Ramblings from Dusseldorf airport...

Thursday 12 November: As I write this I am sitting in a cafeteria – there's a counter and trays so it's definitely not a café – enjoying a cup of black tea (as they say in Germany). I can't ask for a cup of 'builder's tea' as they wouldn't understand  me. There's no milk either, just creamer, which always reminds me of the days of my childhood when, for some reason, we sometimes had to endure our tea with Carnation evaporated milk. I can only assume that mum simply ran out of milk on some occasions. In Europe, largely, when you order a cup of tea you'll get a cup of warm water, a sachet containing a teabag and no milk. Awful.

It's around 1650hrs and it's getting dark outside. I'm through passport control and I'm killing time writing as I left Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World (which I've almost finished) in my suitcase, when I checked in.

The Rhine from the Schellenberg's breakfast room

As always when I stay in a hotel, I didn't get much in the way of sleep. I'd hit the sack around midnight last night and I woke up at 0700hrs so I reset the alarm for 0730hrs and tried to chill a little before getting up, taking a shower and heading down for breakfast. Although it wasn't 'down' it was up and over and, of course, it involved going outside into the fresh air (see previous posts for details). Not a big issue because the weather was mild, but it could have been much worse. Imagine getting drenched by heavy rain before reaching the breakfast room!

When I reached the breakfast room (the restaurant from last night) I was able to take full advantage of the Schellenberg's riverside location. It was, as I mentioned in the previous post, right on the banks of the Rhine. I sat there, having collected everything I thought I'd need – cereal, fresh fruit, a pastry, some scrambled egg and a pot of tea – and watched as huge barges passed by; they were passenger barges, designed for river cruises, and they were very long. Some had rooms with patio doors so I'm guessing there are overnight river cruises along the Rhine too; now that's something I'd like to do.

Viking River Cruises was one of the operators and there was another barge moored up on the bank below the hotel. At first I thought it was part of the hotel: extra rooms, perhaps; but soon the engines started the churn up the water and the barge disappeared up river.

Room 27, Schellenberg Hotel, Dusseldorf

On the opposite side of the river there were what looked like gently sloping 'sandy' banks that were almost beaches. It was probably mud, not sand, but it didn't look very muddy and I'm guessing that in the summer people might enjoy lying there, taking in some rays, but it was mid-November and the 'beaches' were deserted, despite the mild weather.

Breakfast was pleasant enough and so was dinner last night (I had cod with polenta followed by raspberry mousse, a glass of wine and a bottle of still mineral water). The entire bill was just 189 Euros.

I checked out and left my suitcase with the concierge while I nipped over the road to the convention centre until around 2pm when I met a colleague and his client for lunch at the hotel (potato and leek soup followed by salmon and a couple of glasses of Malbec). We talked shop and then I was driven to the airport (an incredibly short drive). Now I am sitting here having drank my tea. It's 1703hrs and soon I'll have to make my way to the gate for the return flight home. I've been reliably informed that the plane is another turbo prop, but unfortunately I've got an aisle seat. Not that it matters as it'll be dark when we take off and besides, it's only 55 minutes so I'll have to amuse myself in some other way. I have a notepad and a pen so perhaps I'll be inspired to write something, who knows?

Once again I forgot to buy myself some Ronnefeldt tea.  I know they've got some decent flavours because I've tried them and it's available throughout this fine land. It's always a shame to leave Dusseldorf, but I'm sure I'll be back. I seem to visit this great German city three or four times during the year.

View from room 27, Schellenberg Hotel...

I wandered to the gate (Gate 91) and then, as I waited to board, I added up the numbers of the flight, hoping that the total wouldn't be 13. It wasn't and I was relieved as I hate it when the numbers stack up against me, although they rarely do.

Next to the free bottles of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that I always enjoy on any British Airways flight I take, the next best thing is John Simpson's regular column in High Life magazine. This month it was about the cities of Brazzaville in the Republic of Congo and Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of Congo (previously Zaire). They're chalk and cheese according to Mr Simpson and his preferred capital is Brazzaville, although it never used to be. "I remember landing at the airport here in the 1990s with mortars and artillery fire thumping down...", he wrote in his column. I've said it before, but High Life should devote more space to Simpson's writing.

Annoying passengers
What never fails to annoy me on planes is when instructions from the cabin crew are ignored, especially when those instructions are designed to make things safer. We were told to switch off all electrical devices during take-off and landing and, of course, I did as I was told. But there were others close to me who simply ignored the request and continued texting and watching fucking Cumberbatch on their tablet. I felt like intervening, but decided to keep my powder dry for fear of starting some kind of international incident.

The flight was good and, being a turbo prop, a little more exciting than a jet. Turbo props, a bit like helicopters, 'chug' through the air and while the flight is a little rockier than that experienced in a jet, I think I prefer it.

We landed at London City Airport and after retrieving my suitcase from the reclaim I headed for the Docklands Light Railway to catch a train to Bank and then onwards to London Bridge where I picked up an overground train to East Croydon and then to Sanderstead.

Dusseldorf, my favourite German city...

Butternut squash tortelloni at Rhubarb

I was sitting in Rhubarb, an air side restaurant at London City Airport, enjoying a light lunch, when I spotted the former leader of the Scottish Nationalists, Alex Salmond. What's he doing in England? Shouldn't he be sitting in some stone castle in the highlands of Scotland wearing war paint and a kilt while waxing the dolphin in front of a poster of Mel Gibson? Perhaps he was on his way home to do just that, I figured, tucking into a ridiculously small portion of plum crumble and ice cream.

And then, over the Tannoy, I heard "Would passenger Weller proceed to the main terminal?" Not the Modfather! I had visions of meeting the great man and berating him for closing down The Jam in favour of the Style Council with that Talbot bloke from the Merton Parkas. What a fucking liberty! But if it was the white-haired wizard of the 1980s mod revival, I never saw him. He certainly wasn't on my flight.

I love turbo props. Proper flying! And while it was a little bumpy heading out of London, once we'd cleared the low cloud, all was well with the world, especially when a couple of small bottles of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon had been offered, along with a fairly inoffensive bag of crisps. I could have sat there reading (I had Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World with me) but I chose to chill out instead, looking at the setting sun and the cotton wool clouds and generally taking in the view.

Plum crumble at Rhubarb...

The flight time to Dusseldorf is about an hour and by the time I'd enjoyed just one of the small bottles of wine given to me by the air hostess – yes, 'air hostess', you won't get any politically correct 'cabin crew' rubbish from yours truly – the plane was virtually on the ground. "The weather in Dusseldorf? Pretty much the same as it is here; a little low cloud..." as the pilot seems to say about virtually every place in the world that I ever land in. There are so many things that I now take for granted when I fly. One is that ''it's a pretty full flight, Mr Moggridge, so I'm afraid I can't offer you a window seat" and another is that the weather is always 'pretty much the same as it is here', meaning the UK. Not that such comments bother me. I'd be rather concerned if they started talking about hurricanes and severe storms, but so far I've been lucky on that score – apart from one flight from Dubai to Qatar at 0200hrs a couple of years ago. That was bad. I remember hearing the word 'turbulence' and then all hell broke loose. But I'm still here to tell the tale, so again, I'm not complaining.

Through the clouds over London...

Once off the plane and through customs I sat at a place called Gusto Ice Cream and enjoyed a relaxing cup of tea, although I forgot that, when in Europe, I don't really get a decent cuppa. For a start, they bring out a box of tea bags, like a humidor, offering a wide selection of flavours including the all-singing, all-dancing and terribly bog standard English Breakfast. Then they hand over a portion pack or two of coffee creamer – where's the milk? It's simply not cricket.

I took a taxi to the hotel, the Schnellenburg, which is right on the banks of the Rhine and in front of the convention centre where I will be tomorrow for most of the day. I've never stayed here before, but I have eaten here (and taken a dump!) The food is good, but I can't remember the state of the public conveniences, although they must have been perfect as I have no witty anecdote to impart.

And now here I am, sitting in my room watching CCTV. No, not closed circuit television but some kind of African television station. Let's see, what's happening? AB InBev is to buy SAB Miller for $107 billion. Who cares? Nissan plans to double South Africa output with a new model. Who gives a damn? UK unemployment falls to its lowest level since, well, I can't remember. But it's worth remembering that the whole thing is a con. They probably include people on apprenticeships who, as far as I can make out, are taken on at below minimum wage, are given a load of menial tasks to do, like cleaning out the bog after the CEO has taken a dump, and are then 'sacked' just before they should be taken on as full time members of staff. Travesty! Cameron simply has to go. I mean how come the Tories were only supported by 37% of the electorate but still managed to take 51% of the seats in Parliament? We don't want the Tories! Get rid of them! Wear a Guido Fawkes mask! Go on the rampage! Armed struggle! Burn a copy of the Daily Mail!

Sometimes I must say that I do sympathise with the views of that anarchist group Anonymous. Are they anarchists? Probably not, but I see their point of view where 'austerity' is concerned and I'd like to own a Guido Fawkes mask too. Over the weekend I was in Lindfield in East Sussex and there was a Remembrance service going on – nothing wrong with that. In fact, I observed a two minute silence at 11am this morning and rightfully so. But as I made my way down Lindfield's main street I noticed that even in a quiet Sussex village, there was a 'police presence' and it struck me that, had I produced (and donned) one of those Guido Fawkes masks, I would probably have been approached by the filth and asked a few awkward questions. It's quite amazing how simple little things – the Guido Fawkes mask, the hijab, the long beard – have become symbols of dissent. Put on a Guido Fawkes mask and you're immediately branded a troublemaker.

On the descent into Dusseldorf...

So I'm in Dusseldorf, but I'm near the airport and nowhere near the centre of town or my favourite restaurant near the central railway station. Da Bruno. What a fantastic place! And excellent value too. I could go there, but the cost of a taxi there and back would negate the economics of the whole thing so I'm going to stay here in the hotel as I know the restaurant is pretty good.

A few words about the hotel. For a start it's on the Rhine, but it's dark outside now, being that it's nearly twenty past seven on a mild November evening, so I'm not going to see much until the morning. That said, my room is not on the Rhine. In fact, there's something a bit 'motel' about the place. When I arrived in reception and filled in the form I was then directed 'outside'. Whenever that word is mentioned my heart drops. I've just come from 'outside' I don't want to go back out there! Show me to the elevator, tell me the number of the floor. "That's room 608 on the sixth floor, sir." But oh no! My room is 'outside', follow the white wall and turn right and then walk down the stairs. It's like something out of No Country for Old Men.

In all honesty, it's a good room, although I hate – with a vengeance – rooms on the ground floor that open out onto the 'street' so to speak. The room doesn't open out on to any street, but it opens out into the fresh air, the outside world, not a hotel corridor, and I don't particularly like that because it means that people can, if they so wish, linger outside my hotel room in the early hours and, if the curtains aren't drawn, even peer in – and I don't want that.

There are paper-thin blinds that are see-through, meaning that if you're outside loitering with intent – and the aforementioned curtains are not drawn  – it is possible to look in at the person in the room. .

But outside of that problem it's not too bad. I felt mildly inconvenienced when the hotel receptionist didn't give me the WiFi details before packing me off 'outside' to seek out my room (I had to go back 'outside' to ask for the code) but other than that it's very nice. Roomy – now there's a good word – a decent bathroom, a mini bar, wardrobe, decent TV and so on. Nothing to complain about.

So I'm sitting here typing – make that 'writing', I'm not Jack Kerouac. Truman Capote once said of Kerouac's On the Road that it was not writing, but typing. He had a point. Kerouac did feed a huge roll of paper into a typewriter, took a load of amphetamines and then started 'typing'. The end result was On the Road. It's a book that I'll have to re-read, just like Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, which was excellent. I remember reading On the Road  in the same way that I read Salinger's classic, and not really paying much attention. That's either because it was 'typing' and not writing or because I was just going through the motions. One day, I'll pick it up again, but for now, and bearing in mind that I need an excuse for not reading it, I'll go with Capote's assertion that it's typing, not writing.

There are 52 television channels being piped into my room and only CCTV News can be understood by somebody who, shamefully, only speaks the English language. "Well, it's international, innit?" It's not big and it's not clever. CCTV News is some kind of Africa-centric television station, but it's good, a kind of African CNN or BBC World. There's also CCTV 9, which I'll check out later.

This is going to be a whistle-stop trip. Tomorrow evening I fly back home. I'll let you know how dinner went. My colleague, unfortunately, is stuck in a traffic jam some 200km from here so it looks as if I'll be dining alone.

Remembrance Sunday and a ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop with Andy...

Sunday was a far better day than Saturday (see previous post). There was no rain, but as Andy and I approached Botley Hill en route to the Tatsfield bus stop, there was fog, and while it looked rather spooky at times, it wasn't, and when we parked up the bikes and brought out the chocolate BelVita biscuits it was virtually non-existent.

Earlier, as I pedalled up Church Way – feeling a little weary it has to be said – I noticed something for the first time that's probably been there for years. In the churchyard at the top of the hill there was a flag pole flying the Union Jack. It's no big deal, I know, but there you have it; I don't recall ever seeing it before. And then, of course, it all clicked into place – it was Remembrance Sunday. Perhaps it flies every year at this time and I've simply never noticed it.

Bare trees at the green mean winter is on its way...

I pushed on towards Warlingham and when I reached the green I spied bare trees, but no sign of Andy. While winter had arrived, it was still very mild and after yesterday's rain, my gloves were still soaked through when I went to put them on this morning. Fortunately, the air was warm enough for me to leave them behind.

Checking my iphone I found a text from Andy. He'd picked up a puncture at Whyteleafe – broken glass on the road – but he was on his way and arrived around 0745hrs.

The ride to the bus stop was uneventful and when we got there we chilled out with tea and the aforementioned chocolate BelVita biscuits. They're like CoCo Pops in biscuit form – wonderful. And if, like me, you manage to drop half a biscuit in your tea, then you'll know that, in a sense, you get the feeling you're drinking chocolate-flavoured tea. Well, not quite, but let's move on.

We chatted about 'old times' and our early pre-blog rides to Westerham when we seemed to arrive there when it was still dark. This had a lot to do with meeting at 0700hrs at the top of Slines Oak Road, which is a good 15 minutes or so further on from the green. We spoke about walking to Oxted with flat tyres in the days prior to fixing punctures by the roadside (what were we thinking?) and we wondered why we no longer have the time to enjoy longer rides.

Home from home – the Tatsfield bus stop

We reminisced about a ride in April 2011 when we rode out later in the day with Andy's pal Richard and enjoyed a few pints of Harvey's Nuptial Ale (brewed to celebrate the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton). Although I hasten to add that WE weren't celebrating the Royal Wedding. We were celebrating the fact that we were in the Bricklayers Arms, opposite Longford Lake in Kent, enjoying the beer and the good weather. Click here for the full story!

There were plenty of Lycra monkeys on the road. I'd never seen so many and put it down to the mild weather. Long streams of them rode south on the 269 as we headed home and might have been part of an organised ride. There were bright purple signs nailed to poles along the road indicating two alternatives for riders: left for 'fun' and right for 'all other routes' – or words to that effect.

We parted company half way along the 269 as usual and vowed to ride again next week. Ahead of me another day of lolling around doing very little, followed by a drive to Lindfield where a Remembrance Day event was taking place.

Riding to mum's in the rain...

It's been a mixed bag on the weather front. While the temperatures have been mild, there has been rain and, as I walked home, without an umbrella, on a rainy Guy Fawkes night last week, wet leaves underfoot resembling soggy cornflakes, I began to wonder how the year has flown by. It's November, we're a month away from Christmas and I've still got loads of annual leave to take. It might have something to do with being constantly broke and in debt. In a sense I can't afford to take any time off as I don't have the money to spend on teashops and restaurants, and I have little in the way of motivation to 'do things around the house'. Besides, doing anything will require money that I simply don't have. So I work, I come home, I go to bed, I get up, I go to work, I come home, I go to bed... you get the general picture.

Cycling keeps me sane. Even though I only ride twice a week, I look forward to hitting the road and 'zoning out'. I've said it before: there's much more to cycling than pure exercise, which in many ways is the added bonus.

Mum on the doorstep...

The mild weather is strange. I have a Californian lilac in the garden in full bloom – in November! It normally flowers briefly in May and that's it, but mine is in full bloom. As I write this it's still dark outside so I can't see it, but I know it's there and when things brighten up it'll be good to see it. I've always admired the Californian lilac; I just wish I'd bought the one with the darker purple flowers, but it's a minor complaint.

When I woke up and looked out there was a puddle of water on the roof of next door's side extension, meaning it had been raining during the night. The lack of raindrops disturbing the puddle's mirror-like surface, however, was good news as it meant a dry ride bar the wetness kicked up from the road on my bike without mudguards.

Bare trees on Purley Recreation Ground, Saturday morning

Neither Andy nor Phil were riding today. Phil was shrugging off his sore throat while Andy had things to do. I could have simply stayed in bed, but there's never been any point in lying in and invariably I'm up by 0600hrs and sitting here writing something. Having switched off the alarm last night, I didn't get up until an hour later than usual and having peered out of the window I drifted downstairs, made some tea and continued to look out of the window at a rain-soaked garden, looking for signs of raindrops and finding none, although the potential was always there.

At one point I considered not going at all, based purely on the fact that it could rain at any time, but I had to get out of the house and by around 0800hrs I was in the open air, freewheeling down West Hill in what can only be described as a warm breeze. I was heading for mum's and enjoyed a very pleasant ride, which remained dry all the way.

Breakfast at mum's

After a boiled egg, some sliced bread and a cup of tea for breakfast I headed back. At first all was fine, but soon the heavens opened and within a short space of time I was soaked through. But I persevered, just like Mark Beaumont in The Man Who Cycled the World and eventually it didn't matter. It never does once you're out in it.

I reached home around 1000hrs or thereabouts. To be honest, I wasn't really minding the time as I usually do, I was simply riding, and whenever I leave the house later than usual, I tend to lose track of time. As I say, it didn't matter as the rest of the day was spent sitting around doing nothing and then driving aimlessly all the way to Horsted Keynes and back in the rain.

To the Tatsfield bus stop to scoff cake and biscuits!

Sunday 1st November 2015: The weather has turned. It's much colder out there now and most definitely time to wear gloves. Armed with two slices of mum's fruit cake I headed outside to the garage, hoping that I wouldn't find a puncture. The bike was fine, I unpadlocked it, donned helmet and the aforementioned gloves and wheeled the bike into the fresh air.

"I turn sideways to the sun, keep my thoughts from everyone."*

All was still and there was a mild fog in the air as I rode off in the direction of the green. Having not riden the bike much over the past three weeks, I found Church Hill a bit of a struggle. Andy was waiting at the green and we soon headed off towards the Tatsfield bus stop, vowing to save all our chat until we reached our destination – it helps to simply keep our heads down and get on with the ride.

At the bus stop the cake, the tea and the Belvita biscuits made an appearance and we chatted about various things, such as Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World, which has been name-checked a few times over recent posts. It's a great book and I can't wait to read The Man Who Cycled the Americas.

"Who are you fucking looking at?"

We moved on to discuss mobile phones and the fact that I'm now 'out of contract', which is a great position to be in: I no longer feel beholden to a phone company and can pick and choose who I take on. I've decided to go for a SIM-only deal, which means I only have to give 30 days' notice if I want to change to a different phone company. I'm fairly happy with 02 to be honest, but I'm now getting much more for less money. My current deal is 2GB of data plus unlimited calls and texts, all for under twenty pounds. Brilliant! Some people say I should simply upgrade, get a better phone, but what's the point? Why would I want to pay more for less? Because that's what would happen. I could upgrade, get an iphone 5 instead of my trusty iphone 4S, but why bother? My current phone works fine so why change it? And besides, I like unlimited calls and texts.

What really annoys me about technology is the constant upgrading. My computer, on which I am now writing this blogpost, is slowly becoming obselete. Certain things no longer work because I need to upgrade my operating system, which costs money. So eventually the capitalist bastards will catch up with me: my iphone 4S will somehow become useless and I'll be forced into a contract again OR I'll have to buy a new phone – for cash – to continue with a SIM-only deal. All very frustrating, but right now I'm happy with my deal and I still have my iphone, which I've looked after – no scratches, no broken screen.

And then, of course, I had my recent travels (to Chicago and Italy – see previous posts by scrolling down) to discuss.

Andy's racer near Godstone Green, Surrey last weekend

We sat at the bus stop, lobbing our teabags on to the small patch of grass in front of us and watching passing Lycra monkeys in between mouthfuls of fruit cake and Belvita biscuits. Life doesn't get much better. Last week Andy rode to Godstone Green on the racer. He said that coming back up the hill wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. My gears are still shit so I won't be visiting Godstone Green for a while yet. I wouldn't mind a ride to Westerham, though.

We eventually mounted the bikes and headed for home, stopping halfway along the 269 to have a brief chat before parting company. There were some very large, fierce-looking, horned beasts in the fields (see photograph). I took a few snaps and then we parted company.

I rode towards Warlingham Green feeling at peace with the world and looking forward to the rest of my Sunday back home.

* Lyrics from That's the Price of Love, a great New Order track.

Halloween – and I'm back on the road (to mum's)

I'd have to go back three weeks or so to remember when I last mounted the old Kona Scrap and went for a ride; and I'm in desperate need of a bit of exercise as a result. I'm just hoping, as I sit here in the conservatory, the day coming to life outside, that the bike is fully functioning and there are no flat tyres as that would scupper everything. The last time I looked, which must have been the weekend after I returned from Chicago (but was too jet-lagged to ride the bike) all was well, so here's hoping.

While I haven't been following the weather reports, I get the feeling that all will be well today. I've heard people saying it's going to be a good weekend, which might mean Sunday too.

As the year draws to a close – Halloween tonight being the first signpost of the impending year-end – I'm kind of looking forward to what we call NoVisibleLycra weather (overcast skies, leaves on the ground, frosty starts). During the week we had some rain and it's definitely got colder. There's talk of a severe winter, but then there's always rumour of extreme conditions, normally in the Daily Express.

Autumn in England – Purley Playing Fields this morning

There was some confusion, but not until I'd reached mum's house. I checked my iphone and there was a text from Andy asking where I was. My brow furrowed. But he can't make it Saturday, he says so in a text. Hold on, let's check. Oh, wait a minute. His text related to last weekend. Not good. I hate letting people down so I texted an apology followed by an explanation. Earlier Phil had also aborted due to a sore throat. He'll be out of action all weekend. Alright, mistakes happen, I thought, and at least Andy and I got out on a ride, even if we were both riding alone. There was always tomorrow, I thought, securing a slice of my mum's fruit cake for Andy tomorrow (and a slice for me too).

I had breakfast at mum's consisting of a boiled egg, fingers, bread, tea and freshly sliced orange and banana. Oh, and a slice of fruit cake as 'dessert'.

My ride was pleasant if uneventful. I followed the usual route (see previous posts about riding to mum's – here's one of them) and the weather was a little chilly on the way out, but less so on the return ride, which also followed the same route I normally take back from mum's (through Carshalton Beeches, into Wallington, cutting through the industrial estate, along a short stretch of the A23 heading south and then branching off left past Rockingham's and the Purley Playing Fields. The shot above, incidentally, was taken this morning around 0730hrs.

I reached home at just past 1000hrs and now the sun is shining and all is good with the world. My brother Jon's daughter Elizabeth is in hospital as I write this giving birth to her first baby. Congratulations all round.

Thick fog at Milan's Linate airport...

The 1300hrs Firenze to Milan train

Milan has two main airports: Linate and Malpensa. The former is generally regarded as the best because it is closer to the city centre. I tend to judge an airport by its facilities beyond passport control – that strange, perfumed world characterised by big fashion and accessories brands that only Indians living in Hounslow seem to buy. Whenever I travel,  I like to get the security bit out of the way, which means that if I arrive at the airport early, I get the best of two hours to chill out prior to flying off.

On Monday afternoon I arrived at Linate early having travelled by train from Firenze (Florence). The train journey from Firenze to Milano takes just one hour and 40 minutes and costs 50 Euros. I tried to take a train to Linate, but was told there was only a bus. It cost me five Euros – better than 55 Euros for a cab when I travelled from Linate to the city centre last Thursday (22nd October). The bus journey was short and took me around the back streets of Milan, past overgrown brownfield sites and graffiti-infected walls, but soon I arrived and started to look around for the BA check-in desk. I was too early to check in my bag so I kept it with me, losing my deodorant and shaving foam in the process – it happens all the time. So much so that I've recently started packing a bar of Dove soap because it lathers up well and can be a good alternative to shaving foam. I discovered that my allocated seat (14A) had been changed to an aisle seat further back. I moaned, but not a great deal and I was switched to seat 28A at the back of the plane. Later, however, when I reached the final checkpoint at gate B28, my seat was 'upgraded' to 21A.

Panino Giusto at Linate airport, Milan

Once through security after queuing 15 minutes for passport control, I was a free agent with time to kill. I never, ever entertain any of the shops – for a start I can't afford them and then there's that whole thing about simply not being interested. But I did fancy chilling out with a glass of red wine and something to eat and I was annoyed to discover that Linate didn't offer much in the food department.

I found a place that sold panini breads – Panino Giusto – so I ordered a City (a turkey breast panini) and a glass of red wine, which soon became two, followed by a cappuccino. There's nothing better than a glass of wine and something to eat along with a decent book to read. I'm making good progress through Mark Beaumont's excellent The Man Who Cycled the World so I was in heaven. Beaumont's book, as I've said time and time again in recent posts, is amazing and at this point in time, I've reached the bit where he arrives in Australia. I'm looking forward to his other book, The Man Who Cycled the Americas, which I'm sure will be just as good.

I walked to the gate where I noticed thick fog outside."There's always fog at Linate," said a white-haired, middle-aged businessman with a resigned smile. I wandered around until the flight was called. Outside, the fog was thick, but the BA flight wasn't cancelled. I'm used to spending an additional night in an airport hotel (click here for more information) but not tonight. Yes, there was a minor delay, but once on the plane the cabin crew spoke of a 'zero visibility take-off'.

Milan's Central Station – very impressive

The plane made its way towards the runway and I began to wonder how the pilot was managing to navigate his way there, let alone take off, but he did both and within seconds we were airborne and above the fog and were greeted by 'excellent flying conditions'. There were clear skies all the way to London Heathrow's Terminal 5.

In Milano...ranting and raving

A very pleasant and smooth British Airways flight from Heathrow Terminal Five took me into Milano's Linate airport this evening and after a hassle-free taxi ride to my hotel, the Best Western Hotel Galles in the centre of the city, I took a short stroll to the amazing central railway station, an incredible building if ever there was one. Go check it out! I bet Michael Portillo has been here.

View from room 571, Hotel Galles, Milan

Anyway, the station was a short walk from the hotel so I moseyed on down there and bought myself a ticket to Firenze - that's Florence if you were wondering. I'm on business tomorrow but then I'm on private time for the weekend. So, I bought my ticket and walked back towards the hotel with every intention of having dinner there, but on the way back I spotted a great little restaurant, so good I can't remember the name of it, but that might be something to do with the Chianti Classico and the weird lemon liqueur they served up (I think it's called Limoncello).

The meal was okay. Alright, it could have been better, but that wasn't the restaurant's fault, it was mine. Why? Because I should have opted for simplicity but didn't. I should have ordered a pizza and a glass of wine, but instead I opted for risotto to start followed by fillet of sole, except that it clearly wasn't a fillet. An embarassing moment occured. Or rather a panicky situation developed. Not as bad as it could have been. I could have choked on a fish bone. I might have needed the waiters to turn me upside down to dislodge a fishbone, but oh no, it wasn't that bad. I took a mouthful of fish only to discover that I had a mouthful of bones and needed to get rid of them pronto! The only option open to me was to spit them out into the napkin, which I did surrepticiously, and then guarded the napkin with my life. The last thing I wanted now was for a waiter to whisk the napkin away from me and empty its contents - spat out fish and bones - on himself or even another guest. Had something like that happened I would have died on the spot. But it didn't, fortunately. In the end, when nobody was looking, I put the offending napkin on a table recently vacated by four women. They looked like the sort of people who would spit a load of fish bones into a napkin.

I left a cash tip, but I should have walked out without giving them so much as a dime, but it wasn't their fault. The place was great, it certainly had a lot more atmosphere than the hotel restaurant. I'd travelled up to the sixth floor to check it out and found it seriously lacking in the atmosphere and general comfort department. It was drab, poorly-lit and, I'm afraid, considerably depressing. Fortunately none of the waiters saw me leave, so I was in the clear. I hadn't ordered anything.

Room 571, Hotel Galles, Milan

And now I sit on the ground floor, in the lobby area of the hotel, close to the bar, in what amounts to the Hotel Galles' business centre - a couple of workstations and a printer, but it's fine, honestly, so I'll crack on.

There are many things I should be writing about, but I might leave it as I need to get some sleep. A busy day tomorrow awaits me, but there is time to dish up a few awards. As you might imagine, travelling often means reading newspapers and newspapers always make me angry. Angry enough to put pen to paper, so I thought I'd introduce some awards.

1. Atrocity of the Week - this goes to India and four men arrested in Northern India over allegations that they burnt alive two low-caste children. One has to ask why, but sadly the answer is simply not good enough as it involved a group of men killing an eight-month old girl and her two-year-old brother by igniting gasoline poured through the windows of their home. What else can be said other than what bastards! "This is a fight among families, not about castes," said Hawahar Yadav, an official from the office of Harayana's chief minister. Oh, well that's alright, burn some more children, don't worry about us.

2. Nob Cheese of the Week - well it has to go to BMW driver Neil Waugh who blocked the way of two paramedics urgently trying to get to hospital. There is a word I would like to use to describe this man, but despite the fact that it is only four letters, it is offensive in the extreme as it rhymes with hunt and runt. Needless to say, Waugh has tried to weedle out of it saying he has been portrayed as the kind of person who would rather let someone die in an ambulance than move his car. Well, yes, that is because you DID just that, you, you, you... (fill in your own expletives).

3. Political Wanker of the Week - it has to be David Cameron for so many reasons, one being that he is David Cameron, but also because he is reportedly 'delighted' that his plan to cut tax credits has passed the House of Commons. He is also Political Wanker of the Week because he cannot stand up to the Chinese and tell them to fuck off. Rather than do that he's gone and involved them in our nuclear power supply. What a runt! Furthermore, he is clearly going to do nothing to save our ailing steel industry, which is also the fault of the Chinese. Sod the red carpet treatment, that Xi Jinping needs a slap! Innit!

I'm off to bed. Goodnight!

Flying home, but jet lag puts paid to any cycling

Despite the ease with which I entered the USA  – automated passport machines making the process very smooth and preventing any large build-up of queues – getting out proved a little tiresome. Having checked in I joined a long queue of people that slowly edged its way forward and took a good 30 minutes of shuffling before reaching a uniformed man checking everybody's documents.

Phil and Andy, Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 18 October 2015

Then there was the usual humiliation of being herded, like animals, through the scanner, with various uniformed bozos shouting orders as people kicked off shoes and unfastened belts and then, as if by magic, the perfumed environment of the magical world 'beyond passport control' appeared.

"Where's my sausage sandwich, chaps? Oh."

A pleasant flight followed and I reached home around 1000hrs on Friday morning, but jet lag put paid to any thoughts of cycling. It was abort texts all round on Saturday and Sunday, and today Phil and Andy rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard without me – where they ate all the sausage sandwiches.

Boats, baguettes, biscuits, bands

Somebody had spoken about an architectural boat trip along the Chicago River and being as I haven't enjoyed a boat trip for many a year, the thought of buying a ticket lodged in my brain, although that was just it, a thought. I knew that I'd probably never get around to it.

Skyscrapers and lots of them in Chicago

So I'm walking along North Michigan Avenue wondering exactly what to do - I had some free time having been working most of the morning - and my initial plan was nothing more than a stroll around the city and then, perhaps, a bite to eat somewhere. Until, that is, I spied a small kiosk and a man offering the aforementioned architectural cruise. At just $32 it seemed too good to miss so I booked myself on the next boat and off I went.

The boat chugged merrily along the Chicago River and a guide pointed out various buildings, or should I say skyscrapers of architectural significance, that might be of interest to us humble tourists. He was good. He certainly knew his stuff, but he spoke at such a speed I doubt if anybody's brain could take in the information fast enough. Mine certainly couldn't.

I made a note of all the bridges we cruised under: the Du Sable Bridge, a bridge under Dearborn Street, Clark Street, La Salle, Wells St, Franklin St, Grand Avenue, after which we entered the north section of the river, then Ohio St where the boat turned around and headed for the south section of the river. Kinzie St, Lake St, Randolph St, Washington Boulevard, Madison, Monroe, Adams, Jackson Boulevard, Van Buren, Congress, Harrison.

Our guide mentioned the Sears Tower, which used to be Chicago's tallest building, but not any more and while he did mention the name of the tallest building today, it was all so fast I've forgotten it. We passed the Civic Opera building where once, apparently, they planned to screen movies on the building's blank, river-facing wall, but it never happened as some local dignatory probably disapproved. We heard about how lots of companies were moving to Chicago and some were moving back to the city from the outer suburbs. As a result there was plenty of construction work going on.

To be honest, I wasn't that interested. I've never been the sort of person who listens too carefully to what guides have to say. I don't enjoy museums either, come to think of it. I'm not sure why that is, I just don't have the patience and I'd rather learn from a book. For me the thrill of the trip was simply being in a boat on the Chicago River, enjoying the sunshine, although there was a cool breeze.

The Chicago skyline taken from the boat

What did interest me was Lake Michigan. It's huge. I mean, it has horizons, like an open sea. But what I found amazing was that in parts it is over 900 feet deep. Now that's pretty amazing for a lake, I'm sure you'll agree.

Once back on dry land it was time to seek out somewhere for lunch and Toni Café and Patisserie fitted the bill nicely and it was inexpensive. There was something quaint and French about the place; it had marble-topped tables and a long glass counter displaying cakes and pastries. On blackboards high on the back wall behind the servery there were details of the food offering: sandwiches, baguettes and salads along with a range of hot beverages. This was the sort of place I'd been searching for; it was absolutely perfect. And while it was effectively a 'caff' it was licensed and sold some interesting wines.

I ordered a Pinot Noir (which came in glass mug, not a wine glass) but I like that sort of quirkiness, followed by cream of mushroom soup, a ham baguette, a cup of tea and a chocolate and walnut cookie. The tea and cookie was an afterthought, but because I loved this place so much I decided, having already paid my bill ($26) to stay for tea... and a decent cup of tea too.

Toni's Patisserie and Café. This place was the best ever...

Feeling suitably relaxed I wandered the city for a while. I travelled further down North Michigan Avenue, which became South Michigan Avenue and checked out a couple of bookshops  en route. In fact I wore myself out walking and by the time I returned to my hotel I was so tired I simply switched on the television, turned to channel 56 (BBC Americas) and watched Bear Grylls tackling the swamps of Sumatra and the wilds of Alaska.

I needed to be in the hotel at around 2030hrs so I could check in for my flight back to London using the hotel's business centre. The plan was to get a decent seat. But before that I figured dinner would be a good idea. I set my sights on a place called Spiagga - I think that's the right spelling. It took a while to find it. I knew it was out of my hotel, turn right and walk along North Michigan Avenue, but I couldn't find it at first. I'd almost resolved to find somewhere else to eat, but then I saw it. Or rather I saw the restaurant's name. It wasn't accessible at street level. I had to enter some kind of apartment building and take an escalator one flight before being guided into the restaurant, which seemed a bit poncy. Lots of waiting staff fussing around and being ultra polite. And then I realized why. This place was going to sting me for about $200! It got worse. The menus were 'tasting' menus and being as I know a bit about all this (having edited a fine dining magazine in the UK for four straight years and interviewed many a top chef) I can tell you now that 'tasting menus' are a big rip-off. Basically, a lot of little dishes in succession for an extortionate amount of money.

Foolishly I ordered a glass of wine ($16). Not too bad in the scheme of things, but did I really want to pay $195 for a tasting menu and be fussed around by a gaggle of poncy waiters all night? No I didn't! And I didn't want to part with my money either. To be honest, all I wanted was a main course dish, some bread and a glass of wine, maybe two glasses. I decided to make my excuses and leave. The original plan was to head back to Rosebud.

Downtown Chicago

Fortunately, Spiagga has a more conventional Italian restaurant across the hall and I decided to check it out. Certainly less expensive than the other place and not a tasting menu in sight. But while not as pricey, it was still annoying. The menu offered meals that were suitable for two people, meaning that whatever I ordered I was going to get enough for two. Why? Why can't I just eat a normal meal for one? But no, they were not that flexible. I ordered the charcuterie to start and a huge consignment of salami arrived. I was expected to eat it all. To be fair, I did, but then came the pork shoulder. It was reminiscent of the opening credits to the Hanna Barbera Flintstones cartoon when they go to a diner and a huge chunk of ribs lands on their car, toppling it over. I ate about half of it, had a couple glasses of Zinfandel and then paid up and left.

The food was alright, but it was still a bit pricey, and the only good thing was the waiting staff who had things covered. But in all honesty, I wish I'd gone back to Rosebud for a chicken Milanese. There's nothing worse than being confused by a restaurant - tasting menus, dishes that serve only two people and not one, it's all too much when all I wanted to do was eat and get back to my hotel. So I'm going to score Spiagga low, I'm afraid, and they can expect a similarly low score when I eventually get round to Trip Advisor.

Right now it's Thursday and I'm due to fly back this evening. I've checked in online, I've packed my suitcase and all I have to do now is check out of the hotel and leave my bags with the concierge until later. Then it's time to hit the streets of Chicago for one last time. I've really enjoyed it and I'll definitely return, hopefully in the not-too-distant future.

Postscript: I really enjoyed my visit to Toni's Patisserie & Café yesterday. So much so that I returned today (Thursday) for roughly the same lunch as before, except that I had a second 'glass' of Pinot Noir and instead of a cookie I had a pastry. While I was there somebody walked in and stole somebody's wallet. It was all so quick and he was gone. The police were there in minutes, but whoever did it got away.

Then, out in the streets, as I walked along East Washington, I heard some tremendous music. Jazz Funk stuff. The band was fantastic. So fantastic it brought a much-needed smile to my face. I had to go and listen to the music and was transfixed when I found the band further down the street. The bassist was tremendous and the brass players were on top of their game, so was the drummer who only had a snare drum resting on a milk crate and and upturned plastic bucket. They drew quite a crowd and I have to say that I didn't particularly want to stop listening; I could have stood there all afternoon. This was much more than busking, these guys could really play, so I left some money in the bucket and took a card.

If you live in Chicago, check out David C Walker Jnr on dav3130@gmailcom or call him on 001 773 809 0769. He's also on Facebook: Dwalker3130@facebook.com