Apr 8 2012

If You Go Down To The Bakers Arms Today…

The Bakers Arms as I like to remember it...

‘Closed,’ said Velocipede.

‘Closed?’

‘Looks like it to me,’ he insisted.

I sighed a little. We were just passed The Cricketers, having decided to move on from an unfortunately overcrowded Glue Pot. There was room on the benches outside, but the evening wasn’t a warm one, so without seats available inside, we decided to move on. It was something we rarely did on our monthly meetings.

I wasn’t too keen to move on because the Entire Stout was on, one of my favourite beers, but didn’t fancy having to stand all night. Well, the old back was playing up. It was part of the reason I was getting back into – slowly, mind you, doesn’t do to push these things – walking to work. Trying to re-establish a level of fitness seemed to be provoking the old spine and I’ve never been all that keen on Mr Pain.

Anyway, back to the point…

We got closer to the Bakers Arms. I was telling myself that it never looked all that bright a place from the outside. But then, it’d been at least a year since I’d last been in there; perhaps more.

We were within twenty yards of the Bakers Arms.

‘No, it’s alway been a little dull where the light’s concerned. See, there are thick coverings over the windows stopping the light getting out.

‘Hm.’

Velocipede was dubious. I was getting less convinced of my own spiel the nearer I got. I was beginning to feel disappointment coming on.

‘Quiet, too,’ added Velocipede.

‘It’s never been the noisiest of pubs anyway,’ I replied, still not giving up.

‘Hm,’ Velocipede responded.

‘No, not the Bakers, it can’t close. I can remember many a happy time Blameworthy and I spent in here. One of only a few pubs in Swindon we drank in with any great regularity. Yes, back in the 80s, when we were in our twenties. Use to put away a great deal of 3Bs then….how I ever got up for work in the morning I don’t know. Often three mid-week sessions…’

‘Closed,’ retorted Velocipede as we go the entrance, cutting me off in mid ‘memory lane’.

It did look dark, he had a point, darker than I remembered.

‘Two sets of doors,’ I said, ‘not so easy to see the light through.’

I could be quite stubborn sometimes, especially when I didn’t want to face an unpleasant truth. I tried the door. It wouldn’t budge.

‘Closed!’ I mumbled.

‘Penny’s dropped,’ mumbled Velocipede.

I pretended not to hear.

‘Odd thing, though,’ Velocipede added. ‘The opening times are pasted up on the inside of the window.’

‘Probably months out of date,’ I sighed, trying to get back to reality, no matter how unpleasant.

‘Says spring opening times. It’s spring now isn’t it,’ mused Velocipede.

He was right. I looked at the opening times. It should’ve been open. I looked at the couple of benches out the front. I wondered it Blameworthy and I ever used those in the hundreds – possibly a thousand times we went into the place? I couldn’t remember, but then we’re talking over twenty years ago; possibly more.

A few memories drifted over. I’d played for the darts team very briefly. I’d been recruited by a chap Blameworthy and I referred to only as The Cap; short for Captain. Not particularly original, but there you go.

Blameworthy and I often played darts in there, while consuming copious amounts of three Bs. There was a bench seat along the wall with the window to the outside world and the dartboard wall met it some twelve or more feet from the table we always tried to get. Nobody sat on the bench when we played darts, but then once you’ve narrowly missed losing an eye, you do tend to be a little more particular where you sit.

I must’ve been having one of my better nights when the Cap came along to join in. We didn’t usually like to get involved in groups or play anyone but each other, but we there were no plans to move on, so Cap was in.

We played a couple of games when Cap asked if I’d like to play for the Bakers Team. I must’ve been a tad drunk – six pints of 3Bs tends to do that – because I agreed.

At that point Cap noticed Blameworthy was finishing one of the pint’s on the table. Cap’s permanent frown seemed to get even deeper than normal.

‘That’s my pint,’ he said indignantly to Blameworthy.

Blameworthy frowned slightly as he finished the last mouthful, looked at the glass, wiped his bearded chops, then looked back at the table. He picked up another half full pint of beer and said: ‘This must be mine then,’ and proceeded to empty that glass of beer as well.

So unashamedly did he do it that Cap was left there staring at his empty glass. I was caught between amazement that he’d actually done what he did and amusement at the recreation of a sketch I’m sure we once saw on a Benny Hill show.

I think it was at that point I distracted Cap about the next darts game and where it would be played. Shortly after that I believe we left. I don’t remember Blameworthy and I ever playing a game of darts with Cap again, nor seeing Cap let his pint of beer leave his site when Blameworthy was around.

The Bakers Arms was also where Blameworthy and I were subject to a challenge we just couldn’t resist.

There was a period of time in the early 1980s when the Bakers Arms was Managed by a chap called Hummer and his wife. In my mind, probably the best landlord the place ever had. Hummer had a predilection for singing as he went around the bar, or collected glasses or closed the curtains. ‘Paper Roses’ was a favourite, as was ‘Jealous Guy’, the latter belted out in a style somewhat similar to Bryan Ferry.

But what we found out in Hummer’s era was there was a group of locals who when time was called always hung back. Over a period of time we got curious about this and found out he served people he could trust after hours. Not strictly legal and a precedent which haunted quite a few landlords who followed.
Eventually, Blameworthy and I became part of that group and would often take advantage of a few extra pints after hours. However, we noticed we always left before any of the other privileged people did.

‘Wonder how long they go on before they close,‘ mused Blameworthy, one night when we left after putting away about ten pints. It was after 1am.
I shrugged. ‘Can’t be all that long.’

‘Hmm, I wonder.’

And wonder we did for quite some time. Then, one Summer night, a Friday, June 1983, which was unusual as we rarely went out at weekends, Blameworthy and I walked up to the bar in the Bakers Arms at around 8pm.

There weren’t all that many in the pub at this time, but we worked away at the beer and played some darts. Last orders came.

‘I’m going to keep going up until they stop serving us,’ said Blameworthy.

I gave Blameworthy the thumbs up, not because I couldn’t think of anything to say but because my mouth after ten pints was a little slow espousing the words quickly enough.

It was after finishing the thirteenth pint that Blameworthy came back from the bar, grinning.

‘They’ve refused to serve me!’

It’s not often either of us are happy when refused service at a public house, but on this occasion we felt we’d outlasted the landlord’s keenest to serve with our keenest to consume.

‘We did it then?’

‘Yep.’

(Please note that all the words spoken by Blameworthy and I at the time would have been slurred and really hard to understand after the aforementioned thirteen pints. However, as anyone who drinks above average amounts will tell you, if you and the person you are drinking consume equal amounts of beer, their ears are able to translate slurred and disjointed speech with such efficiency that either would think the other perfectly sober and remarkably eloquent.)

We walked home pleased with our victory. Last ones out and refused service!

I smiled to myself as the memories poured back into the old noggin. Velocipede and I were still strolling to and fro by the corner pub when I noticed my second disappointment of the evening.

The Bakers Arms sign remained in place, but above the side window were the words: Irish Pub.

Irish Pub? Irish Pub?

I sighed out loud, not a happy bunny, thinking that had it been open it would have had an Irish theme to it. Perish forbid! If I wanted to experience an Irish theme I’d go to Ireland, I’m sure they’re better at it than us. Besides, the thought of all that didily dee music quite turned my stomach.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike the Irish any more than any other nationality, but usually these sort of theme pubs tend to be insults to the type of pub they’re supposed to be emulating.

‘It’s closed, ha, ha!’

I don’t know about Velocipede but I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was the cackle of a laugh at the end of his pronouncement that did it, not his appearance. I’d seen the rather dumpy figure approaching through the shadows out of the corner of my eye.

Almost like a scene from the Exorcist...

‘It’s showing a Spring Openings time notice in the window.’

‘Closed! Been closed since a’fore Christmas…ha, ha!’ retorted the squat figure, with a head something like an egg with a crew cut.

The most curious thing about the head was that it appeared to have only one eye on the left hand side – his left hand side, that is. It wasn’t until he got a little closer that I notice he did have two eyes in the conventional positions either side of a straight nose. It was just that one eyes was squinting and the other wide open to, I guessed, compensate for narrower vision of the other.

‘Yep. Closed, ha, ha!’ he retorted again.

He reminded me of a Frankenstein assistant from the thirties films or indeed any mad scientist assistant who generally seemed to be saddled with the name Igor.

Our Igor paused about ten feet from us. It would have been closed had we not stepped back to maintain an exclusion zone of around ten feet.

This was getting to be rather much for me. The first blow was The Bakers Arms being closed, the second blow was at some point between my last visit and now it’d been given an Irish theme, and now we have a refuge from a thirties horror film.

‘Why did it close?’

‘Before Christmas, ha, ha!’

‘Do you know why?’ I repeated as he obviously didn’t understand the question first time around.

This time Igor shrugged.

‘Dunno, ha, ha!’

I wasn’t sure why the ‘ha, ha’ had to go on the end of every sentence or the accompanying cackle but on a dark night with little street lighting and near a closed pub, it was getting quite atmospheric. Unfortunately, not an an atmosphere I liked.

‘But it has a Spring Opening times notice…’ insisted Velocipede; who’d been the first to notice it was closed.

‘Closed last year, ha, ha!’

Velocipede and I looked at each other and shrugged. No Bakers Arms to sup in. Would it ever re-open? I was still trying to come to terms with the Duke of Wellington having closed down last year. It felt like someone had it in for my favourite drinking holes.

‘Whaaaahooo, ha, ha,’ Igor yelled out.

We jumped again, the cry going right through us, being so unexpected.

Igor was no longer interested in us but in three women about thirty yards away near to The Cricketers. One of the girls called out, slightly less demonstrably. The girls halted a while, looking to see who’d cried out.

Perhaps one of them was Mrs Igor and it was their ritual mating call?

They seemed to stare at Igor for a while, then as he got closer they went inside The Cricketers. I’m not sure whether that was where they were going to meet or so that they could avoid young Igor?

Velocipede and I, thwarted in our efforts to drink in The Bakers Arms, decided to go back to the rather crowded Glue Pot. Not a bad thing, the Entire Stout was on rather good form that night from my point of view and Velocipede had been enjoying his beer.

As we walked passed The Cricketers, Velocipede broke the silence that had formed.

‘Was he pissed or mentally challenged?’ he asked.

‘I would’ve said pissed if it wasn’t for the look in his eye and he could walk in a straight line!’ I replied.

We walked a dozen or so more paces.

‘Mentally challenged?’ I queried.

‘Well, a bloody nutter!’

‘Quite…’

Jan 29 2012

Nuisance Value

The Offending Fuse Box

First there was the washing machine. It was first installed in the Fitrambler Kitchen in 1999, and as I write is now twelve years old.

Unfortunately, as I said to the Pink Lady: “Things just aren’t built to last these days.”

She looked at me and sighed. “Twelve years is good for a washing machine.”

“I beg to differ. My ‘fridge is near on twenty-five years old and is still going,” I said; my fingers crossed behind my back, hoping it wouldn’t join the washing machine.

“Most washing machines these days don’t last more than four or five years, Fitrambler.”

My eyebrows shot up so far they almost left my forehead, fortunately m cap was there to stop them. “Five years! Five bloody years? Is that what I’ve got to look forward to? My next washing machine only lasting five years?”

The stare I got told me what I needed to know. A five year cycle on washing machines whether I liked it or not.

“It’s a bloody con! That’s all I can say!”

“The trouble with you, Fitrambler, is you just hate opening your wallet unless it’s for beer or gadgets!”

“I resent that remark.”

“Then buy a washing machine!”

“I’ll be looking soon…”

“This’ll go on for months just like it did with the bike.”

“Yee of little faith. I’ll get one sorted out. I’ve already spoken to Neatentidy and he’ll fit it for me.”

“You can always get the shop you buy it from to do that!”

“Well, Neatentidy fitted in the other one and will know his way around the connections…”

“You mean he won’t charge you and the company will…”

“You have a suspicious mind. And it’s not strictly true. He designed the kitchen, remember, so he’s better placed to get the new one connected. It’s a matter of trust rather than money.”

The Pink Lady gave me the look that always told me she wasn’t convinced.

When it came to doing the washing I felt sure I’d seen a laundrette near me recently. The last time I needed to use a laundrette was for about six months in 1999. There was a laundrette ten minutes away for many years but two weeks before I needed it the bloody thing burnt down. The one I had to use was just over twenty-five minutes walk away, which meant fifty minutes walking time and just over an hour to do the washing. It was Summer when I began but by the time I was nearing the end – when the new washing machine was due to be plumbed in – it was dark nights, cold or wet and the novelty of the walk had quickly worn off.

So, the following Sunday I looked for the laundrette I was sure I’d seen near to home; although the cynical part of me felt I probably imagined it. However, within five minutes I’d found it and returned home to get the washing.

Once I entered the laundrette the relief was short-lived. First I realised I hadn’t brought any washing powder or conditioner; so straight away was forced to part with £1.50 to buy some from the chap running the place. Then I realise it wasn’t going to be a simple matter, like a shop, going in, get what you want and get out. I’d forgotten about the previous experiences with a laundrette. There’s no guarantee that there will be a washing machine free, the wash takes about twenty-nine minutes and then you’ve got to hope one of the driers will be free immediately after, or the time in there is extended even further.

Needless to say, I had to wait ten minutes for a washing machine which would be big enough to take the amount of washing I’d brought, then there seemed to be one hell of a bigger queue for the driers; mainly due to most people using the place for just the driers after doing the actual wash at home.

I was in there for nearly two hours and parted with a total of £7.50. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences and it made me shudder to think I was going to have to go through this every week until I bought a new washing machine.

Still, I’d get the washing machine organised next week…

But I didn’t. Work was busy so I never got around to having a full lunch break so never got time to check the internet and I was getting home in the evenings after 7pm most nights so by the time I’d eaten and washed up, I was too tired to bother.

By the following week I’d agreed to do another job, a change from the usual. From the 28th November I would work at another site 2pm until 10pm. I was offered the 6am to 2pm shift first off, but somehow the thought of having to get up at 4am in the morning in order to get in on time for the start of the shift held little by way of appeal..

The secondment would be for about four weeks and would involve managing a team of Temps. It was also at a site the opposite side to where I normally worked in the town.

The following weekend, I got up early on the Sunday, after I’d decided to Something like two weeks later I got up early on a Sunday morning, I’d decided to get the washing out of the way early. Come back for dinner, wash up and then that left the whole afternoon free.

It sounded like a plan.

I was up around 8am, had breakfast and once finished I idled away time until the laundrette opened. Things went off-plan when I let myself get caught up in shredding papers and sorting out recycling rubbish for the bin men on Wednesday. So involved, that it was around 11.30 that I’d remembered the planned early visit to the laundrette.

I thought about dashing off, then remembered that there was no way to be sure how long I’d be in the place, and the old stomach hated to be kept waiting beyond mid-day for its Sunday feed. So I decided to do lunch first.

A quick meal, fish, sweet corn, carrots and potatoes. I got the stuff out of the ‘freezer and placed the fish on a tray and into the oven. I switched on the oven, the clock light went out, then came on and then went out again.

I shrugged, I wasn’t trying to time the cooking so what did it matter. Then, I realised I couldn’t hear the fan from the over. The light wasn’t on inside the oven either. Strange. So I then tried the hob. No heat.

If it hadn’t been that I’d seen the clock on for a few seconds, I would have thought I’d forgotten to turn on the cooker at the socket. I did check the socket, just to be sure, but it was switch on. The ‘fridge also worked off that circuit, so I put my ear to the ‘fridge to listen for it making a noise. It wasn’t. Great.
But all was not lost. It was, I decided, not a really a big deal. So I got the toolbox out, took hold of a screwdriver and fuse wire and opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs. I could see the appropriate fuse carrying a slight brown stain. It confirmed it. The fuse had blown. Been there before, earlier in the last decade the lights’ fuse went through a phase of blowing. The trouble was, then I wasn’t as well organised as I am now. I did have the right screwdriver and the fuse wire but not in an easily (or indeed known) assessable place.

I took hold of the offending fuse and within split-second of its removal, it fell to bits in my hand.

I wasn’t happy, hence I said out loud: “How terribly inconvenient.” Or words meaning more or less the same thing.

After a few minutes, after the pain in my toe died down – I kicked something which hadn’t seemed all that hard but had been – I decided to take stock. What was the worse thing about the situation?

No Cooker. No fridge. Hmm, well, no cooker wasn’t the end of the world short term. But the fridge was a problem. This fuse problem had hit just after I had filled it up with food and now it would slowly defrost.

Even my capacious appetite would have a problem shovelling that lot down within a few days.

Then of course a touch of common sense intruded on the blind panic. Whereas the cooker was part of the socket itself, the ‘fridge plugged into the socket. So, all I needed to do was plug it into another socket. And as luck would have it , there was a double socket a less than eighteen inches away. Only one plug in use and that was for the microwave.

So, I unplugged the ‘fridge and tried to plug it into the other socket. The lead wasn’t long enough.

A glance to the heavens; thwarted again!

I thought for a few seconds and came up with another solution. I got a spare extension lead. It wasn’t ideal, but I plugged the ‘fridge in and smiled as I waited for the ‘fridge to burst into life…

It didn’t.

I listened but the fridge didn’t make a sound. Great. So the ‘fridge was screwed now as well.

I swore, decided to do the washing at the laundrette, I couldn’t be bothered to deal with it now. Not that I was sure I knew how to deal with it.

I got two paces inside the dining room and there was a shudder and the fridge kicked into action. It must have been trying to piss me off even more than I was already pissed off.

So, a little relieved I went to the laundrette, which seemed more packed out than usual and so it took a record two hours to get the washing done.

I was still in a bit of a mood when I got in, very hungry. So, I decided I’d have to microwave the fish and microwave oven chips instead of the other vegetables I’d intended to have. It was either that or crunch my way through frozen fish and chips.

I was sure that the Pink Lady recommended a nice hot bath to relieve stress. I usually did the bath thing in the evening on a Sunday but decided late afternoon was ok.

So upstairs I toddled and switched on the emersion heater, then went downstairs and looked up the route to the place I’d be working at on 28th November.
I went back forty minutes later and started to run the hot tap, which after five minutes was still pumping out cold water. Oh great! Had the fuse gone on that as well? I opened the cupboard and looked at the light near the switch. It was on so the fuse couldn’t have gone.

The only other cause I could think of was that the element had gone. It would be the fourth in the twenty-five years I’d lived in the house. The water being hard, tends to clog them up, or so I’ve been told.

OK. No bath. Kettle on and a body wash. Oh fun.

Before that another pressing need had to be taken care of. I sat on the thrown (for want of a politer term) and reflected on the day. It hadn’t been one of my best and I was hoping this was the end of it.

I’d just finished the paperwork (being polite again), when the toilet seat broke. It was leaning that did it…

I got up from my undignified position – being on the floor, trousers around your ankles and your arm through a toilet seat – and felt like throwing the toilet seat. The only trouble was, with my luck at the moment, I’d throw it at the inside wall and it would bounce back and go through the double-glazed windows!
I’ve never been must of a DIY enthusiast, I’m more of a GSE person – Get Someone Else…

However, when I mentioned my predicament to Neatentidy, he offered to come to the rescue.

Of course, being without a cooker wasn’t an idea situation. The amount of times I was forced to consume takeaway curries or Chinese…well, it was just torture.

Nov 18 2011

The Morning After

Leaving the Hotel...

As befits a man of middle years I got up about three times in the night and each time reminded myself that I was in London. It was to stop myself from having a Patrick MaGoohan moment. However, one look out of the window would show me I wasn’t in a village I couldn’t recognised, with some over-grown balloon chasing me through the streets. Besides, I hadn’t resigned from my job as yet. Finally, at just after 9am, I got out of bed for the final time. Although I was up several time during the night the bed was surprisingly comfortable. I felt I could have slept on another couple of hours. I finished off the orange juice I bought last night, and decided to have as shower. It’d been a hot night. By the time I was dried and dressed I’d mapped out what I was going to do until my return train left at 2.27pm. One of the most important things was to get breakfast. It wasn’t included in the stay so I needed to find somewhere to eat. Yesterday, on the way to the hotel I’d spotted quite a few places to eat although most were mid-day and evening meals, so I wasn’t sure where I was going to have the breakfast or what I wanted, although the full English did cross my mind several times. One of the other things was to walk to Paddington at a reasonable pace so that I could have a good look round; I wasn’t sure when I’d get the opportunity to come to London again. I’d been to that part of London but it was some years ago, and I believe it was a booze-hound trip with Blameworthy. By about 2pm on such trips I’d be hard pressed to work out where I’d been all morning and be barely sober long enough to remember much about the evening with any geographical clarity… Ah, those were the days…The 1980s… It was the feeling of size that always went through my mind, the amount of floors the house had, the very width of them. Kensington High Streethad been no exception when I walked it yesterday. The there was the noise, the smell of car fumes and lots and lots of people. It’s always been a place I like to visit but I wouldn’t ever want to live there. It was 10.30am and my time was up in the hotel, time to check out and leave. As before I walked down half a dozen flights of steps, due to my phobia about lifts. I always felt they would get trapped between floors, which would be bad enough if they did, but going in a lift with someone you know… Well, friends tend to view me in slightly different light. It’s probably down to the way I stand in the corner of the lift, eyes two inches from the wall and whimpering incessantly throughout the ride…

Three attempts and still a car got in the way. The Goat.

It was a bright but cool morning and I decided I would get breakfast at the first place that took my fancy; somewhere not too busy. I set the iPhone to show me the most direct route and headed towards Paddington. I stopped a few times to take some pictures. Of course the ‘spoil-a-picture-taskforce’ was on hand to get in the way, so the potential for a decent photo was reduced to a bare minimum. I only managed a couple of shots of pubs in Kensington High Street, before I turned off to go through Hyde Park to Paddington. I did managed to get some decent pictures as I went through there, along with some of the Albert Memorial. Despite feeling hungry, it was approaching twelve midday and I still hadn’t eaten. Most of the places I passed either didn’t look open for business, just cleaning themselves after the previous night’s activities. I ended up in Paddington before I made my choice. There was an Angus Steakhouse, and for a while I toyed with the idea of combining breakfast and dinner. But on looking at the prices of the steak I settled for the full English. It seemed reasonable at around eight quid. I found a seat, although not by a window, gave me a view of the bright sunny outside world. Not overly picturesque, but certainly better than staring at a wall. I ordered the full English and an orange juice, then pulled out the old Kindle and downloaded the Sunday edition of the Independent. Thought I might as well catch up on what was happening in the world. There weren’t many people in the Steakhouse. There was a chap near to the door at a window seat. He was quite fidgety, and gripped a knife and fork in each hand, seemingly ready to tuck in as soon as the plate was shoved in front of him. He seemed to have that sort of look, the one you see in the eyes of monkeys at a zoo when they realise there’s humans outside with food. He made me feel I was glad I wasn’t the waiter; I would be in fear of losing part of my arm as soon as I put down the plate, if I didn’t move it back quickly enough. Of course, having an overactive imagination it also went through my mind that he was some sort of terrorist and had planted a bomb nearby and was just waiting for it to go off, just to see the results of his actions. Hence why he was so nervous. There were two others a few tables up from the nervy bloke. They were caught up in a really animated conversation. They made me think of the Eric Sykes film Rhubarb, Rhubarb, where all the people seem to be saying was, well, rhubarb. Except it was just noises I could hear, not really anything that sounded like words I could understand. I began to think the old lugs might need their regular rebore… The orange juice arrived, then ten minutes later the full English. I have to say it wasn’t as good as the breakfasts the Pink Lady and I have at Brooks in Highworth, but it wasn’t bad. Two hash browns, mushrooms, beans – in their own side dish -, egg, half a good sized tomato, sausage, short but fat and bacon, topped off with two slices of white bread toast. The bacon was quite thick and the sausage was really good. The Pink Lady, I believe, would have approved of the sausage; and believe me she’s fussy about the type of sausage that passes her lips! It was pleasant, a nice respite and with the sun shining I felt rather good. It made me wonder why I didn’t do things like this more often. I also reflected it would have been rather good if the Pink Lady could have come along. We could have extended both Saturday and Sunday; that is book an earlier train for arrival and a later train for departure.

The Pride Of Paddington

Unfortunately, the Pink Lady is not a fan of The Persuaders!Still, nobody’s perfect, so I’d made the arrangements without including her. The breakfast filled the gap rather well and I ordered an Americano afterwards. The coffee being rather good, I took my time over it and in between reading The Independent and watching the world go by. By now the nervy bloke had been served with his steak and was tucking into it as though it was his first meal in ages. Such gusto and enthusiasm must have served as a good advert for the Steakhouse. Although I’d been in there for around half an hour, the other animated blokes still hadn’t been served with food; still working their way through what looked like a couple of mineral waters; either that or half a bottle of vodka each… Of course, had they ate like they talked then must people around them and the windows would have been given a share in their meals. I paid up, the final bill coming to £13.25. It wasn’t bad, I thought as I packed up my things and left, not for London. Outside I checked my watch and found I had just under two hours to go before my train would leave. I decided to walk round, work off the breakfast and take some pub photos to take back to show Blameworthy…

The Dickens Tavern

The pattern was very much like earlier, every time I tried to take a photo cars or vans got in the way. Bloody things; damn well think they own the roads! Still, I suppose, if the quality turns out ok then a little messing about in Photoshop might correct the problem. One photo, the one of the Dickens Tavern, I rather caught a young woman by surprise. Probably who the old fart was with the camera; either that or frightened she’d just got herself a stalker…

The Mitre

As it came up to 1pm, I realised I’d been on my feet – with a half hour exception in the Angus steakhouse – for about three hours. I needed to find somewhere to sit, especially as it’d clouded over and was beginning to spit with rain. I found a spot quite quickly and sat down. From a shop on the way I bought a thin notebook and wrote up a little about this weekend. I should have brought the iPad with me for making notes on but I didn’t want to leave it unattended in the hotel. While I was there a touch of mischief descended on me and I bought a stamp and a postcard. I found a post box, wrote out a message to the Pink Lady and sent it. I felt it might amuse.

The Sawyers Arms

It began to rain, and didn’t stop for about twenty minutes. Luckily bench I was on was under a tree; I kept quite dry. I completed some blog notes and about fifteen minutes later the clouds moved away and the sun was out again. It was about twenty minutes after this I was in Paddington station. Not as clouded as yesterday but crowded enough. As I checked the train times I decided I needed a coffee, which was a little bit of a mistake because I then saw food; hunger suddenly echoed in the old brain box, although probably a fake hunger and I succumbed to an Italian meat ball sub, coated with a tomato and herb sauce. The departure boards told me that the train was now ready for boarding and I went to find my seat… It was time to go home. I told myself I should make a trip to London more often…

Oct 30 2011

Moore To See

I suppose it really hit home when I opened the letter from Lord Brett Sinclair, with the Gold Napoleon ticket inside. I was going. So, confirmed I made the arrangements to go to London on the 10th September…

The Letter From Lord Brett Sinclair

So when I left home on the 10th I felt as though I was well organised; nothing left to chance. It was 11.45 and I was over half way to the Swindon Train Station. It was then, as I checked my iPhone for messages, I realised the charge was down to 65%. I would need to charge that when I got to the hotel…

Then I remembered I hadn’t packed my charger!

I thought about going back but decided against it. It would have meant a hurried journey to the Station. Also, I was sure it would last until I got home tomorrow…well, fairly sure….well, ok, I did not think I would need it urgently if it ran out…

I was off to London and I could not remember the last time I went to London. Well, if you do not include Paddington Station, where I stopped a couple of times this year to wait for a tube train to take me to the Greenford arm of the Company I work for.

I used the service where you collect your tickets from the machine at the station. I have to admit I am not over impressed with the bloody things. I mean, what if they had a tantrum and decided not to give you your tickets…

Well, it was funny I should mention that. I looked at the booking number on my iPhone note pad, Then I put my debit card in and nothing. The option to buy or collect never came up.

Great!

Out came the debit card and I tried again….and again….and again….and again. The Corporal Jones in me was beginning to surface…

Finally, after trying every conceivable way of putting the card in, it worked with the way I put it in the first time.

Cheers!

I entered the number only to be told it was not recognised. Three more tries and the machine had obviously got its sight back because it recognised the number I keyed and the message came up:

“Please wait for your tickets.”

As if I needed to be told!

I moved away from the machine. I was now suspicious and decided to check the tickets before I went any further. Were they all there, were they printed correctly? After what I had been through my confidence level was not high.

Now the second hurdle of the day. I got to the machine stations had put in all over the country whose only purpose, from my experience, is to assist passengers to miss their trains. Of all the journeys I have made since they installed the bloody things only twice has the ticket opened the barriers; nearly every time the guard has to let me through with his over-ride ticket.

The same thing happened today and I got about twenty feet from the machine when I was called back. Time was running out and the last thing I needed was some officious guard…

“Sir, sir,” she cried.

I turned round rather impatiently and I noticed she was holding something, but didn’t really register what it was.

“Is this your wallet,” she asked

“No,” was my first answer, then I looked more closely. It was!

My manners improved here, somewhat, and I thanked her after telling her some of the things that were in it. That was careless and could have made a big difference to the day I had planned out.

I thank her a couple of times more and then dash off to the platform.

The weather, when I got up looked quite bright, now it was dull. As I waited on the Station, I wondered if I would regret not bringing a my Columbo style raincoat. I shrugged. It was too bloody late now.

The train turned up on time – a pleasant surprise – and having got a reserved seat I did not hurry too much. I was placed on an Aisle seat and was next to some chap who was reading a football magazine. A little further up the train were some youths wearing football shirts.

I began to think. Why did they do that, wear football shirts? I suppose it was a tribal thing; bit like national flags. I looked at an overweight, seat busting chap, thinking how big the sizes must go up to? An injury in their favourite team and suddenly there is an announcement:

“Will the fat bastard in the team shirt report to the team manager…he’s needed to replace our star striker!”

Hmm. Ok. Too much time on my hands…

I decided to read for the hour or so I would be on the train. I removed my Amazon Kindle and opened up ‘The Man With The Golden Gun’ by Ian Fleming; the last Bond novel written by the original author. Over the last couple of months I had been re-reading all the James Bond books again.

The train journey passed by quite quickly, and as we drew into Paddington I looked out of the window to see high-rise flats, most of which displaying the week’s laundry over the balcony. One had a bike. I thought about living in one of those high rises, especially with my fear of lifts and insistence on taking the stairs. By the time I would have got the bike down all those flights of stairs I would have been too tired to ride it!

Again, I avoided the rush and stayed seated until most people piled off. Then, once on the platform I needed the toilet. I found it quite quickly and looked at the price. Thirty pence.

Hey ho!

I got in, walking to the left, which the sign says is the way in. By the turnstile where you put your money in, is a chap, in a chair, looking relaxed.

“Go in the other way,” he says.

“Thought this was the way in,” I smiled.

“It is, but you need to go in through the way out.”

“Right…” I said, dubiously. I had never been one for riddles…

I turned round and went to the way out and got to the turnstile. I could not get my coins in because it was blocked with coins. I fiddled with it for a good ten minutes, the pressure in my bladder increasing. I was rapidly approaching the Red Indian war-dance stage of wanting to go.

Then some chap from behind just strolled through the turnstile. It was not locked and dependent on coins to release it. I watched two other blokes walk through before the urge in me focused my mind and I dashed in and to the nearest cubical, nearly knocking down to other blokes on the way. When you have got to go, you have got to go!

I stood there for around three minutes or more, my eyes glazed over as I emptied my bladder. The simple pleasures in life are often the best…

Once out of Paddington Station the changeable weather decided sun. I could live with that. I figured it might be a good idea to check out exactly where the venue for my evening in London was in relation to my hotel. I wanted to make sure I would allow enough time to get there later; I hate to rush.

I put the postcode in on the iPhone map app and it plotted the route for me, telling me how far and how long it should take me on foot. The positive was the route took me through Hyde Park, a lot of people about either jogging or walking. There were quite a few families about and events which seemed to be catering for them.

It was Kent House in Rutland Gardens that I was looking for. After thirty minutes or so I found it, tucked down a side-street, with a barrier and gatehouse vetting the cars who came and left.

A Nice Walk To The Venue Via Hyde Park

At around 6pm tonight it would be hosting an event for a company called Network. It was through this Company over the last half-dozen or so years that I managed to collect numerous DVD collections of some of my favourite ITC series of the sixties and seventies. Series like The Saint, The Champions, Man In A Suitcase and many of the Gerry Anderson TV Series along with The Sweeney.

Tonight I would be attending the launch of the 40th Anniversary of The Persuaders! To mark this event there would be a showing of two episodes of the new digitally re-mastered series. The two episodes had been chosen by Sir Roger Moore, who would be at the event that night and was probably the main reason I decided to go.

At the entrance to Rutland Gardens was a gatehouse with a guard working the barrier. I decided to make sure I was at the right place so went and spoke to him.

“Hello,” I said, being all for original openings. “But is Kent House down there?”

“Yes, sir, first building.”

“I’m attending an event by Network DVD tonight…”

The guard frowned. That caused a tingle to run the length of my spin. Had I got it wrong? Surely not? I checked my ticket – probably for the hundredth time. No, it was all set up for today…

The Gold Napoleon Ticket

“Yes, it’s being attended by Sir Roger Moore…” I said, old name dropper me.

Another frown, then a “Really.”

He looked up a list, then smiled at me. “Ah yes, hadn’t noticed that before. I only got on an hour or so ago. We don’t get told in advance. His driver is booked in. He’s been here before for some other event, some sort of awards, I think.”

It was my turn to say: “Really?”

“Yes, very nice bloke.”

“I’ve heard that,” I replied.

“Yes, that night he’d been inside for a couple of hours and then came out with a plateful of food and a drink for the driver outside. Didn’t have to bring it himself, could’ve sent someone else.”

We talked for a couple of minutes then I decide to walk to the hotel. It’s this part of the journey I needed to measure for that evening. It was now 1.30pm. I programmed the iPhone and by coincidence it was around two miles to the Hotel.

The bulk of the journey was quite straightforward, along Kensington High Street. About forty minutes later I found the turn-off just eight minutes after it had turned cloudy again and began spitting with rain.

I checked in at the hotel and found the room to be cramped with bunk bed, metal but felt comfortable; the bathroom was a small room with a toilet, basin and shower. One window, about eight inches square. It was open and let in little air. The room was stuffy and I was feeling hot.

I took a quick shower and decided the room was not a place to hang around in. The weather had brighten a little so I thought I would go for a stroll. It was less than ten minutes before I would be on Kensington High Street where the shops were.

I suddenly realised I had not eaten since 9am, so bought a couple of sandwiches, a drink and a Snickers bar. I know how to live!

The event called for formal attire and I had dressed in jacket trousers, shirt with tie but my footwear was the walking trainers. I had brought along my only pair of shoes. Heavy and steel toe-capped. They were uncomfortable like most shoes I had worn in my life. However, needs must…as some chap once said…

So around 16:45, with the shoes on I begin the walk, deciding as soon as I find a cash point I would take a bus, I managed to work out they ran regularly up and down Kensington High Street.

However, by the time I found a cash point which would give me my money without having to pay for the privilege I was almost fifty percent of the way there. I walked the rest as well and get to the venue twenty-two minutes early. But I got a few pub shots on the way; even if everyone seemed to try to get in on the photograph.

My feet were already beginning to hurt, and there was at least three hours or more to go. I hoped there was seating inside other than the screening room.

It was 17:38 when I got there, very much on time. The reception was at 18:00, the two episode viewing was supposed to be at 18:45.

About ten minutes later myself and other Gold Napoleon ticket holders were called in. A majority of the people seemed to have come in seventies gear; as suggested but fortunately was not compulsory.

In eight minutes the crowd started to move then a woman calls out if the Gold Napoleon Ticket holders would like to come to the front…

Other Side Of The Gold Napoleon Ticket

The time-table was changed, as I along with other Gold Napoleon ticket holders, walked in. Sir Roger Moore was to sign the copies of the Box Set. As I queued I got to see the original Aston Martin DBS, that Roger Moore drove as Lord Brett Sinclair. The boot was open and in was signed by both Tony Curtis and Roger Moore.

Maleclipboard checked by name and let me through and Femaleclipboard took me to the room where Sir Roger Moore was signing The Persuaders! Blu Ray box sets.

As I entered the large room I saw the man himself. In front of me in the queue was a bloke who told me the man to Sir Roger’s left was his PA. Much to his delight, my fellow queue mate saw another bloke stood in front of the desk where Sir Roger was seated, signing box sets. He was taking each person’s camera or camera-phones and taking pictures. Although a lot less outwardly demonstrative than my queue mate, I was pleased that there was an opportunity to get my photo taken with the man himself…

I had not brought my camera as I had read the blurb when the ticket arrived which indicated no cameras. However, all was not lost as my iPhone has got a perfectly good 5 megapixel camera which should do a good enough job. So, as my turn arrived I handed over my iPhone to the bloke in front of the desk and handed over the box set to Sir Roger Moore and showed him where I would like him to sign it.

The Signed Blu Ray Folder.

“Thanks for such an entertaining blog and your work in the children’s charity,” said Sir Roger to me.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I didn’t think you read my blog?”

“Ah, you’ll be surprised,” he responded…

I woke up from the daydream. Yep the last bit of dialogue was a lie…

I said a few words, none of which were what I planned, and then moved on after getting back my iPhone.

It was then onto the reception room. I was given a glass of Champagne and then mingled amongst a bigger crowd than I would have expected. There were sandwiches, small cut without crusts available. There were egg and cress, chicken and Caesar salad, Brie and cranberry – not a proper cheese as far as I’m concerned, rather tasteless but the cranberry was ok though – beef and mustard. I ate about 12; but they were no more than 1.5 mouthfuls each…well I was hungry and had done quite a bit of walking that day!

After twenty minutes or so my feet and back were killing me; a combination of the walk to the venue and walking around the room with only two chairs and both of them in use by disable chaps. What made it worse was there were quite a few people wearing trainers! I need not have caused myself such grief!

The Cover For The First Release of The Persuaders! In The 80s

I drank about two and half glasses of the bubbly, then went onto orange juice and was relieved when they announced the episode screenings. A chance to rest the old dogs…

In the viewing room was quite a big screen. In front of it was a small stage and I did not need to be a detective to work out it was for the question and answer session after the screenings.

Once most people were seated, I got a bit of shock when Barry Norman came onto the stage and explained there was to be a change in the schedule. They would show the first episode then there would be a Q&A session which Barry Norman would moderate. Then the second episode chosen by Sir Roger Moore would be shown.

I was surprised Barry Norman was there, even more surprised to hear his high praise for Sir Roger, especially as behind the man’s back Norman was quite critical. Thinking about it, perhaps I should not have been surprised as he had always tended on the hypercritical in my opinion.

The first episode was shown and I enjoyed the novelty of seeing it on the Big Screen. Of course, it would have been better had people not insisted on holding up their mobile cameras at various intervals but there we go, for every advantage of today’s devices there are disadvantages.

So through the first ever televised episode of The Persuaders! (Overture) we went. It looked rather good up on the big screen. Projected from a Blu Ray player using one of the box sets.

The Q&A’s came. After regularly watching Barry Norman’s Film programme over the years, hearing the way he ran down old Sir Rog, I was quite surprised at his gushing praise for the man now…or was I? Years of watching his Film ‘whatever year’ programme should have prepared me for his ‘style’.

Anyway, despite Barry Norman’s probing, trying to dig up the ‘dirt’, so to speak, about things like Sir Roger’s working relationship with Tony Curtis, Sir Roger never dished out the dirt only the positive. It was the same with Sir Roger’s autobiography, where he made it clear from the outset his biography, ‘My Word Is My Bond’ was not going to be seedy revelations…

The Persuaders! Annual: Nearly 40 years old.

Once Barry got his questions in he generously allowed others from the audience to ask questions before the introduction to the second Persuaders! episode chosen by Sir Roger Moore.

The session must have gone on for forty minutes at least and ended with a standing ovation. I was one of the first three to stand up. I would like to say it was purely because I enjoyed it but that was only part of it. My arse was dead and standing up helped restore the blood supply.

Quite a few people left with the exit of Sir Roger Moore. But despite my protesting arse, I stayed on to watch the second episode ‘A Death In The Family’. I probably would not get the chance to see any episodes on the big screen again.

After the episode I left. My feet and arse were still killing me so I decided I would take the bus, it would drop me off near enough to the hotel to give the dogs only a short walk.

I bought a litre of orange juice and two Oatmeal bars in a shop before getting back to the hotel, tired. I drank half the orange juice, ate the bars and then went to bed; which was surprisingly comfortable.

As I drifted off I reflected on an episode of Inspector Morse, the one where he meets one of his heroes of Opera. It turned out to be a great disappointment to him; as did most things for him, which was why he (probably) was such a misery guts. I felt rather luckier than that because I had met one of my heroes and he had turned out to be very much as I imagined he would be…

Of course, it was a brief meeting in very amiable circumstances, but still, it was nice to be left without disappointment….

Sep 19 2011

Conspiracy Theory

Mitchells Cycles

In 2009 I eased up on the bike a little in the June-July period, punctures and a work project got in the way a little. Besides, that year the Pink Lady was suffering from a frozen shoulder so there was less pressure to venture out into the country. I missed the quickness of riding a bike backwards and forwards to work; that and it helped me to keep the weight down.

Then the bike was back in action and for the latter half of 2009 and a month or so of 2010 I was back in the saddle. Then problems with the bike occurred again.

After a month or so I got a little fed up with punctures, wheel wobble, a lump in the tyre, stretching cable wires. It seemed no sooner did Velocipede get it working, than another problem occurred.

The Pink Lady berated me:

“Why don’t you go to Mitchell’s Cycles? It’s only a few minutes away?” said she.

“Well…well, I, well, Velocipede does all my repairs…”

“He hasn’t done this one, though, has he?” was the lady’s comeback.

“Well, no, no, he hasn’t…but…”

“And how long has the bike been off the road.”

“Well, a month…” Mumbled I.

“How long?” asked she, again.

“About a month…” I responded, thinking she hadn’t heard.

Then came the ‘less of the bullshit stare’. If one has never been subjected to the Pink Lady’s ‘less of the bullshit’ stare, then one has no right to criticise how easily one falls apart under it.

“Two months…”

The stare again.

“….and three weeks…”

“So when is he going to repair it?” demanded the Pink Lady.

“I’m not sure, I mean he’s busy, one doesn’t like to push…” I stammered.

“Have you asked?”

“Well, not exactly asked. Did mention there was a spot of bother…”

“The bike’s bloody useless, with the brakes going and a wobbly tyre and a puncture….?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, even more quietly than before; my foot was drawing patterns in the ground, rather like a sulky child.

“So are you going to ring him, asking him for a firm date?”

I was caught between defence of a friend, whom I hadn’t stated any urgency to, and trying to tactfully move the conversation on.

“I think he’s on holiday…” again, mumbling. I don’t think I was the mumbling sort until I met the Pink lady.

“Then take it to Mitchell’s Cycles…get it sorted out!”

I frowned, speaking a little more loudly. “Can’t do that. I mean if I didn’t let Velocipede do the repairs he’d be offended, he’d think I’d lost confidence in him!”

“Rubbish, Fitrambler, it has nothing to do with hurting Velocipede’s feelings. It’s because you’re a tight fisted git. You don’t want to spend the ten or twenty quid…”

“Ten or twenty quid,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, ten or twenty quid, if you want to get it done and it’d be ready within twenty-four hours.”

“Well, maybe, but I ought to give Velocipede another call, let him have a chance…”

“Tight fisted…” she repeated.

“Now look here, I’ll have you know that that’s the last thing I am…Me, tight fisted, how can you say such a thing!”

“Easy, you always procrastinate when it comes to spending money. ‘I’ll buy it later, when the price comes down,’ or ‘I’ll think about it’. By the time your wallet sees the light of day or you’ve thought about it the thing’s gone.”

“I’m hurt. Miser, that’s what you’re saying. Nothing could be further from the truth…”

“So you’ll be taking the bike to Mitchell’s Cycles then, to get it sorted out.”

It was, I am afraid to admit, a trap I fell into. To prove I wasn’t a miser I had to get the bike repaired at Mitchell’s Cycles. But I didn’t do it immediately (ha, ha!). I can do defiance!

A few days later I went into Mitchell’s Cycles and pointed out the problems with the bike and they quoted me about eighty quid. So much for the Pink Lady’s ten to twenty quid quote. Well, ok, it wasn’t just a tyre, it was the brakes, and the gears were a little in need of a touch of the old TLC.

While I was there I made some enquiries about something which bothered me ever since I’d taken up cycling again. Being upright when cycling. I saw people who were upright when cycling and yet I was always bent forward, no matter how high Velocipede put the handlebars.

The chap in the shop showed me a few bikes he called ‘sit up and beg’ bikes. I saw a Dawes, Town and Country and straight away I was smitten. There are only a few things that I have admired almost immediately – Pink Lady aside – but this bike was one of them.

I gave it a little thought, my bike wouldn’t be ready until Saturday. I told them there was no hurry; besides, the longer it took them the more I could sigh at the Pink Lady and say “Mitchell’s Cycles, not as fast as you led me to believe.” Alright, a little childish but…

Anyway, the more I thought about the other bike, the Dawes, the more I got the feeling I just had to have it. I didn’t mention this to the Pink Lady, just told her about the cost and the time it’d take Mitchell’s to do the job on the old bike.

So, a bit of a conspiracy played across the old noggin, not realising that soon I would be involved in an even bigger one not of my own making…

I decided to buy the bike and when we next went out for a ride I would bring the new bike along and surprise her. The only person I told about the new bike was Velocipede before I bought it, asking his advice.

Within twenty-four hours I was riding the new bike, new lights, and adjusted as needed. I rode to work for about seven working days when the Pink Lady was going shopping one Sunday and decided to use her bike.

I was clocking up about eight miles a day but still was not really all that fit.

When I got into town I parked the bike, locked it up and saw the Pink Lady’s bike parked a couple of bikes up from me. So, I met up with the Pink Lady and we had coffee before going round the shops.

While we were having coffee, the Pink Lady asked. “So, what’s the progress on your bike?”

Carefully, I said: “The old bike is being repaired, needs quite a few things doing to it.”

“So you haven’t got your bike with you?”

“I said, the old bike is with Mitchell’s,” I repeated, carefully.

We moved onto subjects anew…

A while later I walked with the Pink Lady to her bike, then, casually took my helmet out of my rutsack. When the Pink lady saw me she frowned.

“You said your bike was being repaired!” she said, and looked amongst the other bikes, frowning all the more. “I can’t see it.”

I smiled as I put my rutsack back on my back, then took out my keys and began unlocking the new bike.

She didn’t quite do a double take but it was close.

“This is my new bike,” I said.

“You never said you’d got a new bike?”

I just smiled. The Pink Lady looked over the bike and approved.

“Well, Fitrambler, as we’ve both got our bikes, how about a ride?” she suggested.

I was full of pride in my new bicycle that the idea seemed a good one.

“Where to?” asked I.

“I’ve been wanting to look at the path that leads to Chiseldon,” replied she.

That seemed okay to me, finding the beginning of a path to Chiseldon, not as though it will be all that far?

“Not too far, then.”

“Oh no,” said she, “not too far at all…”

Distances are relative to the person. A couple of of our short rides in the past have been rather long in my opinion, but one has managed. But I felt on safe ground with what she had suggested.

However, we weren’t going far, so I went along with it. After all, finding the new cycle path to Chiseldon wasn’t the same as riding it all the way to Chiseldon was it?

So, off we go, Fitrambler following the jean-clad bottom so familiar on bike rides. We went to the bottom of town and follow the Canal all the way to Old Town. Then it was onwards to Coate Water and beyond that to a road I knew from a previous ride. It was here I got a little worried because the last time I was on this road it led to a bloody great hill. My feelings on hills are well documented. But we only went a hundred or so yards before we turned off in what looked at first like someone’s stone chipped drive but led through into Coate Water.

We continued on and I began to identify familiar parts of Coate Water for over ten minutes before we were through and then almost to the motorway. This is where I began to get a little suspicious; especially when I saw the twisty-bridge thingy.

We got level with the twisty-bridge thingy – or rather the Pink Lady did – and began cycling up it.

I tried to register a protest here – like had we not gone far enough and how much further after the bridge – but the distance and noise of the bloody traffic drowned me out.

So, no choice but to go up the twisty-bridge thing, which I did and got to the other side, whereby it was downhill. There the Pink Lady slowed to see if I was still there but before I could shout out a protest it was arse chasing time again as she was off!

The route seemed straight enough until it veered off to the right and became rather steep; actually bloody steep.

Hill, bloody hill. Ahhh God!

Off went the Pink Lady, the distance between us increasing. There was something very familiar about the territory. As I moved through the gears and fortunately with this new bike there were more of them, I began to curse and swear.

I barely managed to get to the top of thing long and winding road (all due respect to the Beatles), but when I did I wasn’t a happy bunny.

I parked the bike about twenty feet away from where the Pink Lady was. I was trying to decide whether or not to throw the bike in the bushes or at the Pink Lady! This wasn’t what I agreed too.

Anyway hot and sweaty I calm down and the bike doesn’t get imbedded in the ground or indeed the Pink Lady – gentlemanly instincts prevailing. I leant it against a fence and walked ten or more yards away from the Pink Lady until all aggressive thoughts died down.

“Chiseldon,” said she.

“Great!” I responded in a less than enthusiastic tone.

As far as I saw it I’d gone three times as far as I planned and discovered there must be a language barrier between us. The Pink Lady originates from Nottingham, a place I have only visited once on official business door to door and not actually venturing out. So I was thinking now that ‘finding the path’ to somewhere meant not only finding it but following it to its logical bloody conclusion.

Thinking back it reminded me of my pub trips with Ol’ Blameworthy. He would often suggest a pub he was taking us to was just around what turned out to be the biggest and longest corner in existence.

Finally, we take the journey home….

The Old Residence

The following day, Monday, (walking like I was a member of the John Wayne impressionist society) I texted Velocipede and we arranged a bike ride for the coming Friday, despite my aches.

But, in view of yesterday’s experiences with the Pink Lady I decided I’d lay out some ground rules.

NO HILLS!

Velocipede assured me this will not be the case and he has a route in mind which will suit me nicely.

Being an amiable sort of chap, I believed him.

Friday arrived and we decide first to go over our childhood turf. So from the old Fitrambler residence we follow the Queens Drive until we get to Park South. We looked over our old houses, took a few photos of the front and back, and then cycle the way we would have done had we been going to school; really doing the memory lane thing.

The Back Way to the Old Residence: More boarded up nowadays.

Then from there we looked around the shopping centre opposite our old school and then back towards Coate Water. I let Velocipede lead and as went past Coate, turned into the same lane as the one the Pink Lady did last Sunday, I began to get a little tingle up the spine. More tingling as we turned up the driveway and started cutting our way through Coate Water.

No, I tell myself, following this bit is just a coincidence, a ride round Coate means nothing….

But when we rode past Coate Water and onto a side road, which then lead through some gates and exactly on the path through Coate Water which I travelled the previous Sunday with the Pink Lady, the spine is positively pin-prinkingly tingling!

I frowned but remembered the text. No hills and Velocipede agreed to that. I was wrong to doubt the chap, he just wouldn’t do that to me.

We followed the route until we got to the helter-skelter thingy.

We stopped there for a few seconds.

“Um, where are we going?”

“Over that,” he said, pointing to the helter-skelter thingy.

“Yes, and then?”

“A pub,” he tells me pleased.

“But there’s a bloody hill between the pub and the hill, isn’t there.”

His face wrinkles as little as he says: “Nah, not really.”

I think for a second or two and decide – quite naively as it turns out – that Velocipede probably knows an non-hill route on the other side. I mean, the agreement was no hills! (Yes, clutching at straws by now!)

Then he’s off again and I have no choice but to follow…

…UP A BLOODY GREAT TWISTY HILL. THE SAME BLOODY TWISTY HILL AS LAST SUNDAY!

I do a little better this time. Trying to concentrate on important things ahead to take my mind off the strain.

“Beer and pub, beer and pub…” I chant to myself, almost trying to put myself into a trance.

But as I struggled to get to the top, I rapidly began to wonder which part of my text ‘No hills’ he hadn’t understood?

Finally we reached the promised pub only to find it’s bloody closed! It’s either being refurbished or being converted into flats or a house. I don’t know which but I’m not happy.

The Elm Tree 1996 - Now no longer with us.

But Velocipede recovers from the temporary disappointment and says there is another one quite near we can try and, surprise, surprise, the route is via another large hill! Oh joy!

Happiness and old Fitrambler weren’t having any quality time together this evening.

In the midst of my tiredness, moaning and general demeanour of being pissed off at people who have difficulty digesting the phrase ‘I don’t like hill’, a theory begins to form.

It is a bloody conspiracy!

Tired and perhaps a touch delirious – it was a long day – I remembered Velocipede and the Pink Lady had met a couple of times at the monthly sojourn at the Glue Pot. Both committed cyclists for most of their lives!

Who’s to say they haven’t spoken to each other without me present or indeed while I might have been distracted talking to Wellread?

Can they think I’d really be naïve as to think two bike rides in a week should follow the same route and be put down as coincidence? No, no, no. A bloody conspiracy, I tell you!

Yep. Had to be a put up job. Yes, they were trying to kill me, I knew they were, no other explanation…my left eye was beginning to twitch by now and I was quietly manically laughing to myself…

We eventually left Chiseldon, made our way to Badbury and the Bakers Arms.

It was a long time ago when I last drank in that establishment. One of the first times was with Ol’ Blameworthy, when we worked at the same Company together back in the very late 1970s, early 1980s. Memories of darts games and copious amounts of 2Bs flowed through the old noggin.

The Back Garden of The Bakers at Badbury

Now the bar was knocked into one, making the place a lot more spacious. There was a quiz on and most of the seats were taken. Although the 2Bs was on we both decided to have Cider. I wasn’t sure of the strength, but it wasn’t very powerful falling down water.

It was a lovely evening (if you didn’t count the hills and the conspiracy). So we made our way through to the back garden. There were only two other people in the garden.

About thirty to forty minutes later we were back on the bikes and off, the way home.

Fortunately, any hills we confronted was a descent and not an ascent, so it was a little better. In fact where hills are concerned going down them is not a bother, I rather recommend it.

Still, (hills not included) it was a rather pleasant evening out. It was nice to see an old drinking hole, to see how it’d changed over the years.

However, no one will convince me that Velocipede and the Pink Lady didn’t conspire under the dubious pretext of humour, to put me through the same gruelling ride twice in one week!

I’m not paranoid, they really are out to get me….

Jul 19 2011

Ups And Downs In The Saddle

The Pub At The Top Of The Hill - Calley Arms

After my first puncture messing up the first bike ride with the Pink Lady, the subsequent rides was somewhat more successful.

To be honest, it could not have been much worse!

We decided, correction, The Pink Lady, decided we would take a ride out to a gardening centre. That worried me a little. It was not so much the bike ride itself, but the memory which flashed through to Fitrambler brain; the Pink lady had taken a look at the Fitrambler garden recently – commonly known as the Fitrambler jungle.

Some have suggested I put a sign up at the back saying:

‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here!’

Legend has it Boy Scouts have been known to get lost in there on bob a job week! Of course, as with all legends, it starts with something simple and then is blown out of all proportion – I once found what looked like a boy scout cap…

Anyway, back to the bike ride…

‘It’s a lovely day and I need a few bits and pieces,’ said she.

‘You need a few bits and pieces.’ Said I.

‘Yes, and it’ll be a nice bike ride,’ the Pink Lady.

‘So, we’re going out for a bike ride to a gardening centre to get things for your garden, purely for yours?’ I repeated.

‘Something wrong with your ears, Fitrambler, that’s what I said.’

‘No, no, not at all. Absolutely, damn good idea.’

I was alright with that, long as she had not got it into her head to encourage me to spend money on the Fitrambler jungle. One likes to know the parameters once is working to. Besides, spending good money on the damn garden is bad enough but the bloody work that leads to. Well…

‘I’ve set our dinner going so that it’ll be ready when we get back…’

On hearing that the saliva glands began to work overtime. I tried to think of a way I could forgo the bike right and get to the dinner bit very quickly…

‘Are you ready, Freddie?’ she asked, and I straight away knew I would not get away with any excuse not to go on the bike ride, not if I wanted to stuff the old chops later.

Not that I did not want to go on the bike ride, but the thought of a Pink Lady dinner was distracting me somewhat!

Anyway, bikes out and helmets on, we were off, with, as usual, the Pink Lady leading the way.

What I did not realise was that we were not taking a direct route! This would be something which would become common over time, me confusing what was exactly happening…

We cycled to Old Town, from Toothill via the old railway line, through the back of Coate Water and up towards Hodson.

I sort of recognised the route or at least have travelled parts of it before in a car. How the direction fitted in with our journey to the Garden Centre I did not know. But these were early days of bike rides with The Pink Lady and I trusted her to lead the way.

To be honest, my sense of direction is not always perfect. Unless there’s a decent and sensible landmark. You know the sort of thing, pub, book shop, or a good place for a scoff, then I have a little difficulty. Also, in the last twenty years I had mainly gone places in cars…

What I should have remembered, though, was there’s a bloody great hill Hodson way. But as I said, only ever done the journey in a car and usually hills are not all that much of a problem in a car.

What I did remember was there were at least half a dozen times when I drank in there. First time when I got my first car and drove out there with Neatentidy, and then several times with Blameworthy. I think it was one visit with Blameworthy when I got one of my few 180’s at darts. History in the making.

Anyway, we obviously start at the bottom and as things go on, the Pink Lady gets further and further ahead and I start to slow down. Let’s face it, the Pink Lady has been cycling most of her life – almost came out of the womb with a bike attached. Me, I gave up around sixteen and only began again at 49. I just did not have her level of fitness.

Since I bought the new bike, I only used a few gears, having previously been used to around three gears on my bikes. On this hill I found myself getting right down to the lowest gear and still bloody struggling.

It got to a point where I felt I was going sideways, quite dangerous with the occasional oncoming car. It’s that sudden look of fear as they come round the corner and you are almost on their bonnet; a look that says ‘I think I just crapped myself!’

Fortunately, from my point of view, the sight of the oncoming car gave me a momentary burst of adrenalin and I managed to get over to my side of the road before having an impromptu flying lesson!

Unfortunately, this sudden energy burst did not last and I ended up getting off and walking, which was not much easier as most of my reserves of energy had been used trying to cycle up the bloody hill.

By this time my lungs were pounding like set of electric bellows which were on overload!

Finally, and what to me seemed hours later, but was probably only ten minutes later, I am approaching the top and there’s the Pink Lady leaning on her bike looking quite relaxed and smiling.

Now I am sure that the smiling was just a sign of friendliness but how I felt at that precise moment, combined with what I had just gone through, made me a tad suspicious that she was being smug.

When I eventually found enough breath to be able to speak, I explained:

‘Had..to..get..off..to..get..up..the..hill, couldn’t…peddle…any further.’

The Pink Lady asked: ‘Why didn’t you use the gears?’

I paused, fighting the urge to say: ‘because I didn’t have any ****ing gears left!’

After all, it was not her fault I was in the state I was, well, not entirely, anyway. Instead I looked across at the pub.

‘Been in there,’ I changed the subject, still sounding like a heavy breather on an obscene telephone call.

‘Do you want to go in.’

‘No. Best not.’

It was tempting, so very tempting but there were several reasons for my sudden bout of willpower. The first was that if I got inside she would have to drag me back out again. After what I just went through to get up the hill my enthusiasm for cycling had taken something of a bruising.

Secondly, I did not have enough money on me to pay for a round; or even just one for me!

I got about five minutes rest before we were off again and I was trying to keep up with the Pink Lady again.

Beautiful To Look At, A Long Way To Go!

That day I got to see the Pink Lady’s jean-covered arse more than her face as I followed it through the country roads. There are many worse things in life but it would have been nice to have narrowed the gap to less that three hundred yards!

But it was a lovely day; impending heart attack to one side.

Luckily, it was only a short upward ascension before we travelled down a very steep hill. This was a hill leading into more familiar territory, Wroughton.

Ah, good old Blameworthy and I walked to that village many a time in those days, trying to slate our thirst with beer…

I just caught the Pink Lady turn left at the end from my vast distance behind her. I did the same.

If nothing else, the ride down the hill at speed rested me a little and dried the sweat which previously was pouring out of every pore, so to speak.

This hill, although a lot easier, was a little frightening. I was going at a hell of a rate of knots and relying heavily of the breaks on the bike.

A few minutes later we were going up another hill before going off in the general direction of where the Pink Lady lived. A puzzle as I thought we were heading to the Garden Centre; wherever that was?

As it turned out we had gone in a wide circle in order to go away from the garden centre then curve back round to be back on track. It was at this point I should have begun to get a little more inquisitive, shall we say, about what routes we were taking; something I would attempt in future.

There were several more hills (not on the scale of the Hodson one, thankfully) before we finally arrive at the Garden Centre and the Pink Lady decides it might be an idea to have a cup of tea or coffee?

A cup? The distance I travelled and the effort I put in I wanted a bucket of coffee!

My keenest on cycling was depreciated a little on this first ride, especially the hill bit. I did try an tell myself I needed to get my fitness up a lot more and I would sail up the hills – or at least that was the opinion of the Pink Lady!

Hmm?

That hill, the one at Hodson, was not going to be the last one or indeed the last time I would have to try and cycle up it.

A week or so later we took a ride out towards the Village in at the top of Liddington. We began the journey from the Pink Lady’s house, where she was working on the meal we would have on our return. I can think of no better incentive for a bike ride than the prospect of a Pink Lady cooked meal at the end of it…

Fitrambler in paradise!

This time it felt a lot more civilized as I seemed better prepared for the hills; to be honest, I do not think they were any where as bad or twisty. I think it was the twisty-thing that did for me on the Hodson hill. There’s no real way to take a run at (or should that be a ride at it?) and get up a bit of speed. Whereas, going to Liddington that option was there.

The Pink Lady still remained ahead for the most part but I consoled myself with the fact I was being gentlemanly; you know, ladies first and all that.

We dropped off at the Village Inn at Liddington but the place was closed, which was bad news. Not happy with that at all, really bad form.

How Dare The Pub Not Be Open - The Village Inn.

So after a five or ten minute rest, where, for a few minutes of that rest, it spotted a little with rain, we moved on. Within half a mile the sun peeped out from behind the clouds.

Onwards we went, to our next port of call which was Wanborough. This time our (my) luck was in and the Calley Arms was open.

Time for a snifter!

Once we double locked our bikes up in the car park, we moved round to the front entrance. Never been much of one for the back entrance, not in my nature…

Up against the wall was an old rusting bike which the Pink Lady took a liking to. Out came the phone and she took a picture of it. I was not quite sure what the interest was but I was getting a little impatient for my ale.
I mean, be fair, the bike had been rotting away there for years, no reason why she could not have taken the photo on the way out? Still, that’s women for you. What they want you have to do now, what you want can wait a while!

Not A Bad Drop Of Beer And Much Needed - The Other Calley Arms.

Anyway, once inside I managed to get away with two drinks before we were on our way. To be honest, I did not want too many because of the journey home. Although a fine and sunny day, it was quite windy on some of the country roads.

Well, too many beers and there’s a pressing need to drain the old python; and having a crafty pee near a bush or something with a wind that might change direction at any minute; bit risky. It’s bad as a wet fart in white trousers! Not good for the image!

If I remember correctly, that ride was about 25 miles, which I did not discover until we got back to the Pink Lady’s house. She has a Speedo-come milometer on her bike; oddly enough in pink.

Made me feel rather good, cycling all that way. Of course what made me feel far, far better was sitting down to the Sunday roast the Pink Lady had cooked…

The rides during that Summer often began from the Pink Lady’s house or the canal bridge. And quite a few ended with dinner or lunch (and a pudding, no less) at the Pink Lady residence…

A Fitrambler cannot ask for more in life…well this one can’t!

Jun 28 2011

Riding The Pain

I was told it would get easier. Really, it would. But after ten days I was getting rather doubtful.

Yes, ten days I had been riding the new bike and the old rear end was giving me trouble.

I mentioned the discomfort to the Pink Lady.

‘You’ll get use to it,’ said she. And then moved the conversation on to other things…

The lashings of sympathy overwhelmed me!

It was a balancing act really – no pun intended – riding the bike. The sore arse I did not like, but the actual ride itself was quite fun.

Backwards and forwards to work, 25 minutes each way was a lot quicker than the 50 minutes walking would take. It was good exercise and saved pounds on bus fare, so the pluses were there.

On the negative side, as previously stated, there was the ubiquitous sore arse. It felt painful as I got on and after the ride it felt like someone had taken a Bunsen burner to it. And I was walking bow-legged, like I had crapped myself.

Let’s be honest, Old Fitrambler here has never been a great friend of Mr Pain!

Still, I was persevering. I had thrown three hundred quid at this little convenience and was not going to give up easily. I worked out that to pay back what I spent it would take 94 rides to and from work. By putting away the bus fare into my TARDIS money-box I could pay it back; there would be plenty of room as the box never seemed to fill up…

I have to admit, I got as far as two hundred and ten quid before I started to forget or leave IOU notes…

However, I carried on. Even the snow did not stop me – slowed me down, perhaps, but it never stopped me. Nor when it belted down with rain did the Fitramber determination diminish.

I looked to see the thrashing rain and think: ‘Now, Fitrambler (I’m good with names) it’s not fit for man nor beast out there. But, what would Velocipede do? Would he let that stop him? Oh no. In all weathers, he would be out there on the bike, not letting anything stop him, moving through it with grim determination!’

As it happened some weeks later, the question of what Velocipede would do was revealed. We met in town and he told me. One look at the thrashing rain or the snow and it was a case of ‘Sod that!’ and out with the car.

Luckily, I did not know that when I was giving myself the pep-talk!

Even the Pink Lady has been known to lay off the old bike if she’s likely to have lots of trouble with the wind

Hmm. Perhaps I had better explain that. I’m not suggesting for one moment the Pink Lady is subject to severe bouts of flatulence, oh no, more about the winds of nature, blowing up a gale force.

I can understand that. Part of the route I take home leaves me out in the open, no buildings or woods to protect me from rather severe cross winds when they have a mind to blowing.

On one occasion the wind was so bad I reached the lowest gear on the bike and was still struggling to make any progress. So bad in fact, that a snail overtook me. Still, I’m sure it had racing stripes on its side, so I did not feel quite so embarrassed…

Moments like that made me a little inclined to give up. Trouble is, you never know which days are going to be like that? And if you have ridden to work, you bloody well have to ride back. It’s a sort of a rule!

Anyway, by the time the first month was up I suddenly realised the old rear end had stopped giving me grief. It was odd, the pain barrier just disappeared without me noticing it.

So, from then on until about a week after Christmas 2008 – over two months later – I was getting a lot fitter and enjoying the trip to and from work.

Already the Pink Lady was making plans to extend the biking experience to weekends for me. Ventures into the country. Velocipede was talking about bike rides to faraway places. My future was being mapped out…

I was a little cautious here. I was averaging about eight miles a day on the bike. Tour de France was not yet on my horizon.

Anyway, towards the end of January 2008 a pain developed between the thighs, just below the old meat and two veg. Gave me trouble sporadically when sitting down and riding. So, not to aggravate it further I stopped riding the bike for a week or so to see if it would heal itself. It did not, so I finally decided I would have to visit the doctor.

On the day of the appointment I was showed into see Dr Cheer, who grinned at me the minute I entered. I was not sure why he was so amused or what it was about the way I walked in that amused him, but I smiled politely back. Once he looked briefly away at his computer, I quickly checked my flies.

‘What’s the trouble?’ Dr Cheer asked, still smiling pleasantly.

I have always been a bit troubled by that sort of question from doctors. After all, it’s supposed to be them who do the diagnosis thingy?

I described the symptoms and then he asked if he could examine me. Well, anything for a laugh, me.

In the last few years I have seen doctors more than I have in the whole of my life put together and very rarely did the GP do much by the way of an examination in the past. Blood pressure check, but that was about all.

Still, thoroughness cannot be criticised in my view so I went off to the bed- thingy.

‘Right, drop the trousers and pants and lean forward on the bed.’

Ok, I will admit it, I did hesitate, I really did. It did not help when he put on the old rubber gloves. I had a horrible feeling what might be coming next. I could understand for hygiene purposes they have to do the rubber glove-thing; but both hands? What the hell was he going to get up to? Or indeed how far?

Still, I was glad I had taken a bath that morning. I was still nervous though. I mean, it was new territory to me, a bloke behind me while I have been bending over with the trousers and pants around the ankles. It was not a fun thing, although there might be a certain section of society that might disagree with me…um, so I have heard.

He began to poke and prodding near the anus and then below, a little further, then further…felt around a bit more and this time I was afraid he was going to extend his examination. Go the whole way; y’know, ‘open sesame’. A real eyeball bulging examination.

But no, he just covered old ground, so to speak and then got me to pull up the pants and trousers.

‘Can’t seem to feel anything…’

Move that hand a little more to the front and you will, I thought.

‘No lumps or anything sinister, probably a strained muscle,’ Dr Cheer said.

On reflection, it had not been too bad. I certainly got the right day for an examination round there. A couple of weeks ago, the old stomach had been playing up. A couple of prods then and I would not have been all that popular with Dr Cheer.

Dr Cheer gave me some tablets, something to deal with the muscle strain; things which would relax the muscle and let it heal.

So off I went, feeling a little happier.

It was six weeks before I got on the bike again, and then we were getting to the better weather and the Pink Lady’s plans for Sunday rides were coming to fruition.

Look out country folk, Fitrambler and the Pink Lady are on their way….

May 23 2011

First Bike In Over 30 Years

A bike ride with The Pink Lady - Lydiard

I bought a bike in 2007, around the end of October, and did it to get some exercise. Well, that and to prevent nagging from the Pink Lady and Velocipede, both of whom are very keen cyclists.

I have always been more of a walker myself, but gradually I warmed to the idea of getting a bike; better than having my ears warmed by the aforementioned ardent cyclists.

For around two hundred and eighty quid I got a bike, lights, helmet, the lock, repair kit and pump. Oddly enough, the helmet took longer to choose than the bike. I deliberated for a good fifteen minutes over a purple coloured one, but in the end decided that would lead to loads of jokes. You are probably working on a few as you read, so I will leave it there.

As I handed over the cash I eagerly waited for my bike to be brought out when the Bike Chappie asked: ‘Will you put it together yourself or would you like us to do it?’

I frowned. ‘Put it together?’ I queried.

‘Yes.’

‘They’re in pieces, are they?’ I responded.

I thought I paid for a bike not a jigsaw puzzle!

‘Well not fully assembled. We make the necessary seat adjustments, put on the lights, fix the lock holder…’

‘O-K.’ I replied, slowly.

Velocipede did not mention any of this. It was starting to get a little complicated for the old Fitrambler brain.

‘No cost,’ Bike Chappie added, as an incentive.

Best thing he could have said. Two days later I collected the bike. Moved it towards the door, thinking it looked pretty good and, I admit, feeling a little keen now the moment had arrive. Then Bike Chappie stopped me in my tracks.

‘Don’t forget the check up,’ said Bike Chappie.

‘Sorry,’ I responded.

It was thirty years ago when I last rode a bike and then things were different (anyone mentioning Penny-farthings will be shot!). Why would I need a check up? I was fairly fit for my age and why specifically for riding a bike?

‘My doctor recommended I take up bike riding, so he must think I’m up to it.’

‘No, no,’ replied Bike Chappie, giving the sort of patronising smile you get when they know more than you do – a sort of Jeeves superiority. ‘No, a bike check up.’

‘A bike check up.’

‘Bit like an MOT for a car.’

‘Ok.’

He saw that I looked a little dubious so added. ‘All part of the service and the first one is free.’

Hearing the free bit made me a little more kindly disposed to the ‘check up’. Free is good, I like free.

I got the bike out of the shop and began to wheel it home. Then, after a few yards, decided why wheel it, home, rather defeats the object.

So I hung my Halford’s bag with the lock, helmet and repair kit over one handlebar and decided to mount the bike.

Should not be a problem. In my teenage years I rode a bike all the time. Getting back into it would be easy, I mean it would be just like riding….hm, yes, well you know what I mean.

So over goes the leg (cue titters for leg-over jokes) and I get on it. It seemed very high up and I started to wobble along, feeling a lot less confident. It was not as easy as I thought.

I started to approach a tree at just above walking pace and suddenly found my coordination was not up to it. I knew I should turn, avoid the tree, but for some reason, trying to keep my balance and turn was something I was not capable of.

Not thinking of the obvious, like squeezing the breaks, I leapt off, immediately wishing I had not been so rash.

A few minutes later, once I finished dabbing my eyes from a bent, holding-my-knees-position, wishing it was a ladies bike, I decided to go back to Plan A and walk the bike home.

I put the bike in the place which would become its home and sat at my table, thinking.

It was an understatement saying it had not gone well. I was prepared to be a little wobbly, even get achy legs after a ride but not achy danglers.

So, for the rest of the evening, every time I went passed the bike, my eyes produced an odd tear or two.

Next morning, I decide I have paid out enough for the thing, so I should at least attempt to ride the devil again.

So at an early hour – no neighbours out and about to think the Cabaret’s arrived – I make my second attempt to ride it. This time hoping the crossbar will not do a Platex bra on me, you know, lift and separate the old crown jewels.

I roll down the slight incline, helmet on head, trying to keep my balance and not doing a bad job of it. The problem begins when I get close to the end of the road where I need to turn right. For a few seconds this confuses the old grey matter and my coordination gets a little shaky but I manage the turn quite well, and do not fall off and more importantly the crown jewels do not take a belting!

Result!

Well, almost, the car that swerved to avoid me, made me realise that keeping my balance, being able to turn AND looking out for cars coming out of a T junction should have been on the operational list.

I got to work relatively unscathed that day. Got off the bike and the old legs felt a bit wobbly, and I seemed to be doing John Wayne impressions, but I was not as tired as I thought I would be.

That evening I rode back, still not feeling as achy as I thought I might be. Although it must be said I was suffering from sore arse syndrome; an inevitability when one has not ridden for years.

So, after tea that evening, I text The Pink Lady and Velocipede, let them know how things went.

The Pink Lady suggested I get some Panniers. Sounded a little disgusting to me until I looked up what they were on the internet. Bit like saddlebags for a horse but for a bike.

I decided to wait a while on that one, see how much I got into the bike riding before adding further expense.

It was a few days into the following week that The Pink Lady suggested we got for a bike ride. So we arranged something for the following weekend. I suggested ten miles on the basis it sounded a lot when walking. I think The Pink Lady’s reaction indicated something of a lack of ambition on my part.

By the following Saturday I got up early and needed to collect a parcel. I decided not to walk, I would go on the bike. Bound to take less time; besides, I felt I should use it as often as possible.

I got three-quarters of the way down the cycle path and the back wheel did not feel right. I got off and the tyre seemed alright, but it did not have me on it. I felt the tyre and found there was little air in it.

Puncture, I thought, my deductive powers being at their height at 9am in the morning.

Great! Today of all days!

I tried in vein to pump it up with my bicycle pump, for a while trying to convince myself it just needed a top up.

No such luck.

It was then I really looked at the pump, which, for a few seconds I considered in my frustration, launching into space. It was shaped rather like a circumcised penis. Something the Pink Lady would point out on another occasion. I had not noticed that before. Oddly enough, I have a penis that looks a little like a bicycle pump! Life’s full of coincidences…

Finally, I gave up. It was a puncture and no amount of pumping – regardless of what the pump is shaped like – would do any good.

I got my parcel, walked home pushing the bike and now wondered how I was going to break the news to The Pink Lady. We had not really got to know each other well at this time and so telling her I could not go on the bike ride because of a puncture might have sounded like I was trying to get out of it; she might think I was just being a wimp!

Looked like a circumcised thingy!

As I continued to curse, I put the thoughts of The Pink Lady to one side for a while.

One week into having a bike and my first puncture. One bloody week! This was why I was so hesitant about getting a bike. At least with walking you do not get punctures.

I tried to text and then call The Pink Lady but did not get any response to the texts and only her voicemail when I dialled.

There was nothing else to be done but meet up and grovel, really.

So I walked to the place where we agreed to meet. Needless to say, as I got closer, the lack of a bike at my side drew a frown to the awaiting Pink Lady.

‘Mm, got a puncture,’ I opened the conversation.

‘I wondered where your bike was?’

‘Yes, I went to get a parcel and got a puncture on the way. Left the bike at home…’

‘Couldn’t you fix it?’

I felt a ripple of inadequacy flow through my body. I confessed I could not.

Earlier in the week, with the news leaking around work Fitrambler was in possession of a set of wheels, I was given a bike helmet by a bloke I worked with. It was a nice gesture but the helmet was too small. I brought it with me for the Pink Lady, thinking it might fit her.

As I handed it over, I felt as though I was trying to compensate for the puncture, even though it was originally intended as a gift.

‘Perhaps we could do something else?’ I feebly suggested.

‘Like what?’ came the retort.

I could not think of an answer. I am not sure whether I was a little oversensitive at that moment in time or that the words really were a tad sharp.

After a few minutes which seemed a lot longer it was decided we would go back to The Pink Lady’s place. Luckily for me she did have a back up bike and although a female bike – a sigh from the Crown Jewels or my imagination? – it would do the job.

I felt I did not have much of a choice. I agree to go for a ride on the girlie bike.

The girlie bike was quite comfortable and it obviously solved the problem. It was about ten miles and I understood why The Pink Lady suggested it would be a short ride. I was still thinking in terms of how long it would take to walk ten miles!

We were back at the Pink Lady’s in quite a short time and she invited me to tea. Having experienced her cooking (a pudding) when visiting Mr and Mrs Thereslovely, my friends from Wales, there was no way I wanted to refuse; although I did try a little procrastination to be polite and also because I was not sure whether or not I was imposing…

After a rather good meal and a chat, I was thrown out – metaphorically speaking – at around 7.25pm; and on the bus I text Velocipede.

I was going to need his help dealing with the puncture….

Well, ok, if I’m perfectly honest, I was going to need him to fix the puncture. It was over thirty years since I last did one and the cog system for gears on the back wheel was less complicated then; only three gears!

I sighed. I hoped this was not going to be a taste of things to come, constant punctures…

TELLING TALES

The world according to Fitrambler

If You Go Down To The Bakers Arms Today…

Nuisance Value

The Morning After

Moore To See

Conspiracy Theory

Ups And Downs In The Saddle

Riding The Pain

First Bike In Over 30 Years

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