Heading back to Blighty...

I never set my alarm, but was up by 0600hrs anyway and looking forward to what the hotel offered for breakfast, although I had a pretty good idea: cake, of course, and plenty of it. I was right... and I was happy!

A cream-filled croissant, a custard-filled slice of cake, some small round pastries full of custard, it was all happening on my table. The friendly waitress offered me a cappuccino and I accepted. Later she offered me another and again, I accepted. There was fruit, fresh fruit and a fruit salad which, I think, I ordered and then didn't eat, at least I can't remember eating it, such was the excitement of the cake and the frothy coffee. I had time and so indulged myself. A yoghurt followed and an apple, which I munched away as other guests arrived, well, two – make that three – other guests: a mother and daughter combo, actually five other guests, there was a couple of slightly rotund ladies and an edgy-looking woman with a roughish face who sat alone, like I did, and looked pre-occupied. 

Through the gate and waiting for the bus to the plane...

Breakfast over I went to my room and packed, not that I hadn't done most of it already, it was just the electric toothbrush and toothpaste to put away and then I waltzed downstairs to the rather baronial hall lobby where I checked out, told them how much I loved the hotel and then ordered a cab to the airport. It arrived in minutes and soon I was on my way. The journey took all of 15 minutes and then I was faced with the chaos of the airport which seemed to be unnaturally busy. There were school kids and holidaymakers queuing up for something or other, probably a flight, one queue wound its way out of the building (I saw it when my taxi pulled up). There were soldiers with guns and sunglasses and I was asked where I was going. I said "London" and all was well, I could continue into the terminal building. What the hell was going on? I would never find out. Perhaps it was because it was Saturday, who knows? Once inside I found the BA check-in and waited for it to open, then it was a case of handing over (ahem) my case, getting my boarding pass (seat 35F, a window seat) and then heading for another queue (for security). It all went pretty smoothly and I found myself standing with a lot of red-faced people, clearly skiers and those who follow other outdoor pursuits, like climbing. I wasn't bothered. There are so many things I won't do and climbing and skiing are just two of them. I won't jump out of an aeroplane either or go diving looking for sharks.

On the plane...

Once through I sprayed myself with a Polo aftershave tester (it was free so why not?) and then ordered a ham and mozzarella roll as I knew that BA would only offer a bag of shitty pretzels and a small bottle of mineral water. Once microwaved, the roll melted and became a spludgy mess on a white plate...but that didn't stop me.

The flight was alright. Most of it was clear, but as we approached the UK the cloud thickened and I found myself thinking of the Tory party, Dominic fucking Raab in particular, and all the shite the UK liked to pile upon its people who, like cockroaches, scuttle around under the cover of cloud, moaning about their lot. I, of course, was one of them too and now I was heading home to be as much of a cockroach as everybody else. Soon, little gaps appeared in the cloud, revealing England's green and unpleasant land. The plane shuddered as it penetrated the big chunks of cumulus dotted around the skies and I started wondering why the pilot doesn't aim for the clear bits and avoid the cloud? But of course, he never does, instead he heads straight for a fucking great lump of the stuff and we all suffer as a result... or I do, nobody else seems to be bothered. Soon we were down on the ground and from then onwards, everything was fairly easy.

I found a sign saying "last toilet before passport control" and thought: that's where I'm headed! There was something intriguing about the last toilet before passport control and the walk there was interesting too because there was nobody around. I started to wonder whether, when I left the toilet, I'd be 500 years in the future or something whacky of that nature. But no, I was still in the 21st Century and I was back on track. 

Looking down on Italy...

There was nobody at passport control, my bag was on the reclaim when I got there (reclaim conveyor 8) and soon I was swanning through customs without a care in the world. I headed straight for Costa Coffee, from where I write this blogpost, as there's a train strike so I thought I'd get my bearings, have something to eat (prawn and mayo sarnie, a Millionaire's Shortbread and an English Breakfast tea) and then head for home either in a taxi or by train. 

It was a good trip overall and while I had been inwardly moaning about air travel from the minute I reached the airport, as we approached Gatwick today I asked myself whether there had really been any major hassles. The answer, of course, was no, there was nothing from the outward flight to the inward one that was really bad... apart from BA cancelling my return flight, but even that meant a few free hours in Verona, a wander around the city, a really nice dinner in Caffe Dante and, of course, a night in a decent hotel.

On Wednesday afternoon when I flew out to Italy I had the choice of queuing for a human being to check me in or use the machines; I opted eventually for the latter and it was alright. The flight out was ok, there was no turbulence, and when I reached Verona there was Maria waiting to pick me up and take me to Storo and the Polentera hotel. 

Approaching Gatwick airport.

On the return trip it was roughly the same: the taxi arrived within two minutes of being ordered, I checked in fairly successfully and yes, I queued for security but there's no way around that. It didn't take long and soon I was through and chilling (if that's the word) before the flight and, as outlined above, that was fine too. That said, however, I'm annoyed that flying is so cheap. Certainly, when I can, I'll take the train (like to Dusseldorf in June). I can't get the train to Detroit sadly and I'm guessing that a cabin on a cargo ship will be beyond my company's means and will add around 10 days to the trip. So I'll have to put up and shut up and make the most of what is thrown at me.

I'm not a great fan of flying, but I do a fair bit of it one way or the other. I don't mind it on a good day when there's no weather to deal with, but if it's cloudy and rainy (or worse) then I invariably get a little anxious. I'm  not overly keen on long flights because there's bound to be turbulence somewhere along the line and I hate it. Also, long haul flights leave me knackered and incapable and in need of recovery, so yes, more rail travel, certainly in Europe is on the cards, but when it comes to the US or the Middle East of the Far East I'll have to put up with flying.

England's green and unpleasant land, well, it's not that bad...

In search of the last toilets before passport control at Gatwick airport.

"Last toilets before Passport control!"

In Trentino*...a long way from Verona

Sometimes I have a strong impulse to make a stand, make a point, a statement, and it never does me any good. Yesterday, after loitering around the terminal building I made my way to the gate, Gate 22, which was a fair walk, but I needed it after that ill-advised almond croissant and cappuccino back at the café. Remember, I had already enjoyed breakfast, albeit at around 0700hrs and it was now mid-morning. 

Verona airport

I decided not to use the automated walkway – or conveyor – as it's just too lazy for words, and besides, it was quicker walking unless I walked whilst on the moving floor. I passed Gate 13 and realised that I would make a stand if my flight was leaving from that gate. No, I won't have it, I simply won't have it.

At Gate 22 there was a little queue and then Groups 1 to 6 were invited to board. I was Group 6 and I haven't the foggiest idea what that meant. I walked through the tunnel to the plane, getting a little angry at the HSBC ads that lined both walls as it was all part of the air travel thing, along with the big brand perfumes, the international banks and suddenly everybody was an Economist reader, everybody knew a great deal about central banks and international politics – or that was what we were being led to believe: that here, inside the claustrophobic passageway that led to the plane, it was all about 'international business' and entente cordiale and all that cosseted clap trap of the well-pressed shirt and the whiff of Paco Rabane. Those days have gone, I felt like saying out loud, "they've gone, do you hear me!" but for the sake of revealing my inner craziness and saving myself the humiliation I zipped it.

I hate the moment of stepping from the jetty on to the plane and being greeted by the cabin crew, this time with a complimentary wet wipe, which I refused. What the hell would I do with a wet wipe? I found my way to seat 28a where I found Dorothy, a 71-year-old woman celebrating her birthday with a trip to Verona to meet her children who were already there [although later I didn't see them at the airport waiting for her, she was looking for a shuttle to take here somewhere and was after somebody who could tell her where it was].

My anger built up [but remained concealed] when it was announced that we would be sitting on the tarmac, in the plane, for the next hour, something to do with our slot, our time of take-off. I seriously considered getting off the plane, making some excuse and just going home. I was on the cusp of doing it because I didn't like the look of the grey skies outside the window and was already imagining turbulence, something I hate with a vengeance. But I stayed put and struck up a conversation with Dorothy and Francesca, a 21-year-old American from Nevada who was studying in London but was visiting a friend who was studying in Verona. 

Dessert at Polentera Hotel (apple strudel with vanilla cream)

Dorothy had a sad tale to tell. Her ex-husband, an airline pilot, ran off with a younger woman and has since had four kids with her, but Dorothy was left alone in Dulwich, albeit with the support of her kids (also his, although they have disowned him). Dorothy is a diabetic, but it doesn't seem to bother her. She's also an actor of sorts and has appeared in movies and pop videos. She was in one of the Terminator movies, she told me, unless I wasn't listening properly, although I think she was an extra. Francesca was quietly spoken and clearly from money, she showed us movies of her water skiing in blue seas off the coast of somewhere extortionate and I could tell by her tanned skin that peeked through her ripped and trendy jeans – and the fact that her father was also a pilot (of his own plane) – that an easy life lay ahead. We all 'got on', which was nice, although chatting whilst confined in an airliner doesn't really constitute 'getting on', but I got the feeling that Dorothy wished we all had more time together; this was, however, the conventional brief acquaintance of travelling and while we all made noises of 'see you again one day!' we all knew, of course, that this was our first and last meeting and that we would never see each other again. Nobody exchanged email addresses, put it that way.

View from Polentera window

We were in the air for around 90 minutes, there was no turbulence but a lot of cloud until we'd cleared the English Channel and were half way across France, then the Alps appeared in all their glory and soon the plane was chuntering towards Verona. The landing was smooth and Maria was there to greet me. We drove towards Storo and the Polentera Hotel, which I would later discover is surrounded by mountains. I had dinner alone and then went back to my room to watch television, all of which was either dubbed into Italian or was Italian. I gave up and turned in, but awoke around 0300hrs and found it difficult to get back to sleep. Eventually I must have nodded off because the alarm sounded at 0630hrs and wearily I made my way to the bathroom.

Breakfasts in these small 'agriturismo' hotels – let's not forget the Villa Dragoni in Buttrio, Italy – aren't particularly healthy: cappuccino (well, I asked for one because it was offered) plus biscuits, sugary fruit juice, a bread roll filled with jam and a slice of cake – were on offer and I scoffed the lot, of course I did, 'when in Rome' and all that, although I was a long way from the Italian capital. I was close to Lake Garda apparently, or so I was told as I was driven away in a Fiat 500 from the Polentera Hotel. I'd expected to be staying a second night, but no, I'm in the Cristina Hotel in Pinzolo tonight, a wellness spa hotel designed for the skiing fraternity. Well, not yet. I will be later today and there's a pool, but I haven't brought any trunks, although I'm guessing there won't be time, there never is. This trip has an itinerary, it's a bit like a conference, but right now I'm sitting in a room 'working' as the whole thing doesn't start until lunch time, begging the question: why did they pick me up at 0820hrs? I guess that there's little to do back at the Polentera, but then there's little to do here so I'm spending my time deleting emails, answering emails, sending emails and I might put a news story online, but other than that there's little to do; I'm also sitting here in a suit, which feels a little bit stilted...and hot. I might have to take off my jacket, it's probably the most radical thing I'll do all morning.

Breakfast at the Polentera Hotel in Storo – lots of unhealthy stuff.

When work was over (it's never over when you're on a foreign press trip) there was dinner, which seemed to go on forever. It started around 1900hrs with ham and cheeses on plates outside of the restaurant, the Champagne flowed but I stuck it out with sparkling mineral having explained (as you have to) why you don't drink, it's such a bore. Dinner didn't start until around 2100hrs and it was gone 2300hrs (and many glasses of mineral water) before I returned to room 143 and another broken night, this time I awoke at 0400hrs and managed to get back to sleep before the alarm sounded at 0630hrs. 

View from room 143, Cristina Hotel

Yesterday afternoon I had heard that my Friday evening flight back to London was cancelled by those bastards, British Airways. They'd booked me on a flight home Saturday morning, which meant an afternoon of swanning around in Verona (not a bad call) but in all honesty I'd rather have been going home. Still, I've made the most of it. I found Romeo & Juliet's famous balcony (it's not up to much) and now I'm sitting in Casa Mazzanti, a caffé, drinking a cappuccino. Over here, cappuccinos are not so over-the-top as they are in the UK. Instead they're smaller in size and not so flamboyant. No chocolate on top, just the white milk, they don't stand on ceremony. I'm booked on a flight tomorrow morning at around 11am, which means I need to be at the airport at 0900hrs. I could do without that. In fact I could do without flying. I'd much rather catch the train to Paris and then jump on board the Eurostar to St Pancras, but I'd never get home so I might as well grin and bear it. I think if they cancelled again, I'd be on the train immediately (who's to say they won't cancel again?).

The hotel I'm staying in here in Verona is very pleasant. I'm in room 106 of the Albergo Mazzanti. It was down a side street so my taxi driver was unable to take me to the door and I had to walk the last few yards. It's weird isn't it? You would have thought I'd be happy to be here, swanning around Verona (and I would be had I been getting on a train tomorrow morning (or even tonight) but I'm not. Instead I have to engage with air travel again and I'm not looking forward to it. All that stands before me and the flight is a decent meal and I've yet to work out where I'll be going. I might go back and ask the hotel for their recommendations. Anyway, nothing much more to say so I'll sign off.

Lots of cake for breakfast at the Cristina (a wellness hotel!).

Poor man's Colosseum in Verona...

* I ought to point out that while I flew into Verona I was quite a way from the city for most of the time on this trip. My first stop was Storo, in the mountains, I'm told the Dolomites, and I was in the region known as Trentino, which is basically a lot of snow-topped mountains with towns dotted here and there. They surrounded me wherever I was, be it in the hotel or out on the streets, they were everywhere. It was odd, because today (Friday) we drove away from the mountainous region in a small minibus (well, it was a large cab). As we drove along with mountains on both sides and at the front and back, I marvelled at the dramatic scenery. Eventually, however, I fell asleep (probably because I'd been getting broken nights).

Room 106, Albergo Mazzanti, Verona

When I regained consciousness we were on the AI motorway and then the A4 motorway and the mountains had gone. The land was flat and I could see for miles. It was good to sleep and I enjoyed every luxurious minute of it. When we reached our destination it was time for more work and when it was over we took the same cab and found ourselves in a small café in a place called Vicenza. The weather here was lovely: blue skies and sunshine. I left my raincoat in the suitcase and we ate alfresco, just a snack, before getting back in the cab and heading for the railway station where my colleagues were boarding trains to Verona and Venice. It was time to say goodbye to everybody. I was staying with the cab all the way to Verona, which was 50km away. I had another night to go thanks to, but not courtesy of, British Airways (they're not as good as they're cracked up to be, a bit like the UK). As I said earlier (yes, this post has kind come full circle) I am in Verona now. I'm sitting in the Casa Mazzanti caffé having a cappuccino and writing this blogpost, which I have now finished. 

Well, almost finished. I feel I must say something about the hotel, the Albergo Mazzanti, as it's absolutely the perfect hotel for anybody looking to spend the weekend in Verona. For a start there's only 16 rooms, so it's small and perfected formed, which is what I like. Second, it's bang in the centre of the city, a few paces away from a huge square lined with restaurants and cafés and only a short walk from the aforementioned Romeo & Juliet balcony and what I referred to above as the poor man's colosseum. I'm sure it's got a proper name, but that's what it looks like. Anyway, the hotel is amazing. As I write this, it's Saturday morning and I really must be making tracks for the airport and a flight back to Gatwick. However, just to say the rooms are great (see photo) and the breakfasts are good too. More cake, I hasten to add, but that appears to the Italian way and I'm certainly not complaining.

View from room 106...

Yesterday I wandered about a little, mainly in search of the Romeo & Juliet balcony, but then a little further, up to the "colosseum" and beyond and then back to the hotel for dinner, although not in the hotel but in the nearby Caffé Dante, which has struck a deal with the hotel (you'll get 10% discount off the price of a meal there). And let me say that Caffé Dante was very good indeed. I had two courses and it was around 54 Euros, not bad considering the quality of the food and service.

I better get out of here, got a flight to catch. All I need to buy is a fridge magnet to add to my collection. Last night I discovered that Verona has a Hard Rock Café, but as I didn't fancy dining there I couldn't very well pick up one of their magnets. The problem is that buying one from the many kiosks dotted around the city is only possible if you have cash. I don't, just a credit card, so I'm without one at present. My only hope is that there will be some at the airport as I don't really want to draw cash just to buy a fridge magnet. That said, it would be a shame to leave Verona without one.

En route to Verona...

 I wanted to take the train. Train travel is by far the very best there is, but sadly it's very expensive and, oddly – you would have thought it might be the other way around – air travel is ridiculously cheap. We all know why this is: air travel is heavily subsidized and, as a result, it's not the haven of the glamour puss any more, no longer the place you'll find supermodels and film stars. Or rather it is, but they all fly in First Class and hide away from the plebs in the lounges. That said, I once bumped in to Jimmy Somerville, I spotted a stand-up comedian whose name I can't remember and I think that's about the level of my airport celeb spotting.

The train to Verona is possible, but it would have meant arriving at gone midnight and that simply wouldn't do. Why? Because I was being picked up, by 'Maria' and driven to my hotel, which is located in a place called Storo, which I'm guessing is a fair way from Verona. I won't be seeing the famous Romeo and Juliet balcony on this trip, unless I can fit it in on the return journey, which is not out of the question. From now on, however, if I can take the train, I will. I'm going to Dusseldorf in June and the plan is to train it all the way as it's only around three hours from Brussels.

The Grain Store café and bar, Wednesday 15 March 2023, noon.

So, the airport. I took the train to Gatwick, mainly because I hate cars almost as much as I hate planes and I hate taxis just a little bit more. First, they're a rip-off, second, the driver is invariably racist and won't stop talking in a derogatory manner about the Mayor of London and lastly, I just can't be bothered with cabs when I can walk to the railway station and just jump on a train: no hassle, no chat, no nothing other than looking out of the window, which is what I did until I reached Gatwick and then, of course, the shit begins in earnest. Fortunately, my British Airways flight was leaving from the South Terminal so I didn't need to jump on the monorail and head for the North Terminal, that's a relief. But then I did have to endure the capitalist scumbags, yes British Airways, but hey, any airline can be allocated the same description for the simple reason that they do all they can to make more money for themselves and they don't care if that means inconveniencing the customer – me!

They've now got auto bag drop systems. No longer the human being who checks your passport, hands you your boarding pass and takes your bag. Now it's a queue for a machine, which somehow defeats the purpose. I've always been of the opinion that if a machine is involved it's allieviating something, ie queues, but not any more; these days people queue for a machine, but guess what? The queue for the human beings is even longer. I couldn't stomach it. I was standing there in the zig zag of travellers thinking 'this is going to take ages' and after trying to stick it out twice I eventually relented, walked to the auto check-in kiosk, took my boarding pass from the machine (I took the liberty of booking myself a window seat (28a) and then queued in the smaller queue for the machines. I nearly sent my bag to Tampa, Florida in the process. The guy before me pressed something, I'm not sure, but when I reached the machine it was still thinking everybody was going to Tampa. When my tag was printed it clearly said 'Tampa' so I moved to another machine and it kind of worked, although the conveyor jammed and I had to call an assistant and then it was alright. But my problems weren't over – better make that 'hassles'. It's just a hassle going through security, putting the laptop in a separate tray and so forth, but, I suppose, in all honesty, it wasn't too bad and once I was through with it, all I had left to deal with was the society of the spectacle. I had to run the gauntlet of perfumes and alcohol, watches and God knows what else. I had no intention of buying anything but I did squirt myself with a liberal amount of Davidoff Cool Water, just to make myself smell good. I always smell good when I'm on a plane, thanks to the testers.

I'm now sitting in the Grain Store café bar sipping a cappuccino and nibbling (to my own disappointment) an almond croissant. This, I know, has to stop. Yesterday it was my colleague's birthday and she brought in a caterpillar cake. I would have just had one slice, but I found myself irritated by somebody else in the office who, it seemed, was intent on playing 'the old man'. I hate that. When people play the old man, the pensioner or whatever when they're not that old and should really be just getting on with life without whingeing. There are loads of 'old people' words that I try to avoid: Lumbago, Sciatica, Secateurs and, of course, the Daily Mail. I don't want to hear people moaning about their fucking gout or how their knees are playing up, this is the stuff of old people and I won't have it. I know people get these ailments, of course they do, but whingeing about them in an old person kind of way just makes me annoyed. Why, I ask myself, do they wish to be considered old before their time. My mum IS old, she's 93, she can moan, but not one of my work colleagues. But it's not just him. I've heard celebs (who are not old) moaning (in a jokey manner) about ear hair, nose hair and how things just ain't working they way they used to. Fine! Moan! But moan on your own, in a locked room, a soundproof room in the middle of the desert because I don't want to hear it, do you understand me? I don't want to hear it.

I arrived at Gatwick "well early" so it looks as if I'm going to get the full two-hour slob-out. The last thing I want to do is buy any food or drink in the flight so I'm going to order something else before I vacate my seat at the table of this rather nice little café. But hold the bus! This place ain't cheap. The 'mains & grills' range in price from £14.75 for vegetarian chilli to £21 for grilled salmon, there are desserts (if I'm to make out that my almond croissant was the main course) but do I really want to scoff key lime pie, pecan pie or even a pavlova. There are burgers, salads, pizzas and 'small plates' but the latter are piss poor and I can't very well order another pastry or another cappuccino, that would be a little piggish. Perhaps another coffee? But cappuccino is roughly 135 calories a go, making 270 in total. Do I want that? I could order tea, that's zero calories if served black and not much more with a smidgen of milk. But do I really want more or am I just in need of comfort. The most legitimate would be the Full English breakfast, but really? Imagine when it arrives and I stare at the bacon, sausage, egg and hash browns, not forgetting the baked beans, the mushrooms and the sourdough toast. Do I really want it or am I simply being a huge pig, a rare breed lump of pork who needs to eat no more and just make do with the still mineral water that stands before me? No, I can't eat more, it's wrong on so many levels.

There's over an hour before my flight departs Gatwick and I know that outside of the café is nothing but the society of the spectacle in the shape of rubbish clothes and electronic goods, books I don't need to read right now and stuff nobody really needs. They're capitalizing on people's boredom, that's what it is and there's no way I'm going to play ball. What I could do is go to Starbuck's and order a tea and simply sit there until it's time to make my way to the gate, now that's got to be the plan. I can continue reading Buzzin' by Bez, my latest book. Yes, I finished The Bear Comes Home by Rafi Zabor, which turned out to be reasonably good in the end. So, listen, I'm going to sign off. 

Walking, riding, eating chocolate and getting on with life...

With the cold weather behind us - for now - I've settled into a reasonable routine: I ride to Oxted every Saturday morning, I chill in Costa (and Caffe Nero) depending on what takes my fancy, although if I go to Costa I can use my Costa card and that means I get a free drink somewhere along the line. I think it's every eighth drink is free, something like that. A couple of weeks back, maybe three, I can't remember, I rode to Oxted to meet my pal Garth. He rides from Redhill, along the A25 - not a pleasant road to ride on, he says - and we met in the Caffe Nero (see, I told you I visit both depending on what takes my fancy). When I got there, Garth had already arrived and he was in a pretty bad state. I shouldn't say this, but it's true: it was his own fault, a. for charging around and b. for going too fast, but also there was some bad luck involved too and I certainly sympathized. He'd taken the mini roundabout at the end of the road a little bit fast, hit a drain and fell off the bike, or rather the bike went down and he went with it. It wasn't a pretty sight, put it that way. His leg, I can't remember which one, possibly his right, was cut up bad, his shoulder had taken a beating too and he was taking it all pretty well, he even rode back to Redhill, took a bath, bandaged himself up and was fit for work on Monday. So, respect is definitely due.

Caffe Nero Oxted week ago

I met with Andy in Westerham the following day and so has been the routine these past weeks. I went today (to Oxted). Garth wanted a lie-in so I was alone. I went to Costa, ordered an English breakfast tea and a pack of two ginger biscuits and sat at the front of the store looking out on my bike. The place was empty and I remarked on the fact to the girl behind the counter. "You should have been here 10 minutes ago," she said, explaining how a particularly busy period had just ended. Just two people, possibly three, were in the store and it was peaceful. I hadn't brought my book or my glasses so I just sat there and not for long. Soon I was walking up towards the charity shop next to the Caffe Nero. I don't know why, but I quite like it in there. I wandered around for all of 10 minutes and then walked down the high street, taking a brief look in the Oxfam shop, not that I was looking to buy anything, there's just something nice about charity shops. 

I didn't switch the Strava back on until I reached the Costa. I figured it was best to reactivate it at the point where I switched it off earlier. I can't say the journey back appealed one bit. I wasn't looking forward to the hill, the huge hill that is Titsey Hill, but as avid readers will know, it's not that bad and once again I switched off and rode up the hill on automatic pilot, my mind far away, engaged in many conversations with many different people as the bike cruised upwards, minding its own business as I stared at the trees on either side of the road, looking forward to the moment when I saw the top of the hill, marked by a road sign. Once I get to the top I keep the bike in the lowest gear until I'm past the Botley Hill pub, then I crank it up as far as it goes and ride along the 269, hopefully not having to endure the rudeness of passing motorists. Last week some nobody with one of those builders' cars - you know the ones, Truckman Top written on them - he slows down when I was riding the other way heading south towards Oxted, he slows until his running parallel with me. "There's a cycle lane over there, you dickhead!"he says and then speeds up. I could think of only one word: cunt! My ploy is always to say nothing, ignore the bastards completely but never ever use the cycle lane, that would be to admit they're right and I'm wrong and I won't have that. Besides, the cycle lane the cunt was referring to is lined with hawthorn bushes and I know from experience that riding it means punctures.

Won't be long before summer comes

In addition to cycling I've been walking. I've always been a walker, but just lately I've been recording the walks on Strava. They're always roughly three miles (I only get an hour for lunch so it's hard to do much more, although sometimes I walk from Redhill to Merstham (just over two miles). In fact, a couple weeks back I did just that, having already walked three miles at lunch time - a five-mile day no less - and when I reached Merstham as darkness was about to set in, I sat in the waiting room where I found an old copy of Q magazine (April 2000). There was 'cash for questions' with Lemmy from Motorhead and what amazed me most about the magazine was how there are so many things that 'wouldn't be allowed' today, like 'sexist' and suggestive advertisements, photos of topless women (in the Lemmy interview) and, well, I loved it. I've still got it somewhere as it reminded me of the good old days of the 90s. I loved Q magazine and was a regular reader, I loved the writing and the attitude too.

We're heading towards March and longer days as the summer approaches, and that means I'll be riding to work a couple of times a week and getting fitter in the process.

Sunday before last in Westerham

Sunday morning

I awoke around 0300hrs. By 0400hrs I was still awake and when it past 0430hrs I decided to get up. I was tired and weary but I couldn't sleep so I made breakfast, two slices of toast with honey, and then I checked out the television, it wouldn't work...and then it worked and I sat at the dining table, lap top on, watching one of those real police programmes on Channel Five, proof if any was needed that there are plenty of nutters around. 

I was tired and considering an abort text, but then I remembered that I'd left my charger in the office, leaving me with two choices: try and reach Andy via Twitter or use my daughter's charger to fire up the phone and then make my decision. I think I'll go on the ride, possibly leave earlier than 0800hrs and then chill when I reach Westerham. That said, I'm still not sure what to do. I'm not sure I could face the ride, I'm so weary, perhaps it wouldn't be safe to ride in such a state. I kept thinking about the ride home and the very thought of it was horrendous. I could have done with the ride, but then I didn't want to overdo things. I'd have to make my mind up before 0800hrs. But then Andy sent a text suggesting a later ride to allow the frost time to thaw. Not a bad idea, I thought, and agreed, but in the back of my mind I knew I couldn't face it. So I texted back and aborted the ride.

Bike in Westerham week before last

The rest of the day I didn't do a great deal. I had a shower and a shave and went to see Natalie's uncle Robin, he's in Chelsea and Westminster hospital at the moment and I wish him well. Then, on my return, I made an amazing chicken roast dinner with pigs in blankets, plenty of vegetables, mini Yorkshire puddings, cauliflower cheese, the works. There was apple pie and vanilla custard for dessert and it rounded off the day nicely. At some time during the day I watched Columbo and I can't remember what I watched in the evening. 

That broken night did me no favours. Last night I awoke around 0400hrs, but instead of getting up I remained in bed and that was crucial. I'm not sure if I went back to sleep or not, but at least I was resting up. I started to wonder whether diet was having anything to do with waking up in the middle of the night. Possibly. I know I keep banging on about it, but I'm stuffing my face with a lot of sugar at present: A Kinder egg last Wednesday, a huge slice of Victoria sponge and a cappuccino in Bateman's on Saturday afternoon, a cappuccino mouse yesterday evening, a sneaky Millionaire's Shortbread in the Waitrose car park on Sunday, assorted chocolate biscuits at work on Friday and I'm always saying it, but it simply must stop. 

On Pilgrim's Lane week before last

I think I'll challenge myself during the month of March, which is coming up. I went through a long phase of not eating any wrapped chocolate bars. It went on for years and years, but now it's all gone to pot. I blame the pandemic, but in reality it's my own weak will and greediness. 

I made a lot of bad dietary choices during the lockdown. Well, not loads, I also ate very well, but I've restarted the chocolate bars is what I'm saying. Oh, I almost forgot, I've been munching sneaky Lindor and Cadbury's Caramel eggs in the Waitrose car park while listening to Radio Four in the car. 

So, March, a month of no cakes, no biscuits, no buns, no chocolate eggs, no cakes, nothing – let's see!

In Amsterdam...

Took a local train into central London around 0839hrs and then jumped the Underground, Victoria Line, all the way to King's Cross. Then, a shortish walk to St Pancras where I discovered a huge queue for the 1104 Eurostar to Amsterdam. Surely I would'n't have to queue! Why? Normally I simply check in, go through the baggage scanner and passport control and I'm there, in a kind of no-man's land, sipping coffee and munching on an almond croissant. Not today. "It's half-term," said a man in uniform after I'd retrieved my tickets from the machine. I skulked away and found the end of the queue; fortunately, it didn't take long and I was soon placing my suitcase into a large black plastic tray and walking through the scanner, just the same as when I'm flying. And was I glad I wasn't flying? Apparently, I could make a ridiculous amount of Eurostar journeys to Amsterdam and back and not get anywhere close to the amount of carbon I'd be emitting if I'd flown there. 

On the Metro, leaving Amsterdam Centraal...

I was in coach 7, seat 67, an aisle seat and the journey was, well, I wouldn't say pleasant, there's something rather unpleasant about travelling on the Eurostar and I'm not sure what it is; I suppose it's something to do with the cramped conditions, then it's the frosted (or are they dirty?) windows which mean you can't see properly, there's a kind of grey film over the windows which makes looking out pointless. So I sat there reading The Bear Comes Home by Safi Zabor (oh, please, let me finish it soon, I can't stand it!) I read a few pages, then stopped, then read a few pages and stopped. Around lunch time I made my way to the buffet car and bought a cheese and ham panini or baguette, a bottle of mineral water and a KitKat. I returned to my seat and then realised that my tray, the tray in front of me, was already laden with my beanie hat, glasses, book, notepad, phone and tickets. I decided to pick up the important stuff (tickets, passport, phone) and head back to the buffet car to eat my baguette. I didn't really want to subject the guy sitting next to me to that awful whiff of hot food. There's nothing worse than the smell of somebody else's hot food when you're not eating anything. Afterwards, I returned to my seat and in between sips of green tea and that KitKat I just sat there trying to work out why I seemed to be constantly down. It's a mixture of stuff: the country, the government, the future, and it's not good, it's almost physical in nature, but I won't bore you with it now. Suffice it to say that I need to chill much more than I am doing. I often wonder what other people see when they look at me and I'm guessing it's somebody preoccupied, somebody staring at something invisible, somebody with a look that says paranoia, a look that says I'm being attacked from all sides, nobody can be trusted (or very few people) and so on and so forth.

Postillion Hotel (centre)...

First we stopped at Lille, then Brussels, then Rotterdam and then Amsterdam, our final destination. All was fairly straightforward. I jumped off the train, found the exit, checked my phone for directions to the Postillion Hotel, jumped on the Metro, six stops, and then a walk, not that far, and a much-welcomed breath of fresh air. I love Amsterdam. I love Holland. The bike lanes, everything. As always, I wish I lived there, it would be better than the UK, mainly because everybody rides a bike, anybody can go anywhere in and beyond the city on a bike, it's safe, it's easy and everybody gets exercise, free exercise, no need for gym membership in Holland.

Inside room 915, Postillion Hotel

I checked in to the hotel. Room 915 on the ninth floor. A great view from the window. The room is pleasant, a twin room, decent facilities, nice bathroom, a flatscreen television on the wall in front of the bed, free wifi. CNN is on and of course it's nothing but depressing news about war and earthquakes.

I'll be picked up at 1900hrs and taken out to dinner. I'm looking forward to that. Tomorrow an interview then I'm back on the train at just gone 1600hrs and heading home. A whistle stop trip. I'll arrive back in the UK around 2000hrs tomorrow night and I'll probably get home around 2130hrs.

Being on the ninth floor of a tall building is fine if you're in Amsterdam; I'm just glad I'm not in Turkey where the recent earthquake has taken over 30,000 lives. The Postillion is a quirky sort of place. Check-in was easy and fast and, as always, I found myself standing in the lift wondering why it wasn't moving after I'd pressed the number nine for my floor. The answer was simple: I needed to use my keycard to activate it. Once I'd brushed the card over a specific area of the lift's control panel I felt movement and soon realised we were on the move, upwards, to room 915. I would have preferred room 918 as nine plus one plus eighgt = 18 and that's my lucky number (yes, I've resorted to superstition to relieve my constant anxiety). The number of the train was 9126, which adds up to 18, I was in coach 7 (lucky number 7 perhaps) and the other day I spotted a spider in the kitchen. It was early in the morning, I even wished him (her) – or perhaps it was a transgender spider or a spider version of Sam Smith, in which case I'd probably have to refer to my eight-legged pal as 'they' or 'them' or 'it'. Or in Sam Smith's case, 'nob'. Actually anyone who expects me to address them as 'they' or 'them' will be given short shrift. In my world if you have a dick, you're a bloke; if you have a vagina, you're a woman. But let's not go there as it's just something else to annoy me. The Brits were on over the weekend and Sam Smith arrived in ridiculous inflatable outfit. To be fair to the guy, he made me laugh and I think he was given a lot of (much needed) media attention as a result of what he was wearing, but I found myself wondering how he would manage to sit down and eat dinner, I've always been a fairly pragmatic person. Perhaps he'd dine alone (he'd need the space, otherwise he'd be invading his fellow diners' space, possibly knocking them off their seats).

View from room 915, Postillion Hotel

CNN's still on behind me and they're talking about the UFOs that American fighter jets have been shooting out of the sky. I say UFOs, it's more likely that they're surveillance balloons operated by China, but why? It's not as if they're not going to be seen and shot down. The Chinese are saying that the US has been doing the same, but the US denies the accusation. Four 'UFOs' have been taken out. It's very childish when you think about it. Childish and ridiculous, but let's see what transpires. The first one was definitely Chinese, let's see where the others come from, although I'm putting my money firmly on China.

The hotel room annoys me. It's one of those hotels that relies upon technology and we all know that technology simply doesn't work. There's a panel by the side of the bed that lets you control the room, draw the curtains automatically, turn lights on and off and so forth, but of course it was going to let me down. I went through the panel switching off the lights and then on again to check it all worked and, to be fair, it did work, except that I couldn't turn the bathroom light off. The television came on unexpectedly and eventually I worked that out, although it was easier to simply use the remote control. When I woke up early in the morning I used the bathroom having gone to bed wondering how I could possibly turn the bathroom light on again as there was nothing on the control panel that said 'bathroom light' – which would have been far easier. Actually, a switch on the wall, or cord dangling from the ceiling, would have been far, far easier, but technology doesn't do 'easy', it's not about ease of use, it's just about technology. 

So here I sit, at 0601, in the dark. The control panel now reads 'insert card' but it's already inserted in the slot by the door, so I can't even use the technology, apart from some mini bedside lights, which are next to useless. Fortunately, as I say, the bathroom light comes on automatically, but I'm guessing that half way through a shower the light will switch off 'to save power' and I'll be stranded, naked, and in the dark, covered in soap. For all I know the shower won't work at all for some inexplicable reason, who knows? I feel my first Trip Advisor review coming up, the first in ages, and it won't be good. Not even a decent breakfast will redeem this place. Even the shop downstairs by reception! "Can I put this on my room?" said I, picking up a bar of chocolate, but oh no, there's an automatic system, just like those in the supermarket, so I had to faff around. To be fair, it wasn't difficult, but that's not the point, is it? Just put it on the fucking room bill!

I'm being let down by technology left right and centre and it's happening a lot these days. Like right now. Here I am sitting in the dark early in the morning because the lights won't come on and I have a new digital recorder which is pants basically, the highest volume is too low, the whole thing simply doesn't work the way I want it to and once again, like in Sweden a few months ago, I'm beginning to panic: I have an interview in about four hours from now and I find myself thinking where is the nearest shop where I can purchase a decent recorder? I know darn well that when I reach reception they'll say there is a place but it's on the other side of the city and I'll be left relying upon the voice recorder on my iphone, which is also rubbish. So, not a good start to the day by any stretch of the imagination. I seem to be followed around by calamity and all the faffing about trying to get the recorder to work means I'm missing breakfast and time is moving on. I'm not happy at all.

Breakfast was actually quite good. I had two fried eggs on toast, some yoghurt and granola, a mug of green tea and a couple of mini pastries, not forgetting an apple that I took with me to the room. But just because it was a good breakfast didn't mean I forgave the hotel. When I got back to the room the lights mysteriously came on again. Too late, I'm afraid, I had already been inconvenienced. The problem of the crappy Philips digital recorder was still alive and kicking. Eventually, when a cab arrived at 1000hrs to take me to my appointment I asked the driver if he could take me to Cool Blue, an electronics retailer. He did and soon I was in possession of an Olympus recorder, a brand I trust. I now have two recorders and one must be returned.

After lunch I was driven to the beach to take a look at the sea, then another cab took me to Centraal Station and I was soon onboard the 1647 Eurostar to London. I say 'soon', I got there miles too early and had to sit around until the train arrived, but eventually we got underway and, fortunately, I didn't have anybody sitting next to me, which was good. I ordered some food from the buffet car (a cheese and ham baguette, an English breakfast tea and a KitKat (roughly the same order I had on the way out) and then settled down (with the same book) and got on with the journey. We arrived into St Pancras 10 minutes early, the escalators didn't work, but soon I was on the Victoria line and heading for Victoria station where I jumped aboard the 2050 train to East Grinstead (I'll be getting off at Sanderstead). Yes, folks, I'm on the train now, writing this blogpost, finishing it off and I'm sipping a large green tea I purchased from Starbucks on the concourse at Victoria. Next stop East Croydon and then it's my stop.

A good trip, but rushed. I could have done with another day and a little bit more mooching about. In fact, that's what I didn't get on this trip: mooch time, but I guess you can't have everything.

Things are looking up ...

I say things are looking up because the weather has changed... for the best. I say 'for the best' because it's no longer cold, that all stopped last week. I was in Bruges last week (well, last Thursday and Friday) and it was bitterly cold, even when wearing a fairly heavy suit. I had to wrap up warm on the Friday when I spent most of the day walking around, popping into shops, diving into cafes and so forth, but generally I was just mooching, me and a pal from work. It happens yearly at this time: the company takes the entire workforce abroad for what is billed as the Christmas Party, a kind of belated event, but is really the company conference. The conference bit lasts all of 30 minutes and then, after a quiz (if there's time, there wasn't last week) we head out for dinner and then have the whole of the following day to explore and do as we please until it's time to go home. We went to and from Bruges in a coach and via Le Shuttle, which was fairly painless. We all stayed in the Novotel Brugge Centrum (I was in room 353) and on Friday morning I enjoyed an amazing breakfast before heading out to find a small teashop in which to sit and read for half an hour or so. We left Bruges around 1530hrs and I reached home around 2030hrs. All was good.

In Bruges...lovely place!

On Saturday morning the plan had always been to ride to either Oxted or Limpsfield. I left later than expected (around 0930hrs) and headed for Coffee at Kiwi House in Limpsfield Village. It's my new place. I reckon the cappuccino is to die for and the almond croissants aren't bad either. However, the last time I was in there it was earlier than it was on Saturday and now I found reserved tables and the need to ask people if I could join the end of their table. Still, no harm done. Like the last time I was here I parked the bike outside and padlocked it to a wooden fence. In all honesty, if anybody had fancied nicking the bike all they would have needed was a small wood saw, but this is snooty Limpsfield, I probably could have left the bike unpadlocked.

Like last week I rode along the 269 to Botley Hill and then down Titsey Hill, which sometimes can be nauseous as the bike shakes its way downwards until the road smooths out a little bit prior to rolling into Limpsfield. Normally I turn right and follow Granville Road into Oxted (about another mile on the journey) or, as on Saturday and the week before, I simply turned left, past the church and the pub and into Coffee at Kiwi House.

Tea in Bruges on Friday morning

The problem with making oneself at home in a coffee shop when you're riding a bike is that nagging thought that, at some stage, you're going to have to ride back; and my ride back is up Titsey Hill. It's not a problem for me, but the thought of it remains awful even if there is a fair ride before I reach the bottom and prepare for the ascent. Once, as I rode up Titsey Hill, I turned right as the ascent began and followed White Lane (an even steeper hill) to where it joins Clarks Lane. Now that's an ordeal, but again, I take it in my stride if I'm honest and then the remaining ride is a bit like the ride back from Westerham. I suppose the good thing about White Lane is that it's a short, sharp, shock whereas Titsey Hill is long and drawn out and seemingly endless. On Saturday I rode the length of Titsey Hill, got myself into a groove and all was well, all that remained was the 269, which is fine if you keep your wits about you.

On Sunday I rode to Westerham to see Andy who was waiting for me in Costa Coffee. These days Costa is a little bit hit and miss (is it or is it not open?) but on Sunday morning (yesterday morning – today's Monday) it was open and Andy was sitting in the window finishing off a cup of coffee. I ordered a tea and joined him. I thought that his Kona was looking pretty good and he told me he'd changed the bars and had recently purchased new tyres. He'd also cleaned it, putting me to shame.

Prior to last week's ice ride to Oxted

I've been pretty crap these past few weeks, not really writing much on my blog (the last post to this one was on 10 January) and I had to admit to Andy that I'd not been reading his blogs either, which is a shame because he's got some big cycling plans on the boil. He's looking in to riding a coast-to-coast route from Lowestoft in Suffolk to Land's End in Cornwall, or possibly Weston-super-Mare, quite a trip and not your traditional coast-to-coast cycle ride (like Liverpool to Scarborough, say). I talked briefly about the up and coming Dunwich Dynamo, something Andy and I have talked about in the past. It's roughly 125 miles through the night from Hackney Wick to Dunwich on the Suffolk Coast. Now don't get me wrong, I'd like to do it – at least I think I do – but I might just like the idea of it, the riding through the night, although I've heard bad things about it too. I'm wondering if I could do a straight 125 miles, at night, without engaging in proper training and I think Andy's of the opinion, quite rightly, that I'd need to train. In fact, he's kind of thrown down a gauntlet, which I'm contemplating as I write this: should I commit to it or not? Andy says the only way you'll do anything is to commit to it and again, he's right. He's said that if I commit, he'll do it with me next year, but on the condition that I train for it; I've yet to get back to him as I'm thinking (and I stress the word 'thinking') about changing the commitment from the Dynamo to a day time coast-to-coast ride, something like the Liverpool to Scarborough jaunt, which used to be the Whitbread Coast-to-Coast. That said, I'm not ruling out the Dynamo, just giving myself time to think about it. I think I could do it, my only worry is having a puncture at 0300hrs in the middle of nowhere. We've decided that we'd spend the day and night in Dunwich and then possibly ride back (so I'd better consider training for a greater distance than just 125 miles) but in all honesty we'd probably opt for the train. So, I've got some thinking to do.

Saturday's cappuccino and almond croissant at Kiwi House

There's a train strike on Wednesday and Friday and I'm thinking about riding it; the evenings have started to brighten up and I reckon that if I left the office around 1600hrs I'd almost get home while it's still light, so that's something else I need to consider. The only other option is the bus or the car, but I think it's a good excuse to get back on the bike for those two magical mid-week extra rides.  

Random thoughts from Lazyville...

You know when you come across as depressed or down, there's always somebody there to remind you that there are others worse off than you are? Well, there is something flawed about that position as basically it's stating that if, for some reason (or reasons) you're feeling down or depressed or pissed off, that, in reality, you shouldn't be in such a state, that it's wrong, unjustified, unreasonable, and so forth. So, in other words, whatever is bugging you, you shouldn't be depressed or upset or pissed off about it because of old so and so or this or that person who has something 'real' to be worried about. I understand that entirely and I'm sure that everybody who feels a little down or depressed occasionally, knows of somebody who's in a worse position than they are and that those people deserve all the support they can get. Think of those in Ukraine, for example.

I'm in the basement, thinking 'bout the government

I'm feeling aggrieved, depressed, annoyed, angry, pissed off, down and dejected for all sorts of reasons, not least the state of the UK and the awful government which has presided over the country since the days of David Cameron, Britain's third worst Prime Minister next to Boris Johnson and (at the top of the list) Liz Truss. I feel powerless, there's nothing I can do about it and, as I write this, I realise that there are a lot of people in this country who, for want of a better word, (although I realise this will sound very arrogant on my part) are basically ignorant (in my opinion). I'm talking about those who really thought that Boris Johnson was fit to run the country and those who support the current Tory government.

Harry and Meghan 

Then there is all the nonsense surrounding the royal family and in particular Prince Harry and the revelations from his book Spare, which publishes tomorrow. He's really let the side down and for no reason at all. What has he got to moan about in the overall scheme of things? He's got money, he's wealthy, he hasn't got to worry about where the next meal is coming from, he's living in a huge mansion in sunny California, he's married, he has kids and yet he feels the need to moan about his lot when, in the UK at this very moment, there are people who are nowhere near as well off as he struggling to pay their bills, there are people living on the streets and even ordinary, run-of-the-mill people like me dealing with the cost of living crisis, the strikes and so forth.

Why are we all so gullible?

The media is so obsessed with Harry and Meghan because they know that their stories will sell newspapers, it's that simple. And why is that? Because of the gullibility of the British people and, indeed, the people of the world who lap this sort of stuff up, particularly women for some reason who like nothing more than a gossip over a cup of coffee. There's nothing worse than gullibility. Why are we all so gullible? Why are we happy to go out on the days leading up to Christmas to buy stuff from shops, at extortionate prices, and then, a day after 'the big day' the shops that sold us that stuff are suddenly selling things (and the stuff we bought) at up to 60% off? There was I yesterday looking at the goods on offer in a clothes shop in Sevenoaks, a place where I had bought an expensive jumper only a matter of weeks ago, only to discover that everything in the store was now far, far cheaper. Ironically, the jumper I bought was still the same price. Perhaps next year just a small present to put under the tree (for the sake of appearances) and then a return trip to the shop (and others like it) a few days after Christmas to get greater value for money, perhaps two jumpers for the price of one and so on. But no, everybody is gullible. I wonder how many people will buy that awful book by Prince Harry? 

Looking out from Sheree's in Tatsfield Village, 8 January 2023

Cost of living crisis

The cost of living crisis is a nuisance. Every time I go out I have to fill up with petrol, restaurants are now charging extortionate prices (I say 'restaurants' when I mean cafes, snack bars, traditionally low-spend establishments). Tea at almost £3 a cup, sandwiches for around £8 - with a sad-looking salad garnish and some crisps so we all think the high prices are justified. Rail fares are going up. Can you believe that? All of last week there were no trains and we've all been inconvenienced, but they have the audacity to put up the fares, which are already extortionate. Once the weather improves and the evenings get lighter I'm going to ride to work like I did last summer, except I'll start earlier this year and make the most of it. I've bought waterproof trousers and shoes and there's nothing stopping me but my own lack of motivation, which is probably exacerbated by a lack of exercise brought on by the bad weather, those endorphins need to be stimulated but instead I'm sheltering from the rain.

Pot of tea at Sheree's in Tatsfield

Sunday 8th January 2022

Well, not today! Yesterday (Saturday 7th January) I'd checked the iphone weather app and realised that today (Sunday 8th January) there was a window of dryness that would enable Andy and I to get out there and ride the bikes. Now, it's worth pointing out that unlike me, Andy has continued riding throughout the bad weather using his trusty trainer in his garage. I should buy one too but I'm not sure it would provide me with much more motivation than a real bike to get out there and exercise despite what Andy says about how he warms up fairly quickly and even has to shed clothes as his exercise continues. I'm sure that's true. In fact, I know it is because whenever I jump on a stationary bike in a hotel gym I leave the place drenched in my own sweat. It works. But going out into a cold garage on a cold day is not easy and Andy understands this and it's good to know that somebody has my back and wants me to keep fit. Believe me, that means a lot. And the options are there: start swimming, by a trainer device, buy an exercise bike and put it in the conservatory, ride the Nobbler of an evening, all six miles of it, rain or shine, hot or cold. The easiest is the latter and the crucial ingredient is, of course, motivation. The best thing, of course, would be if the bad weather lifted, like it did this morning. I'll say this, I've felt on top of the world today and I put that down to the ride, the exercise. Remember: my last ride prior to this morning was Boxing Day. Something has to be done and Andy's right to bring it up. The other problem, of course, is the dark. If I opt to ride to work (and believe me I've seriously considered it for tomorrow (Monday 9th January) it will mean riding in the dark and that in turn will mean charging up my lights (both of which are USB-chargeable). Then all I need is some high-Viz clothing, but the lights should be enough. Am I going to ride to work in the morning? No, I'm not, but I might just get on the bike and ride the Nobbler when I get back home. It's no more than 35 minutes of hell and then I'll be back in the house with around six miles under my belt and that lovely feeling of achievement.

Tuesday 10 January 2022

It's Tuesday night, it's raining and I haven't been out since Sunday. I've checked out gym/swim membership at a leisure centre close to where I work, it's £34/month, not bad when you consider I could spend £8 per day on lunches, totalling £45 in a week, so if I take sandwiches then I save and can spend the money on the membership. But will I go? Or won't I? I might start off with all the good intentions, but then things will fall by the wayside and I'll stop, like most people do. I might not, of course, and if I can go just three times a week (and throw in a couple of lunch time swims while I'm at it) then it could be worthwhile. And when the days brighten I can ride to work and all will be well with the world. I might not need the membership for more than a couple of months. Either way I need to act, perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, I can't do anything as it's Tuesday night, it's 1919hrs and I'm waiting for dinner. I'm hungry. I've already eaten a toasted Marmite sandwich, two slices of toast and honey, one hot cross bun and that's all because I only had a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and a cup of tomato and basil soup. I don't know why I ate so much on coming through the door, but I did and, fortunately, that hot cross bun has done the trick. I won't eat any more until dinner is ready, in about 40 minutes or so (chilli con carne with rice). Then I'll be fine, I'll probably have my Snore & Peace tea, watch the box (or read) and then hit the sack.

The bad weather continues...

I'm seriously considering taking up another sport, one that is sheltered from the weather. I can't stand going to the gym so it won't be that and it looks, therefore, as is swimming might be coming back, although the cost of living crisis means that some local authority pools, I am told, will be closing to save money. It's been almost one month (bar a recent ride with Andy on Boxing Day) since I've been out on the bike and it's all down to bad weather, extreme cold in the main, but now it's rain and it doesn't matter how much waterproof clothing I buy, the key is that riding in the rain isn't much fun, let's face it, so why bother? Going into the garage to use a turbo trainer simply doesn't appeal and I don't have the spare cash to purchase a stationary bike, which, arguably, would solve the problem, but I've been there before and would rather go for a proper ride on the roads and country lanes. 

Westerham, Boxing Day morning...

Today, Saturday (New Year's Eve) I had planned a ride to Oxted, like in the good old days, but that was scuppered early this morning as I lay in bed listening to the howling wind and then waking to discover that it was also raining. It's all extremely depressing because all I appear to be doing is sitting around waiting to go to work. Today, being Saturday, is almost 'back to normal' inasmuch as I'll be going to work next week. Now, it's as if I have Monday off and that's it; and to top it all there are train strikes EVERY DAY of next week. There's little more to say other than I am rather pissed off. I feel like time is passing by very quickly and I'm getting nowhere, all the landmark dates come and go: Halloween, Guy Fawkes Night (what happened to that this year?) mum's birthday, my birthday, Christmas and soon New Year's Day - arguably the most depressing day of the entire year as people wake up, hung over and realise that it's the same old shit, just a different day and all they have to show for it is a headache. Throw in a large amount of absolutely rubbish television (largely repeats produced at a time when things were better) and a general feeling of pointlessness and you'll have some idea of how I feel right now. Depressed. And now, as the clock is being rewound, only to be unwound slowly over the next 12 months, it's more of the same: Putin, train strikes, crap Government, COVID, the cost of living crisis and everything else. In short, there is nothing to look forward to except for shite.

Westerham, Boxing Day 2022...

I'm glad that Andy and I managed to ride to Westerham on Boxing Day as the festive ride is a NoVisibleLycra tradition that we try our best to uphold. I was noticeably out of condition having not riden the bike for a least three weeks but I somehow managed to get there bang on 0900hrs before Costa even opened its doors. Andy's bought a new bike and he rode it to Westerham. It's a nice bike with some parts built to spec, ie narrower handlebars and different wheels to what would have been on the original bike. Andy ordered a black coffee and a toasted teacake, I ordered an English breakfast tea and a toasted teacake, but no jam, just butter (Andy ordered just jam). 

Our bikes outside of Costa Coffee

As always, I eat a lot of crap over Christmas and, as always, I start to make up resolutions for the new year, like 'no more crap food', 'no more bread, no more chocolate, cake and so on' and then, of course, I break them. Perhaps it's best to say nothing and just try not to eat too badly. What I need more than anything, however, is exercise, but the weather is so piss poor even a walk is out of the question.

And now I sit here at the dining table looking over at a Christmas tree that will soon be dumped unceremoniously in the back garden awaiting being chopped up and placed in bits in the brown plastic wheelie bin that is currently residing on the front drive. All the decorations that seemingly only went up a few days ago will have to be packed away until next year and then all that's left is to sit and wonder at the anti-climax of it all and why people cram into supermarkets as if we're all expecting some kind of calamity that will leave us all without food when the reality is that Christmas Day is just one day and that on Boxing Day we'll all be able to go out and buy food again. What's even more annoying is that this year I noticed the big stores like John Lewis did their patronising Christmas ads as usual, inviting everybody to go out and spend a fortune, and then, the very same store advertised its sale, meaning that if people had just waited a few days they could have got whatever they bought for half the price they paid a day or two earlier. Again, I found myself wishing that we were not so gullible. Imagine if we all simply said no and didn't bother doing any Christmas shopping until the sales, that would be hilarious, playing them at their own game. But no, we won't, we'll simply carry on like we always do and then go to the sales too. I couldn't believe that I was in a shopping centre in Tunbridge Wells yesterday afternoon looking, but not buying anything (although somebody I was with bought a coat). It's all horrible and I found myself thinking of Guy Debord and a book I really ought to buy, The Society of the Spectacle. Perhaps next year.

Slapstick follows me everywhere!

Wherever I go, slapstick follows me. Something as simple as fixing a puncture! First, off comes the wheel, the rear wheel, now that's a shit show in itself, but off it comes and I figure I'll remember how to get it back on later. Thanks to Halfords no longer selling 'leeches' I'm forced to use 'Scabs'. Horrible things! First, how the fuck do you get them out? Virtually impossible, but the other day, when I first fixed the very same puncture, I managed it... only to discover that I had a flat tyre the very next day. Cold weather kept me out of the garage, away from the bike and in the warm for the next God knows how long, easily over a week. But now the decent weather has returned. Decent? Well, yes, by comparision. So I'm out there again today, the wheel comes off and this time I place the inner tube into a bowl of hot water to check whether or not I had more than one puncture. It turns out to be the same one. Bubbles escaped from underneath the 'scab' proving to me that the scabs are rubbish. I tried placing another scab on the area where the bubbles were escaping from, but no good. This meant just one thing: I'd have to buy a new inner tube and while at it also buy a new tyre and inner tube: £24 the lot from Halfords. And I'm back in the room! Well, the garage, armed with a new tyre and a new inner tube. The tyre's fine and so is the inner tube, just a case of getting it out of the plastic packaging. I know! I'll break a hole in the plastic with a small key on my keyring. But where is my key ring? It must be in my coat which is hanging off the back of the lawnmower. I check. Nope, not there. I must have left it on a shelf somewhere. Nope. In the garage door? Nope. Well, it can't be indoors as I used it to open the garage. I then spend the next half an hour searching the garage, but without success. Where is it? I start to imagine myself sheltering in the garage, unable to pick up my family from the railway station because I don't have my keys. What amazes me is this: I checked my coat thoroughly, every pocket, and it wasn't there, but then on checking it a second time, it's there. Ridiculous. So I go back into the house and using a knife from the draw in the kitchen I open the packaging and then head back into the garage. All I have to do now is put the tyre on the wheel and then the new inner tube inside it. It took an age to prise the tyre on to wheel and then I spent an inordinate amount of time stuffing the inner tube inside the tyre. Once I'd completed the task I then noticed that some of the tyre bulged out when I pumped it up so I had to deflate the tyre and mess around until it all went back without bulges. I pumped it up and managed (unusually) to get the wheel back on the frame. Thank the Lord! Seriously! Thank. The. Lord. I closed up the garage and then decided it was time for a walk, albeit a brief one, to Coco & Nut, my favourite coffee shop (it's about 10 minutes away). I ordered a cappuccino and a toasted chicken and pesto sandwich and then sat there reading for around half an hour or so. After a while I realised it was time to go. I was just glad that this time I got a table. The last time I walked here (on the slippery icy pathways) I was cheesed off to discover that the place was full-to-bursting (no seats at all). I could have sat outside, but it was cold so I didn't bother. I simply trudged home, book in rucksack untouched.

Icy roads en route to an indie coffee shop last week, far easier today!

Today, however, has been good. Once I'd completed a few tasks, one involving the aforementioned puncture, the other taking a faulty product back to IKEA, I decided to listen to music and found, completely by accident, a band called Husker Du, an American rock/punk band who have since disbanded, but not before releasing a number of amazing albums during the 80s. I'm amazed I'd never heard of them before, but there you go. So I've been listening the Husker Du and Judas Priest and the Pixies (Debaser) on a continuous loop almost until I was told no more. I get that totally. While I could listen to Debaser over and over and over again, I appreciate that it's not to everybody's taste and I had a good run so I was happy to switch it off and watch a bit of Dad's Army. I think that I'm at last managing to chill out, ie come down from the stress of working. I'm so glad I had holiday to take off otherwise I'd be at work all this week. As it happens I'm not.

I'm hoping to get out on the bike tomorrow. I'm hoping that when I open the garage door I won't find another puncture. The inner tube I've bought is one of those slime-based products that fix the puncture automatically when it happens. Let's hope, that's all I can say. I'm planning a much-needed ride to Oxted. The new tyre is pretty basic, but it does the trick and it's got more tread on it than the one I've taken off.