It had been the usual night with Dean, he amazed at my callowness, me at his sensitivity – lack of, so it was with a weary bleary head that I rose on Saturday. After a revivifying, but guilty, breakfast of bacon, egg, tomatoes, buttered toast and Cousin Julian’s Seville and grapefruit marmalade (it’s OK, I’m on statins), in fact it was so good that I’ve had to resist the temptation to capitalise it. Where was I? After breakfast and a small sit in front of the tv, I loaded the trusty steed, pedalled off to Euston and set off for the new house, for a sleepover to validate the insurance. I arrived and pedalled painfully up the hill (some hope for increasing fitness at least, let’s hope it will exceed my increasing decrepitude) and arrived, as I pulled onto the Astroturf (yes I have a front lawn I have to vacuum) my neighbour, John bounced into view, “Can I help y... Oh it’s you, can you put me in touch with your electrician?” This is the man who put “watch” into neighbourhood watch, all of which is quite gratifying. “You cycle too” a simple statement of fact, I can’t decide if this is indictment or approval but the addition of “too” may be telling (try the phrase out for yourself, there are multiple inflections you can apply to ”too”.”
I entered, counted the dead spiders (two but with a few emaciated brethren clinging to the ceiling, at least I think they’re clinging, I haven’t seen them move yet, perhaps five – I’ll leave the door open for a bit, see if we can attract some volunteer nutrition objects), sorted the postal wheat from chaff (it’s a lean year so far), ran a non-horticultural eye over the garden (the recent rain has done wonders for the grass, moss and dandelions that make up the back lawn – I missed the daffodils – isn’t that willowherb?-I really should grub THAT out, please let it not be ground-elder or that blue thing beginning with “P”......... periwinkle!), then, after a quick unpack of sleeping bags (yes bags – is May out yet? No – has the house been heated for two months? No- bags) remounted and went in search of Giant Tesco.
Which I found on the top of a hill up a particularly busy and nasty stretch of the A414, in fact so busy and nasty that I carried the bike over the footbridge rather than risk the right (and therefore cross-traffic, for those of you in uncivilised countries) turn to get to the carpark. Somewhat fazed by the journey, I attached steed to the trolley corral (bike parking – what that?) and set off away from the door, this left me with the option that, rather than being a twat, I had decided to look at the view of the leisure centre (though the sheer size and number of flumes has set me thinking about days off, outside school holidays). Consequently I turned and slid, oysterlike, into the maw of Tesco, I re-emerged (also potentially oysterlike) about 15 minutes later with a packet of liquorice allsorts (on offer), a bottle of fizzy pink wine (on offer and to celebrate my “arrival”) and a blow-up double mattress (which some of you may well be enjoying the company of – not you Roxy, you’ll be sleeping on top of something much more comfy, unless I lose a heck of a lot of weight).
My journey home was less busy but not much, Hemel Hempstead seems to be some sort of arterial anastamosis, but I arrived, l put the bike in the shed, I put the wine in the sink, I put the Allsorts in me and then I put most of me into blowing up the mattress. It took about an hour, I had to keep having a rest, during which time I started the heating and hot water system. The gas system turns on with the sort of explosion that will both wake the dead and have a lot of them chatting about , “That’s exactly what I heard and then I saw all these lights and some feathery bloke gave me this harp, well I’ve never been musical... and this ambrosia. Ambrosia! It’s like no rice pudding I’ve ever had. Anyway I was talking to Mrs Iscariot the other day and she said....” But at least it turns on.
Back to trusty steed and a run to find something to eat, I aim for a pub in Potten End, and end up in the Plough, the less poncey of the two I suspect, my arrival, with bike, fluorescent jacket, helmet etc provokes the usual banter but there’s no malice, so I settle in with a pint of “Brock” from Tring Brewery, which turns out to be a pint of brown bitter beer, and Pasta Alfredo, which turns out to be fusilli, garlic, chicken and salt, I’m not being disparaging it was pretty good but a bit salty (like me? Comments? Please yourselves!). Then I came back as the weather closed in and seated on my mattress, with my back to a radiator (whose thermostat valve I have to play maestrolike to tread the thin line between cooked and frozen), a toothglass of sparkling pink to my right and a chest full of asthma and plasticisers (the mattress inflation not the Alfredo) I started to write this. But what of tomorrow?
The central heating and water come on, it sounds like a broadcast of concrete manufacture, slightly off-station and beaming in from Ganymede, the radiators tick and bang with badly remembered expansion. It had been a cold night, not my coldest but cold enough, I listened to the gastro-intestinal protests of the plumbing for an hour or so and then immersed myself under running hot water. What the hell was I going to do now? It was the typical camping dilemma induced by no chair, I could lie flat until I got bored or my hands fell off if I wanted to read, sit cross-legged until my knees popped, sit on the floor with my back to the wall until my bum went numb, I tried all three in various combinations until Ten when I hoped a shop might be open for breakfast supplies, though without anything to cook them on (or with) breakfast would probably be cake.
Mercifully (perhaps not), the greasy spoon was open (and busy), so now I’m back, full-to-burstin’, waiting for the wine delivery (priorities, priorities) after which I shall trusty steed to see how far along the bluebells are (they’ll be perfect as I forgot the camera). While I wait, I’ll finish the book and do some desultory gardening, not being sure what is and isn’t weeds, if I had had the camera then I could at least have shown my experts, now I’ll probably have to drag them along by waving a corkscrew at them. I have decided to get some sort of bird-feeder though the lawn appears to be doing adequately for the neighbourhood thrush.
The booze arrived, I parked it, shut up shop and headed off for bluebell country, they were out, once again I regretted the lack of camera and naked girl but at least I didn’t ask for volunteers. A delightful amble through the woods turned into a sour debacle in the last two miles before the station when some young people decided they’d creep up on me and shout and sound the horn, oh it was hilarious (Y377 HEE if anyone knows how to trace them), I decided not to give them a piece of my mind when they pulled into a garage a couple of hundred yards later I didn’t want to get blood on the tarmac – particularly mine. Why is it you’re never carrying a shotgun when you need one? Later they overtook me again, restricting themselves to a single epithet, I was amazed from their demeanour I didn’t think they were capable of speech. Cycling back to the flat from the station, a group of kids strolled out in front of me to criticise my, “Wanky hat” God it’s good to be out on the open road, the sun in your eyes and insects between your teeth. I’m writing this at the new canalside cafe, which from its prices has a lot of overheads, I may have to go out for a pint when I get in.
I entered, counted the dead spiders (two but with a few emaciated brethren clinging to the ceiling, at least I think they’re clinging, I haven’t seen them move yet, perhaps five – I’ll leave the door open for a bit, see if we can attract some volunteer nutrition objects), sorted the postal wheat from chaff (it’s a lean year so far), ran a non-horticultural eye over the garden (the recent rain has done wonders for the grass, moss and dandelions that make up the back lawn – I missed the daffodils – isn’t that willowherb?-I really should grub THAT out, please let it not be ground-elder or that blue thing beginning with “P”......... periwinkle!), then, after a quick unpack of sleeping bags (yes bags – is May out yet? No – has the house been heated for two months? No- bags) remounted and went in search of Giant Tesco.
Which I found on the top of a hill up a particularly busy and nasty stretch of the A414, in fact so busy and nasty that I carried the bike over the footbridge rather than risk the right (and therefore cross-traffic, for those of you in uncivilised countries) turn to get to the carpark. Somewhat fazed by the journey, I attached steed to the trolley corral (bike parking – what that?) and set off away from the door, this left me with the option that, rather than being a twat, I had decided to look at the view of the leisure centre (though the sheer size and number of flumes has set me thinking about days off, outside school holidays). Consequently I turned and slid, oysterlike, into the maw of Tesco, I re-emerged (also potentially oysterlike) about 15 minutes later with a packet of liquorice allsorts (on offer), a bottle of fizzy pink wine (on offer and to celebrate my “arrival”) and a blow-up double mattress (which some of you may well be enjoying the company of – not you Roxy, you’ll be sleeping on top of something much more comfy, unless I lose a heck of a lot of weight).
My journey home was less busy but not much, Hemel Hempstead seems to be some sort of arterial anastamosis, but I arrived, l put the bike in the shed, I put the wine in the sink, I put the Allsorts in me and then I put most of me into blowing up the mattress. It took about an hour, I had to keep having a rest, during which time I started the heating and hot water system. The gas system turns on with the sort of explosion that will both wake the dead and have a lot of them chatting about , “That’s exactly what I heard and then I saw all these lights and some feathery bloke gave me this harp, well I’ve never been musical... and this ambrosia. Ambrosia! It’s like no rice pudding I’ve ever had. Anyway I was talking to Mrs Iscariot the other day and she said....” But at least it turns on.
Back to trusty steed and a run to find something to eat, I aim for a pub in Potten End, and end up in the Plough, the less poncey of the two I suspect, my arrival, with bike, fluorescent jacket, helmet etc provokes the usual banter but there’s no malice, so I settle in with a pint of “Brock” from Tring Brewery, which turns out to be a pint of brown bitter beer, and Pasta Alfredo, which turns out to be fusilli, garlic, chicken and salt, I’m not being disparaging it was pretty good but a bit salty (like me? Comments? Please yourselves!). Then I came back as the weather closed in and seated on my mattress, with my back to a radiator (whose thermostat valve I have to play maestrolike to tread the thin line between cooked and frozen), a toothglass of sparkling pink to my right and a chest full of asthma and plasticisers (the mattress inflation not the Alfredo) I started to write this. But what of tomorrow?
The central heating and water come on, it sounds like a broadcast of concrete manufacture, slightly off-station and beaming in from Ganymede, the radiators tick and bang with badly remembered expansion. It had been a cold night, not my coldest but cold enough, I listened to the gastro-intestinal protests of the plumbing for an hour or so and then immersed myself under running hot water. What the hell was I going to do now? It was the typical camping dilemma induced by no chair, I could lie flat until I got bored or my hands fell off if I wanted to read, sit cross-legged until my knees popped, sit on the floor with my back to the wall until my bum went numb, I tried all three in various combinations until Ten when I hoped a shop might be open for breakfast supplies, though without anything to cook them on (or with) breakfast would probably be cake.
Mercifully (perhaps not), the greasy spoon was open (and busy), so now I’m back, full-to-burstin’, waiting for the wine delivery (priorities, priorities) after which I shall trusty steed to see how far along the bluebells are (they’ll be perfect as I forgot the camera). While I wait, I’ll finish the book and do some desultory gardening, not being sure what is and isn’t weeds, if I had had the camera then I could at least have shown my experts, now I’ll probably have to drag them along by waving a corkscrew at them. I have decided to get some sort of bird-feeder though the lawn appears to be doing adequately for the neighbourhood thrush.
The booze arrived, I parked it, shut up shop and headed off for bluebell country, they were out, once again I regretted the lack of camera and naked girl but at least I didn’t ask for volunteers. A delightful amble through the woods turned into a sour debacle in the last two miles before the station when some young people decided they’d creep up on me and shout and sound the horn, oh it was hilarious (Y377 HEE if anyone knows how to trace them), I decided not to give them a piece of my mind when they pulled into a garage a couple of hundred yards later I didn’t want to get blood on the tarmac – particularly mine. Why is it you’re never carrying a shotgun when you need one? Later they overtook me again, restricting themselves to a single epithet, I was amazed from their demeanour I didn’t think they were capable of speech. Cycling back to the flat from the station, a group of kids strolled out in front of me to criticise my, “Wanky hat” God it’s good to be out on the open road, the sun in your eyes and insects between your teeth. I’m writing this at the new canalside cafe, which from its prices has a lot of overheads, I may have to go out for a pint when I get in.
