The wrong mindset...

The ride to Tatsfield village was par for the course. Fortunately, there was no rain, although I half expected it at any moment. The skies were grey but there was hope as I could see the sun, or rather the effects of the sun, illuminating the heavens and that meant (perhaps) that I wouldn't get a soaking, not on the outward journey at any rate.

It was Sunday and I'd missed a ride on Saturday for no reason other than my own indecisive nature. I even got ready and was standing around in my cycling gear until around 0900 when I decided I wouldn't bother. What a travesty! A perfectly decent day and I simply didn't go out. I should have struck while the iron was hot and left the house around 0800 or even 0700. 

Tatsfield village pond in the summer time

On Sunday, then, I rode to Tatsfield village to meet Andy and the weather held out. When I reached Sheree's I noted Andy's bike was already there – I spotted his bike parked outside, but to be fair, I had already seen the orange forks of the Kona Blast from a long way off. Judging by the fact that his latte was untouched, however, I knew he hadn't been there too long. As for me, well, I was running a little late, possibly around 15 minutes, and noting that Andy's coffees were untouched I knew I'd still managed to keep a reasonable time. I wasn't slacking in other words. Or, to be clearer, I hadn't really lost any of my 'fitness' even if I have been fretting about it for some time. I'm always fretting about it – and other things too. I'm a worrier and I wish I wasn't one, but I am. I keep things on my mind, silly, irrelevant things in the greater scheme of things, when I should confine them to the waste basket, and there lies my problem. There are many things on my mind, constantly, and I never seem to resolve them, they just stay there, nagging away at me. In short, I need to resolve things. But let's make no mistake: these are what is known as 'first world problems', which is shorthand for 'none of my problems have any real substance when compared to those, for example, of the good people of Gaza who are being shelled by the Israelis and there are people much closer to home who have bigger problems than I do, including my own sister, so let's get that straight from the get-go.

My current big fret is how to maintain a level of fitness during the winter months when the rain will inevitably stop play. There are many solutions:-

• Buy a bike trainer from Evans Cycles, hook up the old Kona to it and enjoy hours of cycling in the garage. But first, fix the Kona's rear wheel.

• Join a gym and use their exercise bikes AND combine with a swim (get that upper body back to what it used to be).

• Rely entirely upon riding the Norfolk Nobbler during the week, rain or shine, light or dark. Combine this with more walking, i.e. from Sanderstead to Purley in the mornings and from Purley to Sanderstead in the evenings.

• Buy an exercise bike and put it in the garden room (it's not a conservatory).

Well, starting from the top, Andy's preferred solution to my problem is the trainer from Evans Cycles. I'm not keen on this option because I don't fancy being the garage, alone, working out in the cold. In all honesty, I'd rather ride the Nobbler fives times a week and be done with it.

Joining the gym appeals as I'd be in the warmth on a decent exercise bike and then I can have a swim afterwards and a hot shower. But will I keep up the hard work? Or will I simply get bored and eventually find myself forking out £40 a month for nothing?

Relying 100% on the Nobbler is the cheapest option as there's no financial outlay; I'd just have to grin and bear a bit of cold and rain should it occur and that shouldn't bother me too much as the ride lasts around 35 minutes and surely I can take a soaking for that minuscule length of time? There are downsides, like would I feel like doing it in the dark after a hard day at work? Probably not, but that's where mindset comes in to play. I've simply got to bite the bullet and stick to it rather than wimp out and do nothing other than fret about not doing any exercise.

Buying an exercise bike and putting it in the garden room appeals, but a decent one will set me back a few bob and I've never got any money just floating around.

So, all of the above (and other matters I won't bore you with) are constantly harassing my mind, normally when I want to get a good night's sleep – something that eludes me a lot these days – even if, of late, I've taken to sleeping in outer space with BBC Radio 3 for company. This has worked a treat and only came about when I decided that I didn't want to catch a heavy cough and a cold which had invaded the household. I speak to you today as somebody who has managed to avoid illness through sleeping in a different room to the person infected and (I'd like to think) my daily intake of oranges, grapes, blueberries, bananas and an orange sliced into segments, not to forget Omega 3 fish oil and multivits too. It all seems to have done the trick and even if I've felt a sore throat brewing now and then – the tell-tale sign of coming down with a cold and a cough – I've somehow managed to avoid it. That said, I mustn't get smug about it.

Back to today's ride and when I arrived at Sheree's I ordered myself a tea and went to join Andy who, as I said earlier, had a latte and shot of espresso too. "I'm knackered," he told me and I can imagine he was considering the amount of mileage he puts in on a daily basis using his garage-based trainer and taking into account all the other things going on in his life that add stresses and strains to his existence.

We chatted about hills and cycling-related stuff and Andy quite rightly said it's all about mindset, it's about not feeling miserable and despairing as you reach the bottom of the hill, it's about, possibly, cranking the bike into a higher gear to see if your fitness level can be improved and it's about not feeling depressed at the very thought of a hill. To be honest, hills don't depress me. Fine, I think about an approaching hill if I know it's coming, I psyche myself for a big hill like Titsey or White Lane or White Hill Lane or Tithepit Shaw Lane and I get on with. I can't remember the last time I took a hill and gave up, unless it was one of those situations where I selected the wrong gear or didn't change down in time or lost momentum or a car came the other way and I had to dismount, but generally I'm fine with hills. Gone are the days when I can't handle them.

We finished our tea and readied ourselves for the journey home. While it didn't rain for most of the return journey, there was a light dusting of rain as I left Sheree's, but by the time I reached Botley Hill it was over and the rest of the ride was plain sailing.

It's 1437hrs on Sunday afternoon and I can hear the rain outside the window. There's been a lot of rain of late but so far it hasn't affected the Sunday ride, which is good. As avid readers will know, I did get absolutely drenched not long ago.

It's now 1853hrs, I've been watching the Robbie Williams documentary on Netflix (which is good) and I've been to see mum, she's fine. On 23 November she'll be 94 years old; at some stage I'll have to think about what to buy her.

It rained throughout the night. I remember being awake at 0400hrs listening to it. It was still raining in the morning but then it stopped and now, at 1159hrs on Monday 13 November, the rain has stopped and the sun is out... let's hope it stays that way.

To Oxted and Tatsfield Village

Sunday 29 October: The weird thing about writing is that I dream up ways of starting something and then I forget or I think of a different way of beginning a blogpost and then I realise that the same old themes are coming up again and again. I can't remember how I considered starting this blogpost, but it's not the way it's appearing now. In fact, talking about how I'm going to start the post was never the plan. I was probably going to start by discussing today's ride to Tatsfield village. There's been a lot of rain. I think it rained overnight because there were plenty of puddles. It's been like that of late: overnight rain and then puddles in the morning. Puddles to dodge on the 269, being careful not to drift out into the path of a car. Best, perhaps, to get wet legs. So, look, here I am talking about today's ride so I might as well continue with it. We'd decided last week that we'd be visiting Sheree's Tea rooms, not only because we've decided we like Sheree's Tea Rooms, but because the woman – perhaps she's Sheree herself – told us she'd have some vegan cake next week. I'm talking now about last week because the reason we were going this week is to sample the vegan cake she'd promised to order. Fortunately, she was on the money, she kept to her word and there was a vegan cake for Andy this morning when we arrived around 0900hrs. I opted for a non-vegan Victoria sponge. The weather had been good. Not even cloudy. The skies when I stepped outside were that sort of blue/grey colour with wispy clouds and patches, dare I say of blue. 

Last week, myself, Andy and the Illustrious Illustrator (Geoff Althoff) went for a curry in Whyteleafe. It was the place where, back in 2006, Andy and I first decided to start cycling on a regular basis – and we haven't stopped since. But things had changed. Not Geoff, not Andy, not me, not our rides, but the Indian restaurant.They conned us, over-charged us (quite considerably): three guys, nobody drinking, just one dish each, some onion bhajis, Bombay Aloo, nothing over the top, but the bill was a hefty £139. We won't be going back. Geoff and I figured that Andy got the short end of the stick (by a few quid). He'd not had the no-alcohol lager. I told Geoff not to worry about it and that Andy wasn't going to lose any sleep. I said I'd buy Andy a coffee on Sunday, which I did, and to be honest, all was well, but I understood where Geoff was coming from. During the week Geoff called Andy to discuss the matter and, to be frank, there was nothing to discuss, all was fine, all was well, it wasn't a problem.

Sheree's Tearoom where Andy enjoyed a vegan cake

But all WAS well. Andy had his vegan cake and his coffee, I had a pot of tea and some Victoria sponge, we sat and chewed the fat, it was really pleasant, talking about food and drink and stuff. I told Andy I could happily spend the rest of the morning sitting there chatting, we almost did order another drink, but just before 1000hrs we headed home. The rain had stayed away, it was still a little overcast, but I figured I'd get home without a soaking. I was almost right. All was well for most of the 269 but when I reached the Beech Farm Road area there was a short-lived shower. I remember thinking it was pretty light, nothing seemed to be getting overly soaked and by the time I approached the downward slope ahead of Slines Oak Road it had all but stopped. I carried on along the Limpsfield Road and still it was not a problem, but once I'd hit the back streets approaching the church it started. Full-on rain, a big downfall. I took shelter under a tree in the churchyard for all of five minutes and then started thinking (as it eased off a bit) that I'd head down Church Way and all would be fine. It wasn't. The rain intensified, God had turned up the volume and it started to hammer down, huge stair rods, as I rode down the hill. By the time I reached Morley, turned left and then right on to Elmfield and then left into Southcote, the rain was getting extreme, it never let up and I was completely drenched. Even when I reached my driveway I was still at the centre of the storm, soaked through and standing there fumbling for the key to the garage and getting wetter and wetter. I rolled the bike into the garage and stood there for a few minutes looking out at the raging rainstorm before deciding to just get out of there, lock the garage door, stand under the shelter of the porchway and then get in the house, get changed and chill. 

Later I texted Andy, told him I got soaked through and then set about doing Sunday stuff, except that it was too wet to really do anything. I took a drive to the shops and there were huge puddles forming everywhere. I wasn't gone long, but later went to Starbucks for a very enjoyable half an hour or so. There 's a new Starbucks in Oxted and it was there that I had an English Breakfast tea and a small bar of dark chocolate (it's good for you apparently). If there was rain, it was drizzle, but here and there it might have got a little heavier, I don't know. Apparently there's going to be a lot of rain over the next few days.

On Saturday, while I thought I might have taken a soaking, I didn't. I rode to Oxted and sat in Caffe Nero with a small cappuccino (51 calories) and an apricot croissant or pastry, I didn't know what it was if I'm be honest. Is it an apricot croissant or just a pastry with a couple of apricots in it? Who knows? Who cares? I spent about five minutes in the charity shop next door looking for a clockwork or battery-powered toy motorboat and then jumped on the bike and headed home, up Titsey Hill. The whole ride was good, all 20 miles of it.

Later I drove to Sevenoaks, had a snack in Soprano's and then just hung around for a few minutes before heading home again. It was to be the usual Saturday night: Strictly on the box, I cooked (which is rare these days) and I messed up a bit. I never cooked the aubergine for long enough, but all was well in the end and then I slobbed out and watched a weird (but good) movie, The Raven on the Jetty.

The cakes have to stop, but they don't. The cappuccinos need to stop, but they don't. I was telling Andy earlier today that I'd kind of cut out the spuds. During the week I had two meals (both fish fillets with brocolli) but no potatoes. Andy said (quite rightly) that I shouldn't have stopped the spuds. He said I should have had spuds, brocolli and butter beans. Nice idea, I thought. But listen, I'll stop there. 

You'll never guess what? I forgot to post this blogpost. It was written on Sunday 29 October and I probably left it in order to find a photograph. Well, clearly I forgot all about it. Anyway, here it is, I hope you enjoy it.

The Washpond Weeble and other stories...

21-22 October: Mid-October and for the first time since God knows when, it's started to feel like October. The summer has been strange. June was good, July and August were okay and then September – and October up to now – were wonderful. I flew to Stockholm early in September and the weather was amazing. When I flew back to the UK and stepped off the plane it was like arriving in Greece in July. It was hot! And the decent weather continued. Last weekend was good, but this morning there was a definite nip in the air and I seriously started to wonder why I wasn't wearing long trousers. Admittedly, last week I was wearing a fleece, but this week, in addition to the fleece, I think I needed longer trousers. That said, once I'd been on the bike around 30 minutes I warmed up and things were pleasant enough. 

The Lobster Pot is getting more sophisticated...and pricey!

I rode the Washpond Weeble, something I haven't done for a very long time, and all was well. I rode along the Limpsfield Road, turned left at the roundabout just past Sainsbury's and then followed the road for a bit until I needed to hang right and ride past The Bull pub. The roads were clear. I never saw much in the way of traffic once I was off the main road and let's not forget, this was a non-stop ride, no Costa, no Caffe Nero, no Starbucks, no Coughlans and that meant no biscuits, no cake, no nothing. It was just a ride and that was good. In total, 12.45 miles, an elevation gain of 742ft and a time of one hour and 17 minutes. I was even given a 'local legend' accolade by Strava (meaning I'll have to avoid the tabloid photographers for a few days).

Another good thing about the ride, apart from it being non-stop, was that it was fairly flat so I probably rode faster than I might have done. Aerobically, therefore, it probably did me some good. I reached home feeling great so we drove to the beach, walked from the Lobster Pot to Old Point and back and then rounded it off with a cup of tea in the Lobster Pot before heading home. We'd had lunch there before the walk. 

The Lobster Pot has changed, it's no longer the seaside caff I remember, although it's been getting more sophisticated for some time. I would probably argue that it has an identity crisis and that customers are witnessing the changing face of the place every time they pay a visit. It's as if it's shedding its old skin slowly. It's open in the evening now, it's licensed and there's some interesting dishes on the menu, some of the main courses costing over £24. Hardly 'caff cuisine'. And yet the caff bit lives on as there are plenty of people who, like us, drop in for a snack rather than a poncy meal prior to a bracing walk along the promenade. Today, I noticed that banquette seating had infiltrated the caff space. It's as if they're doing it slowly and by stealth in the hope that the customers won't notice. Either that or they can't afford to kit the place out in one go and need to do it piece-by-piece. Perhaps if I go back in about a month the whole place will be banquette seating and the old pine tables will be stored away somewhere. I remember when the Lobster Pot was called Perdido's! They've covered up a considerable portion of the outdoor seating area too so you can sit 'outside' without fearing the rain. For me the problem they'll have to deal with pretty soon is the bathrooms. When it was little more than a hut, the two small toilets at the back were more than enough, but now there are plenty of customers (we were lucky to get a seat) I think they'll have to look at adding more restroom space.

The food's not cheap either! Over £30 for a smoked turkey sandwich, a kid's portion of sausage, chips and beans and a bowl of soup with a roll, plus three mugs of tea. That's quite pricey. But hey! We haven't been this way for a long time and it was good to see that things were more than thriving, so I say good luck to the people running the Pot.

It was good to look at all the lovely houses on the seafront too. We covered 3.5 miles in total and deserved the additional mug of tea on our return to the Pot. We drove home around 1735hrs but it took us over two hours and I can't figure out why so long. We didn't encounter any problems, no jams, nothing. Normally it's around 90 minutes tops. Anyway, we reached home around 1930hrs. There was time to chill before dinner and then I sat down with a large mug of Sleepy Time Bear Extra tea. I'd bought it on Amazon, two boxes.

Brass monkey weather!

The next morning I was up just before 0700hrs eating my usual breakfast (Alpen, fruit, tea). I headed off around 0800hrs and this time I was wearing jeans over the cycling shorts plus a jumper underneath the fleece. Yes, it was cold. Very cold. I was heading for Westerham to meet Andy at 0900hrs at Costa. The journey was just the same as it always is except that when coasting downhill, especially heading down Clarks Lane, brass monkey conditions ensued that I hadn't experienced since last winter. Not nice. Andy was there when I arrived but he still had plenty of black coffee in his cup, meaning he hadn't been there too long before my arrival. I ordered a large English Breakfast tea and that was it and then joined Andy. 

I was telling him how, earlier, I was riding along as normal when I was passed by an elderly gentleman on a pushbike. "Good morning," he said as he passed and I thought I'd try and keep up with him. What kind of annoyed me (it always has annoyed me) was that I was pedalling like a madman, he was cycling at a more sedate pace and yet he soon pulled far away from me and I just couldn't figure out why.

"He probably cycles more than you do," said Andy, matter-of-factly. 

Yes, he probably did, I thought, realising that I needed to up my game somewhat.

"Remember that time last year when we were cycling out of Westerham and I was doing a good 14 miles/hour?"

He did remember and he put it down to me being fitter because I was cycling more than I am now. In essence, I'd just have to get my act together, I knew that... and cut out the cake and the cappuccino while I'm at it.

"I need to add another ride during the week, possibly two rides," I said.

"Or push yourself a little more, tackle the hills in a higher gear," Andy advised.

He was right, but I couldn't help but feel a little inadequate and as if I had a lot of work to put in before I could even hope to stay abreast of the old man I'd met earlier.

"I'm thinking of taking up swimming," I said, thinking a few weeks ahead when the days are shorter and I won't exactly fancy riding up White Hill Lane in the dark. In fact, there's a few things on my mind. I'm going to check out membership of the local gym so that I can use their exercise bikes, possibly two one-hour sessions on a Tuesday and a Thursday, and then possibly a swim on Friday. I'll need to work something out. Park Run appeals too, but I've been injured running in the past so perhaps not. All I know is that the weight falls off when I run.

Andy left before me as I needed to answer the call of nature, but the bogs in the Costa were out of order (for the second week on the trots). There was a disabled toilet but I spotted a fellow cyclist nip in there and not come out for ages. I envisage a later conversation. "I'd leave it 10 minutes if I were you." I headed over the road to the King's Arms hotel and used their facilities and then I embarked upon the ride home resolving not to change the gears to a low setting. Before heading off I dropped into the antique shop, Castle Antiques I think it's called. I like wandering around antique shops and charity shops too, but this was the former. I found a Westclox Baby Ben for £18 and an old suitcase, both of which would have looked good on a business trip, I thought, as they might bring a touch of Miss Marple to the proceedings. There were old books, long forgotten model cars, old watches. I really did go back in time for the brief period I was in there, and then I headed for home, past the Velo Barn, along Pilgrims, up Rectory Road and back on to Clarks Lane, keeping in the same gear I'd travelled down in. Yes, I did puff myself out more than usual but it wasn't impossible. The effort was worth it and when I reached Botley Hill I felt both relieved and satisfied.

When I reached home a slice of toast and marmalade (without vegetable spread as we'd run out) was most welcomed. I made tea then had a shower and we drove over to see mum before heading east to Sevenoaks where I enjoyed a coffee and a prawn and mayonnaise sandwich in the M&S cafe while waiting for my wife and daughter (they'd eaten in Wagamama, but I didn't fancy a full-blown meal).

We drove back and now it's almost 1800hrs. There's work tomorrow, but the stress is off (for a while). I say 'a while', it'll be back very soon.

Oxted and Westerham

I left the house at 0700hrs. It's almost mid-October and the weather is still fine, really fine. It wasn't cold, put it that way, almost tee-shirt weather. In fact, forget 'almost', it is tee-shirt weather. I was headed for Westerham to meet Andy around 0800hrs. It's been a long time since I left the house at such an ungodly hour. I was going used to the 0800hrs start, but today it was out of the question, I had things going on, it wasn't one of those nothing days that allowed me to lol around, but it suited me fine. The 269 was quiet. I forgot how quiet. Leave an hour later and there's cars to contend. Leave early and they're few and far between. There were a few cyclists around, there always is and the journey was plain sailing all the way.

A mile or so out of Westerham on the return ride today...

I turned on to Clarks Lane and coasted downhill and into Westerham. I got there just after 0800hrs and Andy was still queuing. I joined him, although he was ahead of me and didn't spot me until he'd received his order and was heading for the table by the window. We acknowledged one another and then later, armed with a large English Breakfast tea, I joined him and we chatted. We talked about bikes, about Andy's stationary bike and his 10 miles per day routine, except for weekends when he rides a real bike. I spoke about Park Runs and how I was thinking about doing one. A 5k run in the park, but do I want to risk injury like last time? Every time I take up running I injure myself, either my back or my knee.I escape injury when I'm cycling so perhaps if I'm going to take up something else, perhaps it should be swimming. I used to swim a lot and was recently listening to a podcast about the health benefits of swimming, something to do with blood vessels, I can't remember the details.

The journey home was uneventful. Andy left first and then I followed as always. I take a different route, past the antique shop and up towards the Velobarn. Andy rides through the high street and then follows the route I took on the way in. Today I decided to ride Pilgrim's all the way to Titsey Hill and then all the way up. It's easy enough and reminded me of another part of Andy and I's conversation back at the Costa Coffee. We were talking about nills and some guy on the internet had posted a video about challenging hills in Surrey. Andy said he focused on Chalkpit Lane, claiming it was one of the big inclines. In a sense it is. 20%, but only at the very top. Andy and I thought there were worse, like Succombs, and the hill heading into Knockholt from the other end of Pilgrim's Lane.

I rode up Chalkpit yesterday (Saturday) after spending a little time in Oxted, in a Caffe Nero, sipping green tea and enjoying an apricot something or other, I can't remember what it was called. A pastry of some sort. It was a good ride but I wasn't looking forward to the climb. Before I left town I stopped at the charity shop, for all of five minutes and then I headed home. Chalkpit isn't easy but I just keep going, it's the only way to deal with hills.

I managed two rides, Oxted and Westerham, around 40 miles in total. The rest of the day was fine, as was today, and as I said, the weather held too and apparently it's going to be good for a few more days. Right now, it's 2305 and I'm watching Reptile with Justin Timberlake, it's quite good but I'm not staying up much longer as there's work tomorrow. That's the great thing about Netflix, you can stop and start movies whenever you wish.

At Vienna Airport...

As soon as I engage with the mechanisms of travel, I start to get angry. And I'm not always right. Well, to be fair, I didn't get angry, just mildly and inwardly annoyed and it turned out that he was right and I was wrong. And by 'he' I mean a taxi driver who hailed from Ankara in Turkey. The thing is, I just couldn't remember as there was so much going on and it had been a few days since I last engaged with Austrian trains. To be fair, I've had other things on my mind; I'd been in Linz and from Linz I'd arrived at Wein Hbf, the central station, and for some reason, when I hailed a cab with a view to travelling to the airport, I thought I'd have to go back to the main station to pick up the so-called CAT train. Turns out that the CAT train goes from Wein Mitte. In fact, I remember, on the inward journey from the airport, that I couldn't figure out how to get to the central station from where I would pick up a train to Linz. I had to ask for information. So, on my arrival at the central station from Linz on Tuesday evening, I took a cab to my hotel, the Intercontinental. Fast forward a few days – five to be precise – and there I was sitting in the aforementioned Turkish gentleman's cab insisting that he takes me to the central station when, in reality, he was right, I needed to go to Wein Mitte. But could I be told? No. "Take me to the central station," I insisted until I realised he might be telling the truth. He was telling the truth so we went to Mitte, although he was angling for me to go all the way to the airport by cab, which would have cost me 45 Euros. Perhaps that was why I was reticent to take his word for anything – I thought he was after my money (he was, of course). But why should I take a cab to the airport when I had already purchased a return CAT ticket (roughly 12 Euros each way). So he dropped me at Wein Mitte and I walked straight on to a CAT train. Within minutes it left the station and soon I was at the airport. And that's when it got worse. 

Cafe Franzel at Vienna Airport

I tell you what I can't stand: I hate it when we're given all the work to do but the price doesn't come down. It happens in supermarkets with the self-service check-outs. Why do I have to do the job of the check out assistant? And if they expect me to, why can't I get money off? The answer is simple: capitalist greed, pure and simple. I reach the bit where I'm supposed to check in, one of those ribboned off slalom affairs, so I figured I'd save time and just duck below the barriers and make a b-line for the bag drop. Except it wasn't that simple, I needed to use the auto-check-in terminal first. I was determined not to play ball and decided instead to be lazy and let the assistant teach me how to use the auto check-in terminal, got to keep him employed, I was thinking. He did a great job and soon I was humping my bag on to the conveyor that, hopefully, would take it to the plane I'd be travelling on and I'd pick it up at the baggage reclaim in the UK.

The gate changed to G36

It all ran smoothly and so did security. I was through in minutes and then wandering around, as always, through the Society of the Spectacle ignoring the goods on offer. I bought nothing, but I was extremely angry to find that Jamie Oliver had capitalised on the catering facilities. Jamie's this and Jamie's that, I got out fast and then found myself walking alongside the automated walkway in search of somewhere decent to eat and drink. There was hardly anything.

Cafe Franzl raised its ugly head. There were hardly any seats available (and not enough seats in my opinion) and there was a queue. All I wanted was a green tea, but I couldn't be bothered to queue for it, so I walked on by and now I sit opposite said café without a drink.

Earlier, I had taken a long walk of 4.41 miles. I mooched about, went through a park, went down to the river, crossed the bridge, crossed back, found a restaurant for lunch, had some pasta and a Pellegrino and then headed back to the Intercontinental to pick up my luggage and head for the airport. That was when I met the taxi driver who insisted I needed to go to Wein Mitte. As you know, he was right. And now I wait. It's 1523hrs, my flight takes off at 1715hrs so that's almost two hours and there's not much to do here. I'm going to check out Cafe Frankl in a second to see what they have to offer, but I don't fancy much. But then they changed my Gate to G36, a hike and a half, but I got there and the first thing I saw was a bar/café and a man behind the counter shouted: "Big one?" holding up an empty beer glass. "No, I'll have a green tea," I said, grabbing a bottle of Evian. "Fancy an apple cake, Austrian, very good for you?" I couldn't be bothered to argue that the cake was probably not good for me, but I thought I'd have it anyway and I sat, but not for long, I had a plane to catch.

At last somewhere decent to chill out...for all of five minutes

I finished up and paid and then wandered towards gate G36, which was a fair hike. I didn't use the automated walkway because I figured I needed the exercise after all the sitting down I've been doing. When I reached the gate there were loads of chattering young girls and I guessed it was a school trip. I boarded the plane, took my seat (17F, a window seat) and then off we went. Not only did the girls scream as the plane took over, there was also a crying baby that didn't stop for the entire flight. There were mild bits of turbulence, but nothing to get upset about, but I couldn't really settle as a result. I enjoyed the free chocolate (which I remember from the flight out) and I'd brought on board my own bottle of Evian, that was all I had. The skies weren't clear, but there were patches where it was possible to see the ground below and soon we were making our descent into London Heathrow. Once below the cloud all was clear: the Millennium Dome, Canary Wharf, the Gherkin, the Cheese Grater, the London Eye, Waterloo railway station, the Thames winding its way through the city and then the light industrial buildings in the hinterlands around the airport. The landing was fairly smooth, there was a long wait (or a longish wait) for baggage reclaim but soon I was through customs and on my way towards the Elizabeth Line, no more extortionate trips on the Heathrow Express, I thought. Hayes and Harlington, Southall and eventually Paddington where I jumped off and took the tube, the Bakerloo line and then the Victoria Line, to Victoria where I found the 2021hrs East Grinstead train. I was home before 2100hrs. 

Shabbily-dressed people at Victoria station, London

What struck me when I reached the UK was how shabby it all looked; not only were the underground trains creaking and shaking about as they ferreted their way through the tunnels, they were dirty and unkempt... and so were the people. Everybody, including me, looked shabby in old jeans and trainers, dark grey or black anoraks, the complete opposite of Vienna where the women dressed smartly, the men were well turned out and, of course, the architecture and, needless to say, the culture, was way above the level found in the grim UK.

Back at London Heathrow...

When I reached home, the house was cold and so was England. I'd been used to the 28 degrees of Austria, I'd been lying on top of the duvet all week, getting bitten by mosquitoes, but now I found myself underneath it. 

And now it's Sunday morning and the house has been rearranged, lights have been moved around and the dining table too. I'm not sure, it's all a bit gloomy-looking at night, but I need to be a little subtle about it. God! We need the fireplace sorted out as a matter of urgency. Yes, I'm back to the realities of life and it always takes some getting used to.

From Linz to Vienna...

I went back to Bäckerei Danecker for an English Breakfast tea and this time ordered an almond croissant. I sat at the same table as yesterday and simply relaxed after what you could describe as a 'hard day at the office'. In the process I finished Climbers by M John Harrison, arguably (in fact there's no argument about it) the best book I've read in a long time. After I finished reading I people-watched. 

Bäckerei Danecker to finish Climbers by M John Harrison

I awoke early that morning and kept pressing the snooze button to prolong being in bed and then, around 0700hrs, I had breakfast downstairs.  

"Is it worth changing trains?" No, it wasn't...

My 'day at the office' began around 0830hrs and finished around 1530hrs and that's when I took a stroll to the centre of town (or what I regarded as the centre of town, although I think it was). 

There's a first time for everything – waiting on Linz station

While I wasn't too keen on Bäckerei Danecker's high chairs yesterday, I grew to like them and the idea of going anywhere else seemed churlish. What was foolish, however, was the almond croissant. I could have done without it, and the chocolate heart I purchased later, it wasn't that nice. I've simply got to stop eating rubbish, but then I've been saying that for a very long time. I'm hoping to get a walk in at some stage, but who knows? I've got the trim wheel with me, a cumbersome device that resembles the petrol tank of a motorcycle with two handles protruding from each side. I intend to use it daily (as I have been at home). I can't say I've noticed much difference, but that might have something to do with my cake fetish, although generally I haven't been doing too badly. Yesterday, for example, I had very little to eat all day. For breakfast I had granola with yoghurt and berries, then lunch was a ham sandwich on Vienna Central Station followed by dinner here in Linz (stroganoff, salad and beer) without dessert, so if I transferred one of my indulgent treats of today to yesterday things would even out a little bit. Rob Peter to pay Paul. That said, I'm always too willing to start making up little scenarios that let me off the hook, like 'half a dozen Miniature Heroes equals one chocolate bar' and stuff like that designed to make me feel better about my over-indulgence. In truth though, it really must stop. Either way, I'll be on the trim wheel later tonight.

On Viennese streets after dark...

For some bizarre reason, my hotel closes at 2000hrs, but I have a key to get in so it shouldn't be a problem except that the keys have been an issue. Locking or unlocking the hotel room door has been a real hassle, requiring glasses to be worn and my own sanity to be questioned. Part of it is remembering which of the three keys open the door, although that problem can be narrowed down to two keys as one of them is for the minibar and it's very distinctive. If you so happened to be passing by while I was outside of my room trying to get in, you would see me, glasses on, trying to fit the key in the lock and having many problems in the process. You might think I was trying to break in to somebody else's room.

I enjoyed a burger with a colleague in a restaurant called Glorious Bastards and then I went back to my hotel and straight to bed. The following day, more work, but the day wasn't as hard as the previous one and soon I was back at my hotel, collecting my luggage and taking a taxi to Linz station. I wanted to ensure that I reserved a seat as I didn't want to be roaming up and down train carriages looking for a vacant seat or sitting waiting for somebody to turf me out of where I was sitting. I was offered the 1617 train to Budapest, but it was delayed until 1706 which meant I had to find somewhere decent to sit and wait. I chose a bakery and ordered just a cup of green tea. I spent the time messing around with my phone and then moved on to, of all places, a McCafé, which was a first for me; there I met a hairdressing student waiting for her boyfriend. She was from Northern Italy but was now living close to Linz. We passed the time of day and then I went to platform 7 to wait for my train, which rolled in slowly around 1710. I was in coach 22, seat 91 and soon settled in to a journey punctuated by bouts of sleep until the train reached Wein Miedling (the stop before the central station). I jumped in a cab to the Intercontinental Hotel, checked in and then went in search of my colleagues. We worked until late and then headed off by cab to a restaurant close to the fairground.We tanked up on food (much needed) and then took a cab back to the Intercontinental and hit the sack. Or rather I worked and in the process had plenty of office equipment hassles down in the hotel's business centre. I eventually went to bed around 0200hrs and then woke up at 0600hrs, pressing the snooze button until 0630 and then having the most rushed and uncomfortable breakfast ever (a bowl of muesli and a cup of tea in double quick time).

Stepping out...

Work beckoned and continued all day until around 2100hrs when I found myself back in the room contemplating hitting the sack. It's now Wednesday evening on 20 September. After using the trim wheel I reconsidered hitting the sack.

After work a walk along Johannesgasse to an Italian restaurant, IL Cavalluccio on Göttweihergasse. It was very pleasant and I rounded things off with a cappuccino, but not the huge fuck-off variety you get in Costa Coffee, a far more polite cup with a tenth of what you might find in a UK coffee retailer's 'bowl' where even a medium sized beverage is large enough to bathe in. That's one of many things wrong with the UK. It's now 2317hrs and time to hit the sack again. I've spent most of the day in the Hilton Vienna Park Hotel and only managed to get out briefly with a walk through the Stadt Park. The weather here is good, very good, 28 degrees good. Bright sunshine, people sunbathing on the grass – and it's late September, let's not forget that. 

Hotels invariably mean a lack of sleep. I don't know why. Unfamiliar surroundings probably. The worst occasions follow transatlantic travel and possibly the fact that I often sleep with a light on, but not a glaring light, just a jagged, arrow-like shape of it that barely intrudes on the night scape of the room. Sometimes, like in Linz, the need for light is scuppered by a glass-walled bathroom or, like in Brazil a few years ago, Rio to be precise, a toilet observation window (as I called it). A bit like a hide in a wetlands centre except that those doing the looking wouldn't need binoculars. Sometimes, too many thoughts keep me awake, looking at my surroundings in the dim light of the early morning. Because it's always the early morning, something unfathomable like 0354hrs when I think it's too early to get up and end up just lying there looking at the blank screen of the television on the wall or the tiny slit I'd left in the curtains that was beginning to let in light, even if there was a long way to go before I could call it daylight. "I find myself in that position now, Jim, and I'm asking you to report for a medical examination."

Enjoying the delights of the city...

I've often (of late) been thinking about the way we all lead our lives, like rats in a man-made maze of brand names running around aimlessly from one piece of concrete to another and never seeing much of grass or big skies. Life is characterized by shopping malls, the interior of supermarkets and multi-storey car parks, open-plan offices and auditoriums, not to mention eery hotel corridors and hotel rooms, trestles on which our suitcases rest; glass tables, desks, ironing boards and mirrors, all impassive and, unlike us, clinging to the side of the bank as we, motionless, are nonetheless swept away by the tides of time. We could sit in that hotel for years in front of a mirror and watch ourselves wither away into nothing only to be replaced by somebody else, someone we don't know. The hotel is a very transient environment. "Radio, live transmission. Radio, live transmission...". Sometimes I have to listen to Joy Division, and fortunately I have them on my iphone.

I often wish I could open the front door of my house and be greeted by nothing but wilderness, mountains and the sea and weather drifting past indifferently instead of seeing the house across the road, the parked cars, solitary commuters on their way to the station, leaves caught in the wind scuttling past, chatting amongst themselves. Not that there are many brand names where I live, although I suppose there are many of them hunkered down in the gutters, their doors closed, their windscreens iced over – perhaps no ice, not for at least another month. Cars. Vans. Motorcycles. Reminders of our subservience to capitalism.

Oftentimes I don't think I'm achieving a great deal. Other times I feel that I am but to what gain? And then I wonder whether there needs to be a gain, why should one thing lead to another? Perhaps recognition is the best gain. We all want to be loved and we probably all think we're not loved enough. 

You're supposed to do this!

I can see daylight out of the window and that means I can legitimately head down for breakfast in this corporate of corporate hotels. It's a strange place. From the outside, the Intercontinental Wein looks like the sort of building you might find on an inner London housing estate. In short, it's ugly, but once you travel through the large revolving door and into the lobby, its grandiosity will take you aback. There are uniformed men and women behind the front desk, rich looking carpets and rugs, a large tapestry on the wall, the dim but unmistakable sound of lounge lizard piano, making everybody feel a little bit James Bond – shaken but not stirred as they make their way towards the elevators that ping as they arrive on the ground floor. The hotel offers 12 floors of fairly luxurious rooms with big lampshades and gleaming bathrooms, huge beds and massive desks. Behind most doors is somebody living the transient life, the hotel life of suitcases and razors, shaving foam and toothbrushes, unpressed shirts, receipts and upturned glasses guarded by bottles of mineral water. An angle-poise lamp.

It's 0703hrs, time to get ready for breakfast. This is the only hotel where I haven't almost flooded the bathroom floor. The shower, in other words, has been good and not out of control like most of them. I've stepped on to the little mat on the bathroom floor and found it dry for the first time in living memory. Why that is I don't know, probably because it's not a fixed shower head and, for some reason, it's easier to hold the 'telephone' in my hand rather than simply stand there under it. Anyway, I'm showered and dressed and ready to have breakfast at 0800hrs.

"A great bloke, he's Intercont!"

Catherine and I took a wander around the city, through a botanical gardens where we spotted a red and a black squirrel and a little kid feeding them, and then to Gerstener for a coffee and a slice of cake in true Viennese fashion. My two colleagues leave today, I'm leaving tomorrow. Later I went for a mooch around town alone and found myself on the other side of the river bank with nothing much to do. There was little to look at so I made an about turn and walked back to the hotel, joining throngs of tourists as they made their way through the thick treacle of consumers who were window shopping or holding bags containing their purchases or taking photographs on their iphones or queuing (unbelievably) presumably to buy the latest iphone from the Apple Store, I'm not sure. I found it all rather sad and depressing as I peered inside and saw the regulation light wood tables displaying the Apple watches, the iphones, iPads and lap tops. There was absolutely nothing I wanted, nothing whatsoever. I had no interest. No watches, no clothes, nothing. In truth a good sleep would be good. I never sleep well in hotels and it leads to feelings of tiredness later in the day. I won't lie down in case I fall asleep and miss my meeting planned with a colleague later on. I wish the minibar was full. It's really just a mini fridge, but there's nothing in it. A bar of chocolate would probably do the trick. I skipped lunch and I'm holding out until dinner time, but a bar of chocolate would go down a treat and might liven me up a little bit.

Crossing the Danube...

Tomorrow I depart for London Heathrow in the early evening around 1715hrs and arrive home some two hours later. I'm already thinking about the Elizabeth Line rather than a taxi, but let's see how things go. I wish it could be Gatwick, but it isn't. I need some time off and I think I'll take Monday. Right now, while tired, I might do the trim wheel exercise, but then again I might leave it until later. I might go in search of a chocolate bar.

Except that I didn't bother. Instead I went to the opera and listened to Mozart and Strauss performed live by the Vienna Mozart Orchestra, which was founded by musicians from the most prestigious and famous Viennese orchestras and from various chamber music ensembles. In short, it was absolutely amazing and an uplifting experience. Many thanks to my pal Illka Hiirsalmi.

It's nearly midnight so I'd better get some sleep. "Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer. Count the headlights on the highway." Another great song I've found on my iPhone!

As is customary, I awoke early, sometime around 0500hrs or shortly after. Rain had been promised and sure enough when I peered out of the window the roads and rooftops seemed mirror-like and damp. Typical, I thought, just when I have to fly home, bad weather, I just don't need it. There's nothing to do except have breakfast and then mooch around although I need to check all the flight details. I won't be doing any mooching if it's raining.

The Intercontinental, Vienna: it looks better on the inside...

I left my room and headed down to the breakfast. I was unshaven and wearing an unpressed shirt because, quite simply, I was now a conference refugee, the last man standing, no more clothes to wear. I walked to the elevator, pressed the button and when the lift arrived I jumped in and as the doors closed I listened to the musak being played. It was the same old lounge lizard piano music that had been with me all week and I started to feel as if I was alone in the hotel. Nobody had joined me in the lift and when I arrived at the ground floor, for a moment it seemed as if I was right. Everybody had gone home. And then I heard American voices. There were lots of tourists here from around the world and there were two women who had clearly just finished breakfast and were heading back to their rooms.

I made my way to the breakfast room and gave the waiting attendant my room number, 810, and then I found a table and went to the self-service buffet where I loaded up with my usual muesli, yoghurt and fresh fruit. I ordered a green tea and later fetched myself two fried eggs, mushrooms and potato wedges and I ordered another green tea. I sat there for a while, messed around on the phone and then realised my time was up. The last man standing was going to head to back his room, take a shower and then check out, leaving his bags with the concierge and then stepping out for one last time on to the cultured streets of Vienna. Perhaps a coffee, possibly just a wander around. Either way I'll be bored and preoccupied with the thought of getting home or rather getting to the airport. I have a return ticket for the CAT, the airport train, and then I'll be back with security and passport control, the Society of the Spectacle and, ultimately, the flight home. Soon I will be at Heathrow airport, waiting at baggage reclaim and then heading home, another trip over.

In Linz...

I won't say it hasn't been fraught because it has and in so many ways it's just me allowing the little annoying things in life to hit me hard. Normally, it starts with the taxi ride to the airport, but not today. He was fine, he said nothing and just drove me to Heathrow Terminal Two at the crack of dawn, 0600hrs to be precise, although I'd been up earlier. I probably hit the sack around 2300hrs or thereabouts on Saturday night, wishing I didn't have to get up early and fly to Vienna, but I did. I must have woken up around 0330hrs and decided to just lie there trying not to fret about anything. It's easy to start fretting about things and then there's no hope in hell of nodding off again. However, I must have started to nod off because, just as I did my alarm went off. It was 0500hrs.

Time to head for gate A25 and the 0905 flight to Vienna...

The first problem was there were no dishes so I had to skip breakfast. Most of them had leftover food in them and were residing in the fridge. I just couldn't be bothered. Then there was no bread so I scavenged around until I found a bag of brioche burger buns, toasted one of them but could only eat one side as the other bit was burnt. That annoyed me, so I had another one, with marmalade but not toasted. That and a cup of tea was breakfast. I did my final checks and then I was off, the taxi arrived and I was gone. Not that I particularly wanted to go. I wasn't looking forward to the flight and I'd found out that I could take a train all the way to Vienna and that it takes 16 hours, sometimes a little less. I liked the idea of a stress-free journey.

On the plane...

I started to get annoyed when I entered the terminal building. Where should I go to check in? It was zone B and when I got there I found self-service machines. Now, I hate self-service machines. I used to hate them in the supermarkets (and still do) and I hate them even more at airports. These days it seems that we're all expected to do half of the job for the supermarkets and airlines, but I note that the prices remain the same or possibly higher. I hate supermarkets with a vengeance mainly because we all know, like with all capitalist scum, they're not there for the customer, they're there for themselves. I always have this desire for vengeance but I haven't worked out how to exact it without getting myself in trouble (yet!). I fully support shoplifters, by the way, and I'm so glad that our inept Government has made so many cutbacks that our police forces are unable to deal with petty crimes like nicking stuff from shops. 

Standing a little angrily at the the check-in terminals a man asked me for a reference number. I thought my passport would be good enough and told him so. "No, you need a reference number." "Well, I haven't got one," I said aggressively and he said nothing. "What about a human being?" I asked and he pointed to a check-in terminal. I skulked over there and had my bag checked in and then went through security, which would have been fine had my bag not been sent along the track to be double-checked by a human. Normally, this is because the system detects something of interest in the case, but mine was just full of USBs and a couple of notebooks. It happens to me regularly now and it means I have to wait just a little bit longer than normal before I can chill at the café beyond the Society of the Spectacle. I waited and waited. There was a guy from Brisbane en route to Stockholm and he clearly missed the memo about liquids; he had loads of them, probably mainly belonging to his wife as he didn't look particularly cleansed (nor did his wife). The security guy spent ages checking every bottle. When my turn arrived it was fairly simple. Basically there was nothing wrong and soon I was on my way.

Time to catch the train into central Vienna...

Because I was generally in a bad mood, probably because I'd allowed a situation to develop where I would have to fly off early on a Sunday morning – forfeiting a ride with Andy – I didn't really enjoy the breakfast. I ordered granola and yoghurt with a pot of English breakfast tea and sat there inwardly scowling to myself about virtually everything. I appear to be surrounded by absolute wankers. Whichever way I turn, there they are and their sole purpose in life is to annoy me. The gate was announced at 0825 and shortly after that time I paid up and headed for gate A25. And then the next hassle. I stood queuing and when I reached the passport check lady she told me I was in the wrong queue, so I had to go back, I wasn't allowed to pass Go or collect £200, I was suddenly at the back of the queue. 

View from room 41, Dom Hotel, Linz on Sunday 17th Sept

Soon I was through and sitting in the plane. I thanked God for small mercies, namely a window seat (19F). Outside it wasn't that clear. A blanket of grey cloud shrouded England but there wasn't much of it. Soon after take-off we broke through and the flight, bar a few bumpy bits, was fine. I took the train from the airport to the centre of the city and then jumped on a train to Linz. There were a lot of people and I could already feel my hackles rising as the seats, most of them, were booked and my ticket didn't seem to have a reservation. I stood up waiting for somebody to claim where I hoped to be sitting, but they didn't so I could eat my lunch in peace, although throughout it I kept thinking some bastard was going to turn up and turf me out.

A word (or two) on the weather: it was fantastic. No cloud cover in Austria just blue skies and sunshine. It was hot and at one point on the train journey I saw people paddle boarding on a huge lake. Summer clearly hadn't left the building in Austria and, to be fair, it hadn't left the UK entirely.

Room 41, Dom Hotel, Linz

I was sleepy and kept drifting off, almost missing my stop. The train journey to Linz from Vienna took around three hours, but I wasn't counting so I couldn't be 100% sure. My taxi driver took me to the wrong hotel, although it must be a common mistake as both had the word 'Dom' in their name. I had to walk all of five minutes with that irritating sound of plastic casters on cobbled streets. It wasn't easy and at some points I pulled and yanked at my suitcase as if it was an unruly a dog on a lead, unwilling to do anything I asked. I arrived at the right hotel and checked in and then realised that none of my shirts were pressed, but there wasn't an iron in the hotel room. Fortunately there was one in reception so I spent around 20 minutes on the floor ironing three shirts and then placing them in the wardrobe on hangers, at least I'm ready for my first meeting tomorrow morning.

I went out for a wander around town. It was warm and there were lots of women with smooth legs wearing summer dresses. I stopped at a bakery and coffee shop, Bäckerei Danecker, and ordered an English breakfast tea. And for a short while I felt better. I managed to sit and read a bit more of Climbers by M John Harrison. I've very close to the end now and I don't really want to finish it, although I have another M John Harrison book, the Centauri Device, so all is well on that front. The tea was served in a clear plastic cup without a handle, it wasn't glass but it looked like glass and was hot (the tea, not the 'glass'). Towards the end of my stay, the woman behind the counter gave me a jam-filled bun for nothing. I was chuffed! Somebody DOES love me, I thought, not realising at first that it was filled with jam, not that the filling meant she didn't love me. It was pleasant and it almost prevented me from having dinner, but after getting fed up with walking around I found a café and took a seat outside under an awning. It was warm and summery and I ordered beef stroganoff and an alcohol-free wheat beer. Perfect. I continued reading and then decided to retrace my steps back to the hotel.

I ordered beef stroganoff and beer

There wasn't much open. It was Sunday and it was like being in the UK when Sundays were sacred and nothing was open. Today, of course, everything is open in England. When I reached the hotel, the lift was on the ground floor waiting for me so I jumped in and pressed the button and soon I was in my room. It's a large room but it has one of those bathrooms where the walls are frosted glass. Now that's annoying because when I'm in a hotel I like to sleep with a light on. Normally I put the bathroom light on and then shut the door so there's just a little bit of light illuminating the room, like a little jagged piece strutting out from the source. But if I put the bathroom light on here it will blast out light all over the place I won't be able to sleep so I'll have to sleep in darkness and leave the curtains drawn back and thereby rely upon the natural light of the city. I'm in Linz, I've been here a few times and I like it a lot. In fact, on my earlier wander I actually arrived at a bike shop I remember from a previous visit, but being as it's Sunday it was closed.

I'm drinking a refreshing Gasteiner sparkling mineral water, which is much needed and afterwards I'm considering using my trim wheel, which I've brought along on the trip. I might not, though. Actually I will, why not, keep it going. I've been doing it daily for at least 10 days, probably longer, but so far I haven't seen any results. But I'm carrying on with it.

Alcohol-free wheat beer...lovely!

The bed doesn't look very inviting, especially that duvet laying diagonally across it, but I won't be hitting the sack just yet. One of the wardrobe's sliding doors sounds like a yelping puppy whenever I open it. Everything is so sterile and sad but I'm hoping that I'll feel better in the morning. Time, I think, to flick through the television channels and either watch something in a foreign language I don't understand (that's fun – not!) or check out BBC World, another sterile lump of politically correct, fence-sitting rubbish, not that I'm the sort of person who's going to watch GB News or Talk TV, they're even worse!

It's just gone 2100hrs and I've yet to switch on the television. I think the trim wheel will be first, although I'll call home and have a chat. They're watching Gaslight but I'll speak to them later.

After a brief call home I hit the sack around 2300hrs. I switched off all the lights and just lay there deep in many thoughts, one of which was thinking of my hotel room as an apartment. It was big enough. I decided that I would put shelves on the far wall for books and that was basically it. There were other thoughts, many, many thoughts, but I can't remember them now. I eventually drifted off to sleep and awoke around 0400hrs. Then I must have drifted off because the alarm rang out at 0600hrs and I kept pressing 'snooze' until it was 0630hrs, then got up and showered. It's not a bad hotel room, quite spacious and bright, but the most annoying thing about it is the door key. I've always been full of praise for hotels that don't have key cards, but not in this instance. There are three keys on the ring and they all look similar so the first hassle is always finding the right key, then it's all about getting the key in the lock and ultimately it means putting on my glasses, trying one key, then the next, does it go in upside down or the right way up, what is the right way up? Just opening the door is a faff, believe me.

Breakfast downstairs on the ground floor is fine. I ordered muesli with yoghurt, sultanas and nuts, a green tea and a couple of small slices of bread with apricot marmalade, not forgetting a banana. I sat there texting and then headed back to the room.

A busy week lies ahead of me and I'm looking forward to getting home. Shame it's Heathrow and not Gatwick, but you can't win 'em all.

Heading for home...

There was a time when getting up early, being 'up with the lark' and so forth, was not impossible, but not pleasant. I distinctly remember feeling like a fish out of water, standing in the kitchen unable to do anything, and everything around me looking as if it was something I simply shouldn't be witnessing or watching or whatever at such an ungodly hour. I remember using the snooze button on alarm clocks with regularity as a kind of step-down towards waking myself up; so I'd be rudely awakened by the alarm, but would reach over and press 'snooze' and then relax and try and enjoy being in bed until the 10 minutes were up and I'd end up pushing snooze again and again until I felt awake enough to deal with what the world had to throw at me. Not any more for some reason. Nowadays I'm invariably raring to go at around 0530hrs (my alarm is normally set for 0600hrs) and I have to stop myself from just getting up, trotting downstairs and making breakfast ahead of time.

Stockholm airport, about to board...

Yesterday was a long day and was rounded off with a pleasant dinner with a colleague, not somebody from my workplace, but somebody I knew, an American from upstate New York who was in the advertising business. We parted quite late, around 2300hrs, and I then I made my way back to my hotel on foot, it took about 10 minutes and towards the end of the walk I passed Dolce Vita (see previous post) long closed and the tables and chairs left outside because nobody in Stockholm was going to steal them; it would be a different case in the UK, I thought, as I passed the darkened restaurant and headed up the street towards my hotel, the Clarion Amarantem.

I messed around on the lap top and probably hit the sack around midnight, waking around 0530 and then heading down for breakfast a little later having decided not to shave until I'd eaten. Breakfast was a cacophony of chit-chat and clattering plates, very busy, lots of people and I wasn't impressed or prepared for it. Porridge, sliced pineapple and melon, a green tea with ginger and that was about it. I sat and read Climbers for a short while and now I'm back in the room, about to shower and get ready to check out and then fly home around lunch time (1310hrs to be precise). Generally speaking, time just disappears and if I don't get up from this desk now and set things in motion it'll be a huge rush.

Leaving Stockholm...

The shower here is rubbish. It leaks water all over the floor. I watched as the small towel I had placed on the tiles quickly soaked up the water that was falling on to it. And then, because there was water all over the floor, I had to shave whilst standing in the bathtub at an awkward angle. The tap in the sink was rubbish too as it worked on a kind of overly sensitive gear stick mechanism that turned hot and cold pretty quickly at the slightest touch. Function before form, I remembered a hotel designer once telling me, function before form. Clearly the Clarion didn't read the memo. Look, the hotel was alright, but because a lot of things simply pissed me off – the room was too big, the shower sprayed all over the floor, the breakfast was loud and clattering and not that good, there was no restaurant, just a bar offering – I won't be going back even if it was just a short walk to the central station.

I trundled my way down to the Arlanda Express, bought a ticket and boarded the train, then I fell asleep and miraculously woke up as the train reached the stop for Terminal 5. I checked in, secured myself a window seat and then swanned around. I had a cheese and ham sandwich at Caffé Ritazza and a cappuccino and then I went through passport control and now I'm in a Lavazza outlet with another cappuccino (I wanted a mint tea but there was no water) so I bought a bottle of still mineral water from which I am now sipping. I can't waste too much time sitting here writing this, mainly because there's not much to write about. I'm on the 1310hrs flight to London Gatwick and then I'll be home after a short train journey. I could get a cab from Gatwick but we'll see. The train's easier, to a degree, but the taxi just means sitting there and getting home. I'll probably train it. Anyway, that's about it, better stop writing, drink my coffee, sip my mineral water and then board the plane.

At Gatwick in the sun...

The flight was full but I managed to bag a window seat (22A) and, like the outbound flight on Tuesday, it was as smooth as you like. I ordered nothing and when I jumped off the other end and into the furnace-like heat of the UK's September scorcher, I felt as if I'd just landed in Greece, it was that hot. Taking a taxi would have meant waiting around for around an hour at the airport, possibly longer - and I was fed up with coffee shops - so I jumped on the train, called Natalie, who picked me up at South Croydon station and now here I am, back home, sipping a decaff PG Tips and feeling hot and increasingly sweaty in the heat. I might nip outside and continue with Climbers, but I figure the heat outside might be a little unbearable. Either way, I'm glad to be home.

Sweden is a great place and the weather over there was warm and sunny but not as sweltering as it is here. There was a warm breeze which made all the difference. Here, it's a dry heat and no breeze, but nobody dare complain as we've had a pretty crap summer, apart from June.

To Stockholm...

I can't stand technology. Just give me a receipt, I don't want one emailed to me, Friendo! But that's what was on offer as I sat in a taxi outside of Gatwick's South Terminal about to embark upon a trip to Stockholm. All very annoying. But that said, I've done it now and I've walked through the Society of the Spectacle without even stopping for a free tester. I didn't even want to be sitting here in The Grain Store restaurant eating granola and sipping a mint tea – for some reason I wasn't hungry – but the alternative was sitting 'out there' with my lap top resting, appropriately I suppose, on my lap. Give me a table any day. 

I could have ordered a pastry or a 'breakfast bap' but in all honesty it's best that I don't. So I settled for granola, yoghurt and berries and, yes, a mint tea. Haven't had one of them for a long while and it feels good. Normally I'd order a cappuccino, but perhaps I've turned a corner on coffee, who knows? Perhaps I'm back to the delicate touch of mint tea. 

At this stage in the proceedings there's not much to say. The Grain Store has filled out. People going places, just like me.

Inside Dolce Vita, Stockholm...great restaurant

The weather's been good. Very good. Clear skies, so I'm hoping for a decent flight, although, sadly, I've got an aisle seat. Seat 13D if you please. I'll see if I can get a window, but what's the betting it will be a 'full flight'? It always is and I hate that. "Sorry, sir, it's a full flight," they'll say and I'll sit there for over two hours unable to benefit from the view outside the window. My favourite flight of all time in this respect was Miami to Monterrey in Mexico back in 2019. It was about three hours in a smallish plane, but it was great.

Room 241, Clarion Amarantem, Stockholm

The gate for my flight to Stockholm wasn't going to be called until 0910hrs so I moseyed around looking at all the consumer electronics and realising I neither need nor crave any of them, similarly the aftershave and definitely not the wines and spirits, which look a little gaudy and downmarket in the same way that bags of crisps and other potato-based snacks look cheap and nasty when I find myself in their aisle at the supermarket. As I sit here now, at my desk in room 241 of the Clarion Amaranten in Stockholm – yes I've jumped ahead in time, but only temporarily – I notice a bag of crisps and a small bottle of red wine in front of me. It's a bit of a con because, well, putting aside the fact that I gave up boozing nearly six years ago and haven't touched a drop since, I was being made to think the food and drink was complimentary and could, I realised, quite easily have turned the screw-top and 'enjoyed' a glass without noticing that it would cost me 240KR. As for the GARDCHIPS, RÄFFLADE HAVSSALT (I'm guessing ready salted), there's no price attached to them so perhaps they are free. I'm leaving them well alone. Back in the day, however, I would have enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with a bag of crisps, even if the end result would be waking in the dead of night, heart racing and unable to get back to sleep. Apparently, it's common and nothing to be worried about, but oddly – or perhaps not oddly at all – since I gave up drinking it rarely happens.

View from room 241, Clarion Hotel

But let's go back to being at the South Terminal of London Gatwick Airport. I was wandering around, disinterested in what the Society of the Spectacle was pushing in front of me. I checked out the consumer electronics and couldn't really escape the gaudy bottles of spirits, but there was no way I was going to window shop in Superdry or any of the other clothes retailers. I simply wandered about feeling, it has to be said, slightly sorry for myself. Initially, it's always a wrench leaving home at the crack of dawn for a two-day trip or longer, so I called home and made small talk. Actually, let me qualify that a little bit, it's not always a wrench, there are many times when I look forward to a trip (and there are many) but sometimes it would be nice if I could be with my family. The flight was departing from Gate 10 so I made my way there while chatting on the phone. I was destined to sit in seat 13D and was getting that 'full flight' vibe from all the people queuing to board when I reached the gate. It turned out there were 80 vacant seats. I managed to bag myself an exit row aisle all to myself and with the weather outside the plane looking amazing I just knew the flight was going to be smooth and enjoyable: it was! I had an Earl Grey tea and a bottle of mineral water and read my book, Climbers by M John Harrison – a brilliant novel.

Once on the ground I stopped for lunch at the airport where I found a Caffé Ritazza and ordered a cheese and ham sandwich and a herbal tea of some sort that I couldn't quite identify. It didn't matter. Then I tried to find out where the hotel might be located and was told it was close to Stockholm Central Station so I jumped aboard the Arlanda Express and 18 minutes later I cabbed it to where I was staying, but only because of the cumbersome baggage I was hauling around, normally I try to walk it. When I got to room 241 I was pleased to note that I had some kind of apartment. The room had its own lounge area and two TVs, one in front of the bed, the other in the aforementioned lounge area in front of a huge sofa. I'd say it was good, but I had nobody to brag to as I was travelling alone on this trip. One thing about big rooms is that I never feel comfortable. I don't know about you, but if somebody told me to sleep in a huge grass field, I would choose a spot in the corner close to a hedge separating my field from the others. I wouldn't sleep anywhere else, like bang in the middle, as that would be too exposed. It's the same with big rooms. I found myself thanking God that the bed in my room was against the wall and not, like Victorian baths in some boutique hotels, stranded in the middle of the room. Had it been, I would have 'camped' in a corner somewhere.

A lonely table for one at Dolce Vita

I think tiredness makes me depressed – and let's not forget, I was up at 0530hrs this morning. As I walked along towards St Göran's Hospital with no particular plan in mind – I was just mooching – I found myself feeling a little pointless. I think it had a lot to do with the new buildings going up around a street called Franzengatan. New apartment blocks, a strong sense of renewal and an air of anticipation brought about by a sense of imminent switch-on, activation of the buildings and the surrounding area as a whole, it had yet to be plugged in, I thought, as I reached a kind of dead end and turned to retrace my steps. Somehow I didn't feel a part of things and it depressed me a little bit and I didn't know what to do or how to deal with it. There were no coffee shops to dive into, which would have diffused the situation a little as I could have ordered a cappuccino and resumed reading. Instead, I walked back to the hotel, hovered around in the room for a little while and then started thinking about dining (alone). There was always the hotel bar. The restaurant on the first floor was being refurbished, I was told, and the bar was serving food, but I thought I'd take a walk around in search of somewhere decent before admitting defeat and falling back on the hotel. Fortunately, I found Dolce Vita diagonally across from the hotel at Kungsholmsgatan 16. Red gingham table cloths, candles on every table, very cosy. You can't beat an Italian restaurant and I had a good feeling about this one. I perused the menu and eventually chose Bruchetta al Pomodoro to start followed by Salmone All Italiana. Sparkling mineral water and a coffee rounded off the meal and I forced myself not to have the Tiramisu (and felt great about resisting it!). I was the only person dining alone – I always am. I've dined alone in many an Italian restaurant: Da Bruno in Dusseldorf, Belini in Philadelphia, Bocconi in Brussels and countless others. In Dolce Vita, there were two other couples and a few people sitting outside under an awning enjoying the late summer heat. On my table, it was just me and my phone and I was left to my own thoughts of which there were many. 

Tasty starter at Dolce Vita

After paying the bill, I walked down to some water as the light of a great day began to fade and watched as a boat with a powerful, rumbling engine emerged like a gun ship from under the bridge I was standing on; it disappeared in to the distance a bit like that motorboat at the end of Tales of the Riverbank, a fantastic children's programme I used to watch as a kid, and I must say, re-watching the intro (especially the end bit when you see the motorboat carrying the hamster) almost brought a tear to my eye as I found myself thinking of mum, now 94, and how we used to sit and watch it together. If you want to see it, click here, and if you linger awhile at the end, you'll see another wonderful programme intro, Stingray. "Anything can happen in the next half hour!" I found myself looking at other YouTube videos including What's My Name, a track from the first Clash album which, in so many ways, summed up my state of mind when I reached the ripe old age of 19. I remember being 19 and going to the Nelson for a drink having bought an album by the Stranglers, the one with No More Heroes.

Time moves on, it's now 2123hrs and my hotel room is lit only by a desk lamp and a light in the vestibule. Now there's a strange word, 'vestibule'. It's one of those words, like 'gable' and 'buttress' that I've never really understood. In fact, I recently keyed them into Google Images to get a definitive meaning. Strange, isn't it, that you go through life not really understanding everything in front of you and not really needing to either until one day, curiosity finally catches up with you and like everything else, you wonder what the fuss was all about. Another word I have trouble with is 'cantilever'. I know, it's stupid, but this is me, it's the way I am, and if somebody said to me, 'what is a cantilever', I'd have trouble providing them with a clear verbal explanation...better check out Google Images, which I have done and I'm still none the wiser.

Main course at Dolce Vita...

There are loads of things I'd have trouble describing to somebody verbally and all the words I've mentioned above are in that ballpark and in all honesty it's not something worth worrying about. I know what my dad would say if he was reading this, he'd say something along the lines of 'you're not unique' – he said that a lot to me growing up and it helped, suddenly realising that there were always other people in the same boat and that whatever was bugging me, it was not something I was dealing with alone. It's always worth remembering: you're not unique, although, of course, in so many ways we're ALL unique, but dad was talking about day-to-day ailments and run-of-the-mill observations that everybody experiences, or thoughts we all have but often think, perhaps, that we're alone in our thinking. The reality is that whatever is on your mind, you can bet that many other people think the same way and in that sense, you're not unique. And how heartening it is when you mention something or other and somebody else says, 'I know what you mean, I feel like that too' or 'that's what I think'. I still find it pleasing when somebody says that to me as it's good to know that I'm not alone and I think that's what it's all about, not being alone, be it physically or mentally. This is all getting a little bit heavy.

Tales from the Riverbank. Stockholm at dusk.

Anyway, I suppose I ought to be thinking about chilling out and watching something on the television or even hitting the sack. I've got to be up with the lark tomorrow. I thought for a minute I'd be missing breakfast but no, breakfast will be served on a coach and you can't get much better than that, can you? Well, alright, breakfast downstairs in the restaurant would have been quite nice, but on a coach? It's an experience for sure*.

* As it turned out it wasn't so great. A paper bag carrying a small plastic bottle of orange juice, a filled croissant and a bowl of cereal none of us would eat because there was no spoon. It didn't matter, I eat too much anyway. In many ways it was a shame as most of those breakfast bags went to waste. I remember they were still on the coach when we embarked upon the return journey to Stockholm.