A weird dream...

Strange and vivid dream last night involving motorcycles, a car park, a large European manufacturer, central London and a lunch appointment. It also involved people, but people who traditonally don't have bald heads, being inflicted with what I can only describe as a 'clown cut' – bald in the middle but with tufts of hair on the sides of their heads. Nick Knowles and Gary Lineker sported such haircuts and they also worked for the aforementioned large European manufacturer. I'm not sure what was going on with this part of the dream as the main focus was the motorcycling. Initially, two bikes were involved in the dream, but somewhere along the line my bike went missing, or something was wrong with it, I don't know, but I ended up with the other bike, which was totally different: it was squat and bulbous and had short handlebars. I had to ride this bike and my plan was to ride it to a restaurant somewhere in London where I would hand it back to its original owner. I found myself in a car park from where I had to ride the bike out on to the road. I managed fairly well, getting the hang of things pretty quickly, but at some stage I crossed to the wrong side of the road and on to the pavement, all without falling off, but I can't remember arriving at the restaurant. This was when Nick Knowles – or was it Gary Lineker? – turned up sporting their bald hair cuts. They worked for a large industrial conglomerate on the European mainland and for some reason we were all congregating close to the car park from where my motorcyling excursion had started. There was a woman in a navy blue suit who had one of those suitcases with a telescopic handle, but her handle was ridiculously long, let's say at least 20 feet, and I was charged with the task of pulling the case into where we were all standing while keeping the handle fully extended. I managed it, but the main thrust of the dream was the motorcycle, although there was, for some reason, a small car in that car park and I had something to do with it. At one stage I wandered down to the lower level (let's make it clear now, this wasn't a multi-storey, it was a badly-surfaced, mossy space of ground on a slant) and there I saw the car, doors open, sparks flying, something was wrong with it. I can't remember much more about the dream or why I had it.

St. Leonard's Church and the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

I had a broken night and strongly considered an 'abort' text, but in the end I fell asleep and when I woke up I discovered it was 0700hrs and not an hour earlier. I'd reset the alarm on Thursday night and hadn't switched it back to 0600hrs. A text was sent to Andy suggesting a meeting at 0800hrs. Yes, came the reply, but the ride would need to be shorter. Fine.

It was cold out and I was unable to find my balaclava, which seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. When I reached the bus stop Andy suggested we rode to St. Leonard's Church, which is not far away, but still provides us with a 12-miler, including the distance from our respective houses to the green. We headed off and soon we were there, unpacking the tea and biscuits and seeking some kind of shelter from the wind.

Andy's bike, Warlingham Green, 16th December 2018. Pic: Andy Smith

There is no cover at St Leonard's unless we stand under the gateway, so it's not an ideal destination in bad weather and not the sort of place to head for in the rain. That said, it's a good 'short ride' and a place I'm sure we'll be visiting again in the future. Not that we haven't been there before: we were there last week, and in the summer it's a great place to be. Prior to last week's ride, I think we've made a couple of visits to this sleepy English churchyard.

The subject, of course, was Brexit and the potential second referendum. We both agreed it was wrong as it would go against democracy, even if remaining in the EU, I said, was the best option for the country. Personally, I think a second referendum would be hilarious, but who knows what will happen? I have a rule and it is this: Think of the worst thing that could happen and that will be what happens. In the past I've predicted that the UK will vote to leave the EU, I've said that the US electorate will vote for Donald Trump AND I said we (the US and the UK) would invade Iraq – all three happened. And now I'm saying we'll leave the EU without a deal – a hard Brexit in other words, mainly because we won't have a second referendum, but Parliament will be unable to agree on the right course of action for the nation. I hope I'm wrong, for a change.

We left the church and headed home, parting at the green and promising to meet, on time, the following morning.

On Sunday morning I'm glad I went out, but I was still a little weary and could have done with a lie in. Still, I got out and when I reached the green I found Andy taking the photograph above. We opted for the slow way to the Bus Stop and en route discussed the lack of time for our rides. In days gone by we seemed to have more time, but now time has closed in; it's as if somebody turns over an hour glass and the sand runs through pretty quickly. We seem to reach our destination, drink our tea, munch our biscuits and then get up and head home. In the old days things seemed far more relaxed, which might have something to do with meeting at 0700hrs rather than 0730hrs. Perhaps that extra 30 minutes made all the difference.

Sunday was warmer than Saturday, but as we headed along Beddlestead Lane Andy's bike slipped and over he went. Black ice on the road. Andy was fine, but when I stopped behind him and placed my feet on the ground, it was very slippy, a bit like walking on an ice rink. Dangerous if any Lycra Monkeys were planning on racing recklessly down the hill, not that we saw many Lycra Monkeys this weekend. There was no ice in the middle of the road so we carried on, carefully, and eventually found ourselves on Clarks Lane. We turned left and free-wheeled the short distance to the bus stop. We didn't talk about Brexit.

On the return trip, Andy and I parted at The Ridge. I followed the off-road path to Warlingham, sailed along the Limpsfield Road and was soon home. I had a bit of a headache and spent the rest of the day lounging about, watching a movie and then making the Sunday roast chicken. I hit the sack around 2200hrs, but woke up just before 0300hrs and found it difficult to get back to sleep. I must have nodded off around 0500hrs and was then woken by my alarm – the sound of birdsong – at 0600hrs. Still sleepy, I reset the alarm for 0635hrs and then got up and made breakfast. It's now Monday morning and time to get ready for work. I've just enjoyed multi-seed porridge with grapes, blueberries, raspberries and sliced banana, plus a mint tea. I'm listening to the Today Programme, on Radio 4, and there's a lot of air time being given to Gaza, they're talking about the Israeli blockade, but who cares? The whole Israeli/Palestine thing is going to run and run, it'll never be solved, a bit like famine in Africa and homelessness here in the UK.

For video of Sunday's ride, including Andy's fall, click here.

To St. Leonard's Church, Chelsham...

Having only cycled once last weekend, I was determined to get out on Saturday. I was up at 0600hrs and noting no abort texts, I had my usual breakfast (porridge and tea) and then headed outside to the garage where I rolled out the bike, jumped on and headed for the green. I thought I was running late and texted Andy to forewarn him, but I was first to reach our meeting point, although Andy was close behind.

We could have gone anywhere, but Andy was short on time so we opted for St. Leonard's church in Chelsham and when we arrived we found a bench and set about the task of drinking tea and, of course, munching biscuits. I keep meaning to stop eating cake and biscuits, but this is probably the wrong time of year to start cutting back on such things; best, perhaps to make it a new year resolution, although I always find that I tend to break any resolutions I make. 

Bikes and tea on a wet bench in the St. Leonard's churchyard. Pic: Andy Smith

We chatted (as we do now and then) about Brexit. What a boring subject! Should there be a second referendum? Well, even though I'm a remainer, my answer is no, there shouldn't be: just remember in future that it's not worth consulting the general public on important matters like our membership of the European Union. And don't consult them on re-introducing the death penalty either, or bringing back the ducking stool or the birch. In essence, we haven't got a clue. Fine, rely on our telephone votes for I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here* and Strictly Come Dancing, but not on big political issues other than General Elections.

Sanderstead green

It's coming round to Christmas and our usual festive rides, although I won't be riding on Christmas Eve this year as, unusually, I'm running out of holiday – normally I take off most of December due to unspent annual leave – but this year I've only got three days left to take. Yes, I could take Christmas Eve, but I'm told we tend to get given a half day anyway, so it would be half a day lost, if you get my drift. But I'll be there for Boxing Day and our traditional ride to Woodmansterne Green, although it's touch and go whether we'll have any cake this year as mum has decided she won't be making any. So it's down to me, basically, and let me tell you: my cake-making skills are pretty good, so if I get around to it, the day might be saved. Hopefully, weather permitting, we'll ride over the weekend prior to Christmas and if Andy's not working in between Christmas and New Year then I'm sure we'll get a ride in. Either way, here's to the traditional NVL Boxing Day ride, we might even see Bon!

* Football manager Harry Redknapp crowned 'King of the Jungle'.

To Woodmansterne Green – for a jolly good soaking!

Andy texted me. He was tired and was taking the weekend off. He picked the right one. It rained most of Saturday and when I woke up on Sunday, I thought I was safe. Yes, there was a puddle on next door's conservatory roof (I say 'conservatory', it's more of an extension) but the puddle wasn't moving, there was no sign of any stair rods ruffling the calm, so I thought I'd take a chance. A trip to mum's was on the cards. Well, alright, there's a couple of boxes of chocolates round there and mum doesn't want to put on any weight. Cue yours truly, the human dustbin. Alright, I'd already been there on Friday, mum's 89th, and had more than my fair share, but you can never get enough of chocolates, can you? Especially if they're Belgian. To be fair, there was a choice of rides: go to mum's or simply ride to Woodmansterne Green. We opted for the latter.

Woodmansterne Green...

I had my usual breakfast: multi-seed porridge with grapes, blueberries and banana and a mug of decaffeinated tea and then I got dressed, made the tea and headed out to the garage. Outside it was wet, the leaves were on the ground, some wet like soggy cornflakes and others clung to the branches of the trees. The sky was a deep grey and it looked threatening, but there was no rain. The iphone said cloudy, but no rain, so I headed off, taking Barnfield to the junction with West Hill, heading up and then down the hill and stopping at at the bottom where I turned right on to the 269 and rode about 200 yards before turning left, following the road past Purley Oaks railway station and weaving around until I found the Purley Downs Road. I headed in the direction of Purley but crossed the A23 and rode towards Pampisford Road as the rain started, but nothing heavy. In fact, it was fairly warm, around 6-7 deg C, so it kind of didn't really matter. I'm glad I was out and not stewing at home, put it that way. Normally in these conditions I send an abort text, but there's good reason for that: the reason is simple, it's because I don't want to risk being caught out in the rain. That said, it was fine and I made my way along Pampisford and then on to Foxley Lane where they're knocking down a lot of the large houses that have been there for years to make way for flats, huge blocks of them in various stages of development.

I rode past the garden centre where there was a huge inflatable Father Christmas towering over the mini roundabout and pushed on towards the lavender fields where I turned right and powered – yes, powered – along the road that leads to Woodmansterne Green. When I got there I found Bon sheltered under the gateway to the church, a place where he, Andy and yours truly sheltered way back in 2010. It wasn't raining on my arrival so I beckoned him on to the green where we set up camp under a huge oak tree. We chatted about this and that, mainly Brexit, and then parted company around 0900hrs. That was when it started to rain again. I headed back towards the fields and the cold air hit my face. By the time I reached the bottom, the rain was in full swing. So much for cleaning the bike last weekend, it would soon be muddy again, I thought, as I went off-road and the rain started to pour down. Somewhere just before reaching the mini roundabout overlooked by the huge inflatable Father Christmas, I rejoined the road and soon found myself on Foxley Lane again, looking at the various construction sites: luxury homes, retirement homes, they were all here (or about to be).

Back on Pampisford Road and the rain still fell hard. I was soaked through. Fortunately I was wearing a Peter Storm padded anorak, which kept me relatively warm. It was only from the waist down that I was wet. My jeans were soaked through, but it wasn't really that cold so I wasn't in expletive territory. I remember once cycling along the A23 heading for Purley from Coulsdon and it was not only raining but cold. I think I swore all the way home just to maintain some kind of sanity. Today, it wasn't like that. I just plugged away, knowing there was nothing else for it other than to get home and take off my wet clothes. Soon I was on the Purley Downs Road again, hanging a left into Norman Road, passing Purley Oaks railway station, taking a right turn on to the 269 and then braving the south face of West Hill, which, as always, I managed with ease.

At just before 1000hrs I was back home, the bike was in the garage and I was keying the front door. Soon I was in the warmth of the house, shoes off, Peter Storm anorak off and wet jeans off too. I found a clean (and dry) pair and then made a Marmite sandwich while I watched the Andrew Marr Show. Tony Blair was on and he was making a lot of sense. He wants a second referendum and for good reason: he believes that the deal on the table, known as 'Chequers,' isn't a good deal because it doesn't satisfy those who voted to leave the European Union or, for that matter, the likes of the remainers. Blair says there should be one more referendum so that people can make the right decision based on the facts (and not the lies that led up to the last referendum). He said that if the leavers get their way a second time, he will accept the vote and get on with it. But there are all sorts of reasons for not having a second referendum, the main one being that we're going away from 'democracy' and that could prove fatal for the nation. It's certainly going to be an interesting few days, but one thing's for sure, Parliament won't be saying yes to Theresa May's agreement, which has, incidentally, been passed by the European Commission today – it's a done deal in other words, and May believes it's the best for the country. But many think it's nothing of the sort and will vote accordingly in what is being called 'the meaninful vote'.

Pre-ride ramblings...

There are two early morning worries in my life: one is opening the living room door and finding a wild animal standing there; another is discovering a Brazilian wandering spider when I open a packet of bananas. So far, the wild animal worry is the only one to become reality – I once found a pigeon in the living room. He must have fallen down the chimney. Nothing worse than a pigeon with Father Christmas pretensions. Fortunately, then, no exotic arachnids.

It's 5 degrees outside and a cold spell is promised, but not today. Next week the weather gets nasty apparently, so I'd better dig out the balaclava and the warm jumper. Right now it's warm in the house and I'm listening to Morning Phase by Beck, arguably one of two of the most laid back albums around, the other being Sea Change, also by Beck. Perfect for 0600hrs.

In my dream, I was out there.

Dreams. I've had a few strange ones of late, but sadly they leave only a dim memory of what happened, so dim that there is but a residue, nothing more, when I regain consciousness, today at 0535hrs. I remember bits: waiting, with a work colleague, Martin, for a woman who had come to meet us, somebody we both dealt with in the course of our jobs, but I had not met her before. We were in some kind of venue, possibly a pub, but who could tell? We looked out on the road, we came out of wherever we were and spotted her walking a few yards behind another work colleague, who, for some reason was vaping, spewing clouds of badly scented smoke everywhere. The next thing we knew, the woman was a man and we were interviewing him for a job, which was probably his for the taking, but we had to deal with a few formalities. There was more, but I can't remember any of it, not yet at any rate, perhaps when I'm on the bike and heading for the green, something will jog my memory.

During the week I had a strange dream whilst on the precipice of nodding off, and then waking as a result. I was alone in the sea, roaring foamy waves coming at me, fast, furious waves rolling towards me, one after the other, never a break from the fury, and land nowhere in sight. I turned round and behind me was exactly the same. Frightening. Probably something to do with watching a video of Kate Silverton swimming back to shore from an inflatable boat off the choppy coast of Cornwall.

It turns out that I had two punctures last week, not just one, so I didn't go for a ride on Saturday, more's the pity. I could have forced myself out into the garage around 0600hrs to fix it, but no, too much of a rush first thing in the morning, so I aborted and later discovered I had two punctures. I originally fixed the bike last weekend, around 4pm on Saturday, but by the morning it had deflated and all week it's been that way in the garage, waiting to be fixed, but after a day at work, who wants to go into the garage and fix a puncture, not at this time of year, stuck out there in the dark wishing I was inside. So I fixed it yesterday and discovered that the puncture I'd fixed last week wasn't the problem, I had two to fix, which I did, and hopefully all is well out there. I'm hoping to God that the tyre hasn't deflated as that will mean another 'abort' text to Andy.

Morning Phase continues, the track Blue Moon – they're all good. I first heard Beck's Sea Change in Barista Parlour in Nashville and that led me to discover Morning Phase; they're both similar albums: laid back, smooth, calming, evocative of something, but I know not what, possibly simply great music to listen to around nightfall when the shops are still open, it's getting dark outside and I'm in a coffee shop, possibly one of the last customers of the day, drinking tea and munching on a pastry while reading a book, possibly waiting for a train, who knows? But Beck is playing Something Unforgiven and all is good in a strange but expectant way.

It's almost time to make the tea and prepare to head outside to the garage, but Beck is making things very comfortable here in the living room, although my tea has gone cold as Wave comes out of the speakers, it's worth hanging around for, just for a minute or two, get into the mood of the song, its dramatic strings and haunting, echoey vocal. As I listen I'm reminded of that terrifying dream of the waves and how isolated I felt out there in the rolling surf. I'd better make the tea.

The puncture was still fixed when I checked the bike, having made the tea, packed the rucksack and opened the garage door. It was solid. I rode to the green where, last night, Warlingham's Christmas lights had been officially switched on. The ground was muddier than usual because of the fairground attractions and the many people enjoying the delights of the small fair.

We headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the long way, and chatted about the First World War and how, these days, low respect for the political classes and the establishment generally would probably mean no take-up for a 'call to arms'. Well, I wouldn't fight if Bojo or Gove or Raab or Cameron or Mark Francois suggested I should, especially when I consider the after-care given to wounded soldiers. We hear so much about ex-soldiers on the streets, homeless, and mental health issues. No, thanks.

The weather was good, a little cold on the way out, but bright sunshine and blue skies as we packed up and headed home. I stopped at a garage close to the green and jet-cleaned the bike. Andy and I had parted company at The Ridge and instead of using the off-road path – I didn't want another puncture – I used the road, but in all honesty, I'd rather have a punctured rear tyre than a punctured lung.

What a calamity!

In the same way that it was obvious from the word go that we'd go into Iraq, and that Donald Trump would be President of the USA, AND that we'd vote out of Europe, it's pretty damned obvious that we're heading towards crashing out of the European Union without a deal. My theory, or formula, is that all you have to do is look at whatever the worst case scenario might be (on anything) and that's what will happen: Iraq, Trump, Brexit...you name it.

Theresa May's Brexit deal is being rejected by Parliament – or it certainly looks that way – and now, right now, Ministers are resigning from her cabinet. I suppose the big question is: who cares? Who cares whether these sub-standard politicians resign from the government or not? Esther McVey? Dominic Raab? Michael Gove? I can't understand Raab's resignation; he took over from David Davis as Brexit Secretary, negotiated the deal with Barnier and then resigned because he wasn't happy with his own negotiation. Gove, Raab, McVey, they're not exactly heavyweights, are they? I mean, a lot of them, Gove included, have already been disgraced in some way or other. Think Liam Fox. I can't remember the exact details, but a couple of years ago he was embroiled in some form of sleazy activity, he kept taking some bloke with him wherever he went and at the time he was defence secretary. How come he's now in the cabinet? Similarly Gove. Look at the way he stabbed Bojo in the back in a sorry attempt at becoming the leader of the party (and, therefore, the Prime Minister). And let's not talk about Bojo, we all know what a complete buffoon he is, and who really cares if he was stabbed in the back by Gove?

I voted to remain in the European Union mainly because I think it's better for the country to remain part of Europe – our biggest market and right on our doorstep – but thanks to another idiot (David Cameron) we were given an 'in-out' referendum which basically didn't take into consideration the complexity of the situation. Cameron easily goes down as the worst British Prime Minister in history; he will be remembered for selling his country (our country) down the river for the sake of his own party, purely because he was worried about UKIP taking away votes from the Conservatives.

Now we're in a very dodgy position: if, as is likely, May's deal will be rejected by Parliament, we're left with few options: no deal (now highly likely); a general election (enter Jeremy Corbyn) or a second referendum (meaning, I'd imagine, plenty of civil unrest). That last option sounds like fun, it'll be like 2011 all over again, perhaps worse! I don't know about you, but another general election? And as for 'no deal', well, who knows what would happen.

The problem with a general election is simple: Jeremy Corbyn. Who wants an extreme left winger running the country, getting rid of our nuclear deterrent, increasing taxes and so forth? That said, if we did have general election and one of the parties campaigned on remaining in the EU it would eliminate that problem of 'going against the wishes of the people' – but the only party likely to run a campaign like that is the Liberal Democrats, not that there's anything wrong with the Lib Dems, at least they have a decent politician at the helm, Vince Cable.

In a way, the prospects are quite exciting: rioting, motorways turning into lorry parks, an extreme left wing government in power, an aggressive general election, bring it on!

My view is that a general election is probably the best way forward, as much as I don't particularly want one, but it would be even funnier if one of the parties ran on a remain ticket and won. Although, to be honest, I think we need a deal. A no deal Brexit would be catastrophic.

Anyway, what can I do? Nothing. I'll just have to wait and see what transpires.

No cycling this weekend...

Monday 12 November: Last week, when I noticed I had a rear wheel puncture, the plan was to fix it, but what with one thing or another – mainly the thought that I didn't want to be in the garage, in the cold, after a day at work – it gradually dawned on me that I wouldn't be fixing that puncture and that I'd have to abort Saturday's ride. That's exactly what happened, and in many ways it's a shame because the weather was fine. I eventually fixed it around 4pm and to be honest, as I sit here, listening to Beck (something I haven't done for a while) I get a sneaky suspicion that it's still going to be a problem. Why? Because while I pumped it up to be rock hard, when I checked it on Sunday it appeared softer, meaning I either didn't do it properly or there's another puncture I hadn't picked up. Naturally, I blame the off-road track on the 269, which I've been using a fair bit, but let's be realistic, it could have been anything.

Sunday was characterised by one thing: rain. Through the night on, I think, Friday/Saturday, it really hammered down; and then on Saturday/Sunday, the same: roaring rain. When I woke at around 0600hrs it was still pelting down. I looked out of the window on to next door's conservatory roof and I could see stair rods creating a small puddle of their own making. Perhaps prematurely I rattled off another abort text and then jumped back into bed. Naturally, later, the weather looked fine and I started to wish I'd not aborted, but that feeling was short-lived as there were sporadic showers throughout the day, leaving roads and pavements with a damp sheen.

It's now Monday morning, 12 November, and I think I'll sneak out and check the bike later. My hunch is it'll be softer than yesterday. This won't necessarily jeopardise next week's ride, because it might be a slow puncture that, perhaps, I can deal with at the Bus Stop – or wherever we go. Suddenly, however, I noticed that my bike's 'honeymoon' period was over: it's looking a bit bedraggled. For a start the chainguard needs replacing and then I need to buy some touch-up paint and give it a decent clean. Once those jobs are done I'll be happy again. I can't afford to leave it as then things nose-dive into a situation where there's always something wrong with the bike. This week, I'll check out Evan's Cycles, see what they have to offer. I know I can get the paint on eBay, so perhaps that's the best bet. As for the chain guard, I'll have to see what's out there; I get the feeling that they're pretty standard, but again, we'll see.

Postscript, 14 November 2018: I still have a puncture.

To Westerham for breakfast, the slow way to the bus stop...and a puncture!

Tuesday 6th November: The weekend's weather was good, which is good news in November. We met at the Green and decided to head to Westerham and the Tudor Rose for breakfast. It was a repeat of last weekend's ride, except that I didn't have any decorating to do when I got back. We even had the same food order: sausage sandwich, scrambled egg on toast with mushrooms and a pot of tea. The restaurant was sparsely populated. I've noticed a regular customer and the rest of us were cyclists, although we were the only ones without Lycra.

Tudor Rose Tearooms in Westerham, Kent, Saturday

The ride down had been good, nothing to report, but good nonetheless. Although, having said that, I was forced to make a detour – down Briton Hill Road and up Sanderstead hill (the 269) – due to some sort of altercation at the top of Church Way. Two blokes plus one bystander were involved. There was a parked people carrier and two people, one I'm assuming was the driver, all wearing track suits, pushing each other around and I figured that I didn't want to get involved in any trouble at such an ungodly hour, so I diverted and had the pain of the hill to deal with before reaching the roundabout.

The delay was miniscule, but it was a little annoying.

We rode along the 269 to Botley Hill and then took a left at the roundabout along Clarks Lane, sailing down the hill and into the northern Kent market town, both pleased that we'd riden to Westerham two weeks in succession.

On Sunday, I felt a little tired, but I got up, had breakfast and then headed for the green again. This time we opted for the Tatsfield Bus Stop – the slow way. Always tiresome, but eventually we got there thanks to a positive mental attitude, a phrase Andy had used to drum up some enthusiasm in me; quite honestly I was thinking of a short run to the cottage via Botley Hill, but in all honesty, I'm glad we did it and, as always, it wasn't that bad.

We sat at the bus stop watching bad drivers wheel-spinning on the right turn out of Approach Road and then, having flicked our teabags on to the patch of grass in front of us, we jumped on the bikes and headed for home. Andy parted at The Ridge and I rode the off-road path to Warlingham. Perhaps I should have stuck with the road. Why? Because later in the day I found myself in the garage. I must have gone out there to bring in the step ladder (there was a small hole in the ceiling that needed filling and painting over). I had to move the bike and when I put it down I noticed a dull thud rather than the usual bouncy one associated with a fully inflated tyre. I couldn't believe me eyes. Only Saturday I'd been bragging to Andy that it's been two years and no punctures. Never tempt fate, that's all I can say.

Inside the Tudor Rose Tearooms – perfect!

* The date at the top of this post is wrong. I penned this report early in the morning on Tuesday 6th November.

To Westerham for breakfast – and then a weekend of painting

Warlingham Green around 0730hrs on Saturday

Wednesday, 31 October: On Sunday morning I walked across Warlingham Green in the cold. There was wind and rain and it was very unpleasant. I felt thankful that I aborted as I knew a soaking was on the cards. I was headed for the Co-op as I'd run out of milk. I was home alone and had been since last Thursday, although, as I write this, the wanderers have returned and normal living has been resumed. I don't like being alone. It's fine in a hotel room, when I'm away on business, because I'm sharing the hotel with many other people, but being alone in the house simply doesn't feel right. When I'm alone in the house, I don't like going to bed, but I know I have to so I lock up the house in the normal manner, switching off lights as I do so, and then make my way upstairs where I have a choice of three beds. It's a no-brainer: my bed is the best, so I climb in, switch on Radio Four, listen to the 10 o'clock news and fall asleep, waking later in the night and noting the radio has switched itself off. I always leave the bathroom light on, mainly because, since childhood, I prefer to have a light on at night.

The weather is cold and while there's nothing wrong with our central heating, something is definitely up: one of the four nights I was alone I went downstairs to check it out and found it was off, so I switched it back on and returned to bed. On another night I slept almost fully-clothed, even with the heating on, it was freezing.

The reason I was trudging across the green around 0800hrs, possibly a bit later, was that I had aborted the ride late on Saturday night. The reason was simple: I'd committed myself to decorating the living room, a job that needed doing. I'd started around lunch time on Saturday having visited B&Q and buying the paint and brushes and white spirit. I sanded and washed the paintwork and then made the decision to go straight for the ceiling, a job I was dreading.

From Saturday through Monday I listened virtually non-stop to Radio Four, listening to a dramatisation of DH Lawrence's Women in Love and a spoof of The Archers, The Wainwrights, which was one of the funniest things I've listened to in a long while. Mix in Woman's Hour and a few comedy shows, including Just a Minute, and you'll get a fair idea of my extended weekend.

Andy at the Tudor Rose, note pot of tea...

A ride had been on the cards. Having spent a week in Tokyo, I had missed two weekends of cycling, so I vowed to go out on Saturday. With nothing much to rush home for I suggested breakfast at the Tudor Rose in Westerham so Andy and I got our heads down and rode there. A sausage sandwich, scrambled egg with mushrooms on granary toast and a pot of tea was most welcomed. The ride had been good, although I did lose half of my chain guard. It just snapped and fell off. Now I need a new chain guard and some touch-up paint for the frame.

The breakfast was good, it always is, but the ride home loomed large and neither of us wanted it. Riding out of Westerham is hard. It's a long hill all the way to Botley and we hate it. Who wouldn't? But when we reached the top, Andy took The Ridge home and I cycled along the off-road path of the 269.

It's weird arriving home to an empty house, but on this occasion it wasn't just returning to an empty house, it was also the prospect of decorating the living room that was nagging at me. Let's be honest, I didn't have to do it, but I'd been thinking about doing it for weeks, it seemed so straightforward. However, the prospect of doing nothing was shouting at me too. I could have a lazy weekend, go and see mum, then, perhaps, a stroll to Sutton, a browse of Waterstone's and then a mint tea and a cake in Caffé Nero. And who know's what after that? But the decorating nagged and nagged so, after visiting mum, I headed for B&Q in Sutton and bought all the stuff I needed: a huge tub of brilliant white Matt emulsion, two large tins of 'Timeless' – a colour that looks very much like brilliant white, but isn't – a few brushes, white spirit, sandpaper and a roller.

Scrambled egg, mushrooms and granary toast at the Tudor Rose, Westerham

Even when I got home I didn't want to do it, but I pushed myself and by the close of play on Saturday, I'd sanded and washed the skirting board. On Sunday, the prospect of painting the ceiling hit me hard, but I did it and then, on Monday, it was time to paint the walls. My aim was to finish by Monday evening, but I was about a wall and a third out and had to take Tuesday off to complete the task. It looks good, if I say so myself and now, of course, I have caught the bug. I'm viewing rooms as flights: the bathroom is a short haul flight to Dusseldorf, while the living room was most certainly long haul, like my recent trip to Tokyo. The hall way is probably akin to a flight to Greece or Moscow, not quite a long haul, but borderline. Anyway, it looks like the hall is next, but I'd rather do it alone, meaning I'd rather not have others in the house, it's far easier when I'm alone and don't have other people saying "you missed a bit" and so forth. It's also nice to listen to the radio. Actually, it's quite relaxing painting the house. The key is to keep the house well ventilated. On Sunday, I didn't bother opening any windows and ended up with a bad headache. On Monday, all the windows were open and it made a big difference. Another key is to keep things tidy, clean up as you go along and wipe up any paint spills immediately.

Decorating finished! A great job, if I say so myself...

The living room looks good and I feel good as a result.

Andy did go out on Sunday, but only for a short ride and he escaped a soaking, he told me. We're both on for a ride next weekend.

In Tokyo...Day Six – at Narita Airport

Checking out of the hotel and the journey to Narita airport was simplicity in the extreme: a short walk to Roppongi's metro station and then a train to station number 17 (Roppongi is station number 4). I was back on the Hibiya line all the way to Ueno and from there I followed signs towards the Skyliner train (Tokyo's equivalent to the Heathrow Express). I purchased a ticket and was allotted seat 11a in coach three – all the seats on the Skyliner are reserved and details of my reservation is on the ticket itself. This didn't stop me sitting in seat 3a in coach 3 and having to get up when the real occupant showed up at the next station. I apologised and shuffled along the coach to my rightful seat and then spent the rest of the 45-minute journey looking at the passing fields and houses as the train sped along the track towards the airport.

I could have flown to Vladivostok and taken the train...

At the airport, security was straightforward. It was so simple it was almost pleasurable. I unloaded my lap top in the usual manner, placed it in a tray (a very small tray compared with those you get elsewhere in the world). Nothing untoward happened with the scanner and soon I was heading for a brief stop at passport control. It all went smoothly and suddenly I found myself in the awful world that exists beyond passport control, where all the boring brands are waiting and where everybody thinks you're a wealthy bastard. I found myself getting irritated by this thought, I hate rich people at the best of times and I hate the big brands too – the perfumes, the watches, you get the drift. They didn't have the sports car raffle, which seems to be a permanent fixture at Gatwick airport in the UK. Again, the assumption is that everybody pines for an Aston Martin DB9 or something similar. Not me. Once you're in the driving seat, it doesn't matter what car you're driving as all you can see is a dashboard, a windscreen and the bonnet (and the road ahead). Give me the money instead and I'll buy a house on the south coast and paint it white and then just sit there looking at the sea – that's all I want from life: a beach, a sea breeze and a push bike.

I'd love to go on the rampage in Duty Free, smashing bottles of whisky and perfume and stamping on expensive watches, throwing Toblerones at the police, but of course this is little more than a fantasy, but one I would like to become reality one of these days. It's probably worth going to prison for, but I wouldn't want to pay back any money for my blatant, intentional and highly enjoyable criminal damage.

I ordered chicken with rice and noodles at the airport – the food offering at Narita leaves a lot to be desired, or is it something to do with the fact that I'm becoming a bit of philistine, expecting to find a Starbucks so I can enjoy a large mint tea and a piece of cake? I've just added another tea and a banana to my breakfast. The chicken noodles were consumed in Café Avion, or something like that, and the additional tea and banana in Bowl Bowl, a larger establishment. Café Avion was a little too cramped for me; Bowl Bowl was bigger and brighter and I sat at one of their Formica tables enjoying a last bit of relaxation before heading for the gate – gate 72.

That whole idea about taking the long way home: a boat to Vladivostok then the Trans Siberia to Moscow, another train from Moscow to Brussels and then the Eurostar to London took on a whole new life when I noticed that it was possible to fly from Narita to Vladivostok at 1540 with S7, a Russian airline. I was looking over from a galleried walkway at passengers waiting to board my flight, BA0006 to London Heathrow, when I was approached by an old man who was conducting a survey on why people travel to Tokyo. There was link to Tokyo 2020 when Japan hosts the Olympic Games. He ran through various questions and then gave me a tiny plastic model of Mount Fuji.

What never fails to annoy and unnerve me about flying is that whenever I head for the airport, the weather starts off fine, but gradually deteriorates as my departure draws closer. This morning as I sat on the Skyliner looking out at the Tokyo suburbs that whizzed past me, there was sunshine and relatively cloudless skies, but as time progressed the cloud thickened. Very, very annoying especially when a 12-hour flight awaited me. I'm glad to be heading home, but I wish I was there now and didn't have to bother with the flight bit. And when I arrive back in the cuntry, of course, I'll have to deal with the racist cab drivers or the crappy cab drivers who can't drive to save their lives or the useless cab drivers that have been known to take their customers to the wrong airport, not forgetting the taxi drivers that stop in the fast lane, get out of their cars and proceed to kick the tyres of their taxis before jumping back in and simply going the wrong way to the airport. Brexit has made all the racists who voted for it a little bolder. They are quite happy nowadays to express their views and always make the assumption that we're all racists at heart, without stopping to question that other people are not scumbags like them. Anyway, I must not work myself up into a lather over the issue. 

In Bowl Bowl, Live and Let Die by Paul McCartney and Wings comes on the sound system. "You used to say live and let live (you know you did, you know you did, you know you did...). But in this never-ending world in which we live in..."

Perhaps that's what I should do: live and let live. 

The flight home was smooth. Smooth, but long – 11 hours and 40 minutes to be precise. We chased the sun for a while, across Siberia, but then the night time caught up with us until we were almost in the UK when we were briefly greeted by the early evening twilight. During the flight, to pass the time, I watched Incredibles 2 and Unsane, which starred Claire Foy. Both movies were good. I then watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, not to mention an episode of Family Guy. The rest of the time I spent at the back of the plane, standing up, stretching my legs and chatting to the cabin crew, munching the occasional mini Fudge bar, a couple of chocolate digestives and a Miniature Hero Mars Bar. So much for healthy eating.

The flight was late taking off and we reached London Heathrow Terminal 5 just before 7pm – we should have landed at 5.20pm. I thought about a taxi, even called my racist cab company, but there was nothing doing. The only options were a black cab or the train and I knew how much the former would cost me so I headed for the Heathrow Express, took the Circle Line to Victoria and then the East Grinstead train, getting off at Sanderstead where a much needed lift awaited me. 

I slept well from around 10.30pm until 6am, got up, had breakfast and then thought I'd finalise my blogposts on Tokyo, this one being the last.