the hill towards Botley and I sailed down into Westerham. When I arrived I found a bench and sat there in the warm sunshine drinking liquorice and spearmint tea, perfect. So perfect I had two cups before heading home. When I got back I felt great, especially after a shower late in the afternoon. It's that lovely tired feeling you get after a decent bout of exercise, you simply can't beat it.

Tudor Rose was closed...

I stayed up late Saturday night and finished off Season Three of Ozark. It was amazing, pure and simple, and I can't wait for Season Four next year. The great thing about finishing Season Three is that I'll be able to hit the sack early tonight and feel fresh tomorrow. On Friday last week and, indeed, many other days prior, late nights because of watching Ozark had become a regular occurrence, which was fine at the weekends, but not during the week. I'm now back to the X Files, or I will be tonight.

This morning, at roughly the same time as yesterday, I headed for Westerham again. There was a 30% chance of rain according to my iphone's weather app and sure enough I got some, not too much, but a light shower. The rain started when I reached the green and as a result I had to seek shelter under an awning. There was hardly anybody around, just me, a few passers-by, one person walking his black labrador, a woman pulling what seemed to be a shopping trolley full of cups and saucers (that's what it sounded like) and another kind of 'mutton dressed as lamb' woman who went to and fro a couple of times.

My bike on the green

It takes roughly an hour for me to reach home from Westerham, but I think I managed it in about 55 minutes today, which ain't bad going when you consider that half of the return journey is uphill, until I reach Botley when I have the straight and long 269 to contend with, although in these times of lockdown, it's not too bad as the traffic is light.

Sir Winston taking it easy...

Once I reached home there were sausages and scrambled egg for lunch, cooked by yours truly, and since then I've done nothing other than mess around and fall asleep and chat and now I'm looking out at the garden from the 'conservatory' at a hawthorn tree in full bloom, at a relatively decent-looking lawn and at a grey and darkening sky. Everything is still.

There's talk of the lockdown being lifted slightly, which I'm not sure about, although I guess it'll be a step in the right direction. The last thing we want is a relapse, a second wave of infections that sends us back to purgatory; but as you know, I'm not finding it that bad. I won't go on about it as I'm sure there are many people struggling being stuck in the house.