A ride out to Gawd knows where with the LOVELY CTC Club on Sunday.
Actually I do know where the destination was – a bloody golf club in Essex.
It was a half decent luncheon served up in the clubhouse. Some fella was wearing the most ridiculous pair of golfing strides.
…said the bloke dressed head to toe in lycra.
I haven’t ridden with the CTC for over a year. I am keen to get back into the routine.
My Tourer bicycle is a beautiful ride. It has seen much action on my pointless Daytum online abacus of late. I plan to change this over the summer months.
I clocked up 78km in total. I was surprised how fresh I felt some four and a half hours later.
There was enough light left in the day to carry out a few domestics back at base. The windows were cleaned, the garden was tidied up, and I laid down the lawn seed for the spring season.
I underestimated badly at B&Q the amount I will need. I predict a summer lawn that will look like the Baseball Ground pitch of the early 70s.
This was carried out with Daniel ‘Cruz’ Tizon in the headphones. The intimacy of his delivery is quite personal. Yer man could almost be with you, laying down the lawn seed as he speaks.
I did jump when he made a reference to dog shit and Alresford – a location a couple of miles down the road.
I cleaned up with a GLORIOUS soak in the bath, accompanied by Serenade Radio and piping hot tea.
Plus two kittens who came very close to joining me in the bubbles.
Daisy and Dotty are ODD.
Oh yeah – I posted this to Facebook earlier. I might as well share it here.
And so here I type, on the eve of clocking up 47 years. I don’t see it as ‘my’ 47 years, but the 47 years of those around me. It all starts with the folks back in the bedroom, innit…
Forty-seven is such an irregular milestone. It means nothing. It also leaves me a little cold as I reflect. My life is neither here nor there. I spend half my time at home in Sunny Stockwell. The other half on kitten sitting duties back in the bloody Estuary Wilds.
My body is slowing down, yet still I seek perfection each week at Park Run. The 47 year old FOOL is making a comeback at Herne Hill Velo in a few weeks.
My dream remains to become a professional boxer. Or a darts player.
I am largely unfulfilled at work, yet at other times the workload becomes manic. I anticipate the celebration of BOOZE to calm it all down. Yet when the moment comes, I back off. The days of drinking on a school night are long gone.
I crave silence. Music is a bit meh for me these days. I’m partial to some Style Council foot shufflin’ in the front room, but never in public.
I still HATE fucking poetry.
Forest tempt me with a move back to the Fair City. Surrey and the lovely lido keep me grounded in South London.
I want change. Politics 2017 style can piss off.
I have no answers, only a thank you to my folks, some 47 years and nine months ago.
Oh – and thanks to Anna as well.
Have a good one