Ghost Town

So, tell me: Where were you, and what were you doing, at 9.00 this morning? That's an easy one to answer, yes? In my case, I was in college, lugging my bag up to my staffroom and thinking about the day ahead.
OK, so what about the same time yesterday? Yes, still easy. Last week? Can you remember what you were wearing? Is it getting tricky now? What about a month ago, or a year? Or how about, ooh, let's say, the last week of May, 1994? That's an impossible one, right?
Well, during that week, I was apparently loafing round my flat in Izmir: It was the time of Kurban Bayram, I'd been reading and talking, apparently, and I was scrabbling round for something to write down.....
I've been amusing myself for the last few weeks by reading my old diaries - the ones covering my first teaching job in Izmir, from October 1993 to August 1994. It has been an odd experience, as I find myself occasionally wondering who this idiot is who has written it. Every few lines record the fact that I have been reading something, or wandering round somewhere, or chatting to somebody about something, or sitting somewhere, or eating some meal or other, and I'm staring at this drivel, silently shouting 'Yes, but WHAT? What did you eat, what did you talk about, what did you read?'

It's really rather frustrating.

At other times, I wander at my 26-year-old self, seemingly drifting through the pages, uncertain, worried about writing, fretting about life, and then with a jolt I come across a line that could have been written by me now about things I still fret about.

Of course, the really jaw-dropping thing is the eye-watering amount of booze and fags we consumed back then - reading it, I'm slightly amazed that I still have a liver or functioning lungs. I also seem to have gone to bed at about 1.30 a.m. at the earliest as well. If I do that before a working day nowadays, I can barely function...

However, reading it, frustrating though it is, forces me to recall things as they were, and in so doing, brings up the fact that what I recorded is a ghost of things that were. Not only have all those people moved on, but the Izmir I wrote down, however fleetingly, is not the Izmir that exists today. My diaries record a phantom town, a place moving from being one thing towards being another,  and were I to return there (which I hope I do one day), I wouldn't find it as I recall. The Kordon has been expanded from just a strip of bars and restaurants with a busy road next to the waterfront, to an extended park made from reclaimed land and a wider boulevard. The waters of Izmir bay, which used to glisten with petrochemical sheens and effluent gunk, where children cast fishing lines into the sewage to catch fish for dinner, has been cleaned up beyond recognition. The air, which was heavy with pollution and, in winter, the acrid tang of thousands of coal-fired central heating systems, has also become more beneficent, and the city that was once called The Pearl of The Mediterranean is reclaiming that title for real, despite having a population that has exploded in the past twenty years.
As I read, memory forced itself into shape, and I began to reconstruct that phantom place, with images and odours, the odd remembered word - odd that, that it is words, the things I work with every day, that I have most difficulty in resurrecting from the cemetery of the mind.
Let's take one place from this ghostly, now unreal, place as an example - the Quartz Bar. I mention it several times, but I hardly ever actually describe it - here's a typical bit:

...we two caught a Dolmus to this bar, which was a darkened place, full of cigarette smoke + Turkish men. There was a small microphone + stand on a performance area, if anyone felt like doing a stint - sort of the equivalent of Karaoke Night, I guess.

That really is typical. Where is the rain-flecked cold night Guy, Luciano and me caught a taxi up there, where the driver didn't know where the bar was, and Guy directed him, arriving after a few minutes, and he indicated the Quartz with what seemed to me at the time a very Turkish gesture of the arm and said, 'Su bar, Abi'? What about the place itself, somewhere I am sure does not exist any longer? It was the end building of a little island of flats, with the doorway facing westwards. The road forked around it, the left side leading towards Bornova, the other towards the university. While there was a bar area downstairs, it was almost always deserted, with the real action going on on the first floor. It was, as I have said, dark: In fact, it was painted black, with glossy black and red furniture that had been very much fashionable in the 1980's but was already looking faded and chipped. The window blinds were red too, but covered in ash and dust. The seats were largely banquettes, with the odd bistro-type chair. As you came in the door, the toilets were immediately to your right, then there was a large seating area after that, just above the entrance, and another space, almost as large to its left as you looked. turning to your left, you next saw the tiny stage, where I saw some fantastic folk music being played on several occasions, including Grup Lacin, then further seating, which narrowed into odd angles. On the wall were some rather tacky Athena-type photos and cheesy landscapes - one that remains memorable to me is of a volcano erupting, while a woman's face weeps over it.

The place, to put not too fine a point on it, stank: cigarettes, spilt beer, stale raki, rancid oil, fried things, and a dodgy plumbing system, all vied with each other to produce the worst odour. But none of this mattered to us - we just wanted somewhere relatively local, relatively cheap and relatively friendly that stayed open until Stupid O'clock. It's where I had Turkish beer for the first time, and tried my first raki, where I sampled different mezes of various or dubious quality, listened to a whole new experience in music and saw that there was a different way to interact with music and food and booze from the tried and tested UK formula of just cranking up the volume and getting lashed.

And so, from the tiresomely incomplete sketches of things I wrote eighteen or nineteen years ago, I can conjure phantom memories of a now-phantom place and once again begin to cloak them in flesh. This is why a diary can be so important - maybe I can't recall with absolute clarity every last detail, nuance or word, but I can recall for another person's ear and eye the phantom place I once haunted.

The more it changes.....

POLITICS & SOCIETY
Here's a little quote for you - before you look below, guess who wrote it and when.

....What's more, the wretched earnings of the poor are daily whittled away by the rich, not only through private dishonesty, but through public legislation. As if it weren't unjust enough already that the man who contributes most to society should get the least in return, they make it even worse, and then arrange for injustice to be legally described as justice.
  In fact, when I consider any social system that prevails in the modern world, I can't....see it as anything but a conspiracy of the rich to advance their own interests under the pretext of organising society. They think up all sorts of tricks and dodges, first for keeping safe their ill-gotten gains, and then for exploiting the poor by buying their labour as cheaply as possible. Once the rich have decided that these tricks and dodges shall be officially recognised by society - which includes the poor as well as the rich - they acquire the force of law.

Heady stuff, eh? Obviously the work of some deranged socialist or something. And so, therefore, right up my alley. However, there is one crumb of comfort - the person who wrote this described a world not that far removed from our own current one, where we seem destined to swell the ranks of the poverty-stricken once more to the kind of the levels this writer was talking about. We live in a country where the gap between the wealthiest and the poorest has continued to grow beyond anything experienced in at least a century. We live in a world where the richest 0.13% of the world's population hold more wealth in secret accounts than the combined GDPs or the US and Japan, and quite possibly a lot more - in fact, a staggering $55 TRILLION may be involved. This is more than enough money to sort out the current economic woes of the world, to put it in context.
Yet why should we be surprised it's happening? After all, it's happened before, and I daresay it'll all happen again - humans being humans, after all. Yet I can't help but worry - I think that such a gross imbalance between what the very richest have and what the very poorest don't demeans the whole of society from root to tip. The distorting effect of this top-heavy money blossom at the very stem, as it were, this rotten stinking fetid bloom of lucre, overshadows the base of the tree, unbalances it under the weight of its foul petals, and poisons and saps the very bases of community and society. After all, a tree without roots cannot stand, so why should those who claim to lead expect the system from which they spring, and on which they gain sustenance, expect anything else?
There is a considerable amount of research that indicates that those countries that have a smaller gap between the very rich and the very poor are more likely to be more cohesive, have fewer social problems and greater social mobility, and, generally speaking, are more likely to be happy bunnies. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much chance of that happening in the UK or globally at the moment - instead, our Prime Minister seems hellbent on a deregulated goldrush for more of the Rotten Bloom's falling petals. And it's going to get worse at home - along with utilities bills increasing, fuel tax about to go on the rise, and, worse, a crappy grape harvest likely to lead to a quid on a bottle of wine, there will also be more benefits cuts to come in April. Life is going to get much, much harder here, and that worries me - look what's going on in Greece right now.Austerity breeds Nazis.
If the politicians are really serious about sorting out the economy, they should start at the top of the tree, not at the bottom - lop away a few blooms here and there, trim the branches a bit. It won't hurt anywhere near as much as attacking the roots with a jackhammer, which is effectively what the austerity measures announced across Europe and further afield are. Ah, I hear you cry, but then the rich will go elsewhere - my answer? Let them go - only a few will actually do it, and that ends up clearing a bit more space for everyone else. The fact of the matter is that the individuals who really make a difference are very, very few and far between - instead, society is the product of, well, society - you know, all of us, pulling together. May I point out that this is not the same as David Cameron's Big Society, or indeed Ed Miliband's One Nation - rather, it's the organic relationship between people that generally exists in spite of, rather than because of, politicians.
And anyway, we shouldn't be fooled into believing that money is the only true measure of an individual's worth, which is what the rich would have us think, or, to return to my rather organic analogy, what the flower on the stem would have the plant think: that its only role is to uphold a gaudy collocation of petals, doomed to wilt and fall all too soon. It's a pity that we associate wealth with power, really.
And the quote? Sir Thomas More, Book Two of Utopia, translated by Paul Turner in the 1985 Penguin Editon. A text written almost 500 years ago. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.....

Where is the New Ataturk?

As promised, a post about Turkey, considering that's how this blog was originally intended to be.

Back in 1999, just before the earthquake struck that flattened the region round Izmit, and officially killed 20,000 (although the real figure was almost certainly double that - however, 20,000 was the limit beyond which disaster funds would have had to be released by the government to assist, and they had no intention of doing that), that earthquake where the death figure was so high because government cronies, cowboy builders, get-rich quick merchants and generally crooked scum had built buildings out of sub-standard materials, back then, one of my better classes asked me what I thought of Ataturk. His picture stared down at me, as it does in every classroom, office, and workplace in the Turkish Republic: This particular one was of him with careworn blue eyes, moustached, looking off to the left, wearing what is called an English Jacket in Turkey, his face pensive, almost as if he was trying to work out the same question that my students had asked me.
I paused before I gave my answer. Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, founder of the Turkish Republic, General, Leader, Teacher, Father, is a revered figure, even though he had died in 1938. He is a ubiquitous presence, a reminder of what was won, carved out of the wreckage that was the Ottoman Empire under its bloated, vain, witless leaders, of the hard bargains done, and a promise of what can be.
'I believe', I said, 'that Ataturk was a great leader.'
The atmosphere in the room eased. I'd given the answer they wanted to hear.
'However,' I continued, 'I'm not sure he was a good politician'.
It went very, very silent after that. I carried on.
'He was the right man, in the right place, at the right time. He was a brilliant military commander, and he commanded affection and loyalty. He led, and others followed happily. He, and he alone, created the Turkish Republic. He made the ENTIRE country learn to use the Latin script in six months flat, increasing literacy by 90%, and that meant that your grandparents and parents could study, go on to university, and make a richer, better country. He gave women the vote. He separated the state from religion, and he created a judicial code that ensured, in theory, equality before the law. For all these things, yes, he was a great leader.'
The class waited, silent.
'But, a good politician? I don't think so - why? Because he wasn't a man who liked to compromise: His word was the law, and he wasn't that interested in many other people's opinions. He was a military man, a man used to being obeyed, and that doesn't always make for good politicians, because a politician has to be able to compromise, negotiate, be flexible. Ataturk would have seen that as being weak-spirited.
The other thing, the greatest tragedy, was that he drank himself to death, in effect - and that was a tragedy for him personally, for all of Turkey, and, I think, for the whole Middle East.'
I'm not sure how well that last bit went down, nor, to be honest, how my Turksih friends and colleagues will react to seeing it written here, but that was how I thought at the time, and, a few gaps in my knowledge that have been filled since then notwithstanding, not far from how I feel today.
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was, without doubt, the Búyúk Ónder (Great Leader) and, I believe, thoroughly deserves the honorific of Father of the Country (despite that appellation being previously used by, among others, Gaius Julius Caesar). However, I can't help but feel that he was not the best of politicians, and unfortunately, this problem of Leadership and Politician still pervades Turkish politics today.
Turkey loves Strong Male Leaders - even Tansu Ciller, the first female prime minister and throughly rotten, corrupt leader, played up the Strong Man Role. The current incumbent, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, has arguably taken this attitiude to ever more absurd levels, to the points that certain commentators accuse him of wishing to become a new Ottoman Padishah, and indeed, he has talked about the rise of a new Ottoman Empire. Erdogan is leader of the AKP, a 'mildly' Islamist party that has become increasingly authoritarian over the past ten years, imprisoning more journalists and writers than any other country, and resurrecting the war against the PKK and the Kurds in the southeast. This is a party that has placed internet filters meaning that school children cannot access controversial things such as Charles Darwin, for example. This is a party that has outlawed abortion. This is a party that sees conspiracy everywhere, and which has become increasingly, hysterically, antisemitic, and has passed the contagion of Conspiracy Theory to every corner of the land.
When I look at my Turkish friends' and colleagues' threads on Facebook, I can't help but see that political and religious opinion have become incredibly fiercely divided, perhaps worse than it was in the late 70's, and I can't help but think that it is squarely the fault of the AKP and their decade-long rule. And a phrase I see again and again is this:
'Where is Ataturk?'
I understand this sentiment - the need for the hero to rise and save the day: After all, it's universal - the cowboy in the white hat, King Arthur rising from his slumber of centuries, William Tell appearing with his crossbow - but the problem with this kind of yearning is that it ignores the obvious answer.
What is that answer?
Well, it very much depends on whether you want 'Great' or if you want 'Good'.
'Great' is for a short time: Someone comes in a time of crisis, leads, and seeks to solve the problems faced by a country or a society, or a group of people. The problem with this is that Greatness is addictive, both for those who wish to be great and for those who seek someone Great to lead them. It is not always the correct way to govern, as a Great Leader is someone who expects to be obeyed in all things political, religious, etihical and moral, just as Erdogan and the AKP have styled themselves.
'Good', by contrast, is for the long term - it may be hesitant; it may ponder; it may be conservative (with a small 'c'), for fear of causing more harm than good; but ultimately, good governance is all about considering the needs of society as a whole rather than the whims, religion, ethics or morality of a tiny ruling elite, no matter how egalitarian they try to make themselves seen.
And going back to what I said to my students about Ataturk, I said something else:
'I believe that he did everything he did for the sake of his countrymen - not for Turkey, but for Turks. He did what he did for people: the great shame for this Great Leader is that he never gave himself the opportunity to be Good, if you see what I mean.'
And there's the answer to the question - 'Where is Ataturk?' He was the father; It's the children's job to carry on where he left off, and be the Good Politicians, each and every one - so, my Turkish friends and colleagues, you yourselves are the answer to the question - it's up to you to make it happen. Turkey needs and deserves good leadership, not men who want to be Great.

...but now for something completely different....

...or rather, a return to one of the more frequent topics of this blog, cycling, just to make a change from navel-gazing.
Today, Remembrance Sunday, started out under cold blue skies and a hard frost clamped down on everything. Fortunately, I'd already decided to sit this part of the day out, reading the paper and having breakfast. No point freezing one's nuts off by too early a start. In fact, I didn't get out of the house until 10.30, and, being at first undecided which direction to head in, finally thought aiming for the north would be good.
The trees were putting on their best, and probably final, autumnal display: Beeches and hornbeams were decked with vivid leaves, ranging in colour from pale yellow, through amber and orange to fiery red. I headed edgily down Highdown Hill and the acrid smell of a coal fire somewhere, past the golf course and up the other side, coming out as ever onto Shepherd's lane, then heading up towards Kidmore End. Coming past the New Inn, I saw that there was a Remembrance Day service spilling out of the church and into the road, people greeting each other, some with poppy wreaths held in hands. I made a detour round the back of the church in order to avoid cycling through the crowd, then carried on the Gallowstree road, and down to Reades Lane. The air was cool and held autumn's pungency, a mix of damp soil, leaves, earthy strange growth and animal dung. Bar a few walkers and a cyclist who didn't bother to reply to my hello, I saw no-one. A chcken coop went by, with one animal making a mad racket; I saw a few sad-eyed cattle over a hedge.
Then an extraordinary moment: Just past the crossroads with Wyfold Lane, where theroad dips down through woods, I suddenly saw movement - dun, large shapes, picking through the wood, then carefully crossing the road right in front of me - fallow deer! I was still going downhill at speed, and I wondered if I'd end up hitting one. They spotted me - well, it's hard to ignore someone in a bright orange cycling jacket - and began to run and jump. I found myself right in the middle of a herd of deer, running and leaping in front and behind - a truly extraordinary moment, made all the more so by the silence with which it happened.

I rode on up to Stoke Row, past the pigsty on the right hand side of the road, and ran into the fragance of freshly baked bread and pastries, making me feel hungry all over again. I stopped briefly at Maharajah's Well and had some water, then headed off towards Ipsden, via Uxmore road and the Black Horse, a pub that used to be run by two little old ladies with a relaxed attitude toward closing hours - they used to trust people to throw themselves out and pay for anything they drank once they'd retired to bed. On I went, past clip-clops of horse riders and the cack-a-carra of pheasants sprinting into undergrowth, enormous mushrooms, and got as far as the field just past the farmhouse that has its own little cottage industry, and looked down on the magnificent view that stretches all the way to Woodstock, somewhere past Oxford.

 

I turned back a bit then, and took the woodland road to Checkenden, going past the equestrian centre before going through the village proper, past the cricket ground and the Four Horseshoes, heading towards Woodcote, when I saw an even more extraordinary sight - a giant sculpture in the middle of a field, next to an abandoned barn. I turned off the road, left my bike propped against a tree, and made my way across the field to have a closer look. The air whistled with the cries of red kites as I looked at this weird thing, a statue of two people embracing, or rather, two giant skeletons.

I later found out that it's by John Buckley, and called either The Nuba Embrace or The Nuba Survival.
Well, that was enough weirdness for the day, so once I'd got to Woodcote, I headed back towards Goring Heath and from there to Mapledurham, banging along a rough, muddy-puddled lane until I reached the Warren and from there back to Caversham and finally Emmer Green.

not much of a muchness.

It's late, I'm tired, and sometimes I wonder what this blog is really all about - let's face it, it is a bit of a hit-and-miss affair, isn;t it? However, it has been alive since 2003, so it's coming up to its tenth birthday, which must count as some kind of achievement. Don't bother looking back at earlier posts - they're all a wee bit embarrassing...
I gave this blog the name it's stuck with for a reason - basically, I couldn't think of a better name, and I initially wanted to talk about a couple of great loves in my life: Turkish food and Raki, the closest humankind has ever reached to liquid cannabis, in my opinion. What I have omitted to write about is my attitude and opinions about Turkey itself. I have always been a bit circumspect in this regard, out of respect to all my old Turkish friends and colleagues. I intend to remedy this somewhat. This doesn't mean that I'm about to slag it off - that would be pointless:  rather, I'm going to try and give my honest perspective, just as the quite magnificent Istanbul's Stranger does, but from someone who has been there and come back out again, and as someone who is concerned about the pressures and problems it looks like it's facing right now.
But not right now - right now, it's bed time.

Mindrat.

Hello, little traitor.
I can see you, shuffling off down the sinuous paths of this labyrinth, forever scuttling away, hiding, shifting.
I am very, very angry with you.
Do you know why?
Of course you do. After all, you've been in the driving seat for years, haven't you? You're the one behind the bad decisions. You're also the one behind good decisions too, or at least ones that seemed good at the time, because you're good at those ones - hence my feelings of betrayal. You're the one that made me deflect decisions, shy away from things, settle for less than my worth. You managed to convince me that I wasn't good enough or smart enough or handsome enough or rich enough, that I was below this or that person, that I was lucky to be just as I was. You were the one who encouraged me to sneer at others; you were the one who said I was better off sat in the corner, reading a book, when I wanted to play as a child; later, you persuaded me that an aura of solitude was cool, and keeping people at arm's length was the right thing to do.
I've lost people because of you.
I lost my integrity, even though you kidded me into believing that I had it in spades.I lost any direction I might have had, because you persuaded me that there were so many directions to go in, so many paths.
when I landed a job, you told me it was all down to me being 'lucky', even though the job wasn't that great - after all, it was still a job. And then you whispered that it was, somehow, a great job and in some way better than others - god, it took me YEARS to suspect that wasn't really true. Now, it is, by happenstance, true that I am very, VERY good at teaching, but then again, I've had nineteen years of doing it, and not doing much else - and why?
Because, you whispered, I don't have time, or I don't have money, or I'm not good enough, or I should be doing it for serious purposes, rather than for pleasure.
And why not pleasure? Because you said it was worthless. The only fun I ever had was having a few drinks - but you spoiled that by pouring too much down my throat and ruining it all, you little sack of crap.
And then you cleared my wallet of money and made me worry about that, you backstabbing tosspot. And even while I was worried about that, I couldn't countenance getting a different job - why? because again, you said, I wasn't quite right for anything out there.
And then you allowed me to get angry and frustrated and long to hurt, because I was trapped in the inside of a labyrinth.
You have poisoned so much in my life.
And for the last few months, FINALLY, I have been treading this maze, seeking out all these my problems, trying to understand the shape and form of this puzzle. Slowly, I have linked passageway to passageway; I have a twine in my hand, and gradually, like Theseus seeking the minotaur, I have been edging towards the centre, but for a long time, I kept circling - and I didn't even notice I was doing so - why? Because you, who I thought was at the centre of the mystery, you were actually there, whispering directions to me, making me double back, pause, turn, then turn again.
And then, as if the sky had cleared, I saw through your tricks: the way you say, 'ah yes, but...' or 'well, like this is for the best...', or the way you divert my mind, my attention from what is, how you stop me from following a true path.
I saw you, and now you're bolting down the paths of my mind, a little black shape with a rat's tail - a mindrat, the festering little blister of darkness responsible for so much, for holding me back, for making me settle for less than I can be. I don't know exactly how you were spawned, where you come from, but I know that you are a thing of fear, and I will catch you.
Hello, little traitor - let me introduce myself. I am Paul Gallantry, and you are not the one in charge, not any more.This is my labyrinth.
Keep scuttling.

....and that's where I was several hours ago, except I realised that this cunning little bastard inside my head has made me define myself entirely by negatives, something that is not a reflection of me as an entire person! Damn, it's clever - I've been misdirected again! The thing is, I do not understand this strange sequestered bit of my soul - all I know is that it's responsible for tethering me back, but why, well, that's anyone's guess. 

Did you miss me?

OK, so I haven't been posting much recently. Well, not at all for a few months. Alright, not a blinking sausage.
I intend to rectify this.
I should say that there have been three reasons behind my extreme rectitude of the last six months:
1. I have been in the throes of a separation, and to be honest, I can think of better things to think about than blog.
2. I have been up to my eyeballs in studying.
3. I am by nature a lazy git, and I couldn't think of anything worth saying.
4. OK, no. 3 is in fact two reasons.
5. All right, I've thought of something else: I was feeling weary of being online, on places like blogger and Twitter, where it seems you're surrounded by a myriad of voices all shouting 'Me! me! MEEEE!!' all the time.

The question is, where to start again?

Oh alright then, politics.
There have been, to put it mildly, what might might be classified as Interesting Times in the rarifed realms of politics, law, media and finance. Put simply, it would appear that we are witnessing a rather black farce, with the ruling elite's trousers falling down at an alarming rate.
 Unfortunately, there's no-one making a 'POOooo-oooOOP!' noise on a flute, or someone pretending to be a lampshade.
What we are witnessing is just how far the politicians in Westminster, of all political pursuasions, have been in thrall to the media and the banks, and just how scared of them they are. The Leveson inquiry has unveiled all sorts of shenanigans, chicanery and other words suggesting farcical black deeds in the press and its relationship to those nominally in charge; The utterly disgusting behaviour by Barclays and other banks is now the possible subject of another inquiry.
The problem is this: the people who have set up Leveson and are pushing for the banking inquiry are to some degree culpable. It's a bit like a witness for the defence in a murder trial being asked to set up the case. Why on earth is there not more anger about this issue? For the past four years now, we have increasingly seen the ways in which politicians, media figures and bankers have actively colluded to deceive, cheat, swindle and threaten. If these were people in your neighbourhood doing this, they would quite rightly be the subject of prosecution - but because these are the lawmakers, the purseholders, the newscarriers, they can make a law, keep hold of our money and tell us all that it is, somehow, all our fault.
Or worse, That We Are All In This Together.

missed typo....

......or deliberate? This made me smile today: I was looking through the What'sOn section of GetReading, and saw this ad for a concert:

Now, how do you go around proving that you are qualified for free entrance?

Faffing about.

OK, this is one of these posts where I'm not sure where it'll end up, simply because I'm being a bit aimless, and also because it's mid-January, and that is entirely in keeping with the spirit of the month. In fact, thinking about it, January is one of my faffier months. This is probably because of several factors:
1) Resolutions crashing and failing miserably.
2) Lack of money due to Christmas.
3) It's bloody January, and it's dark outside and it's easier to sit in a pit at home, lurking and watching duff TV.
As I have mentioned on this blog before, I tend not to make any solid resolutions as such at this time of year, as they are almost certainly doomed to fail due to the fact that we tend to indulge in far too many bad habits around the winter solstice, such as drinking and eating too much or generally being a bit gloomy.
But one habit I've become more mindful of is mental faffing. Having completed a series of challenges last year, I find myself at a bit of a loose end, and I've noticed how much of my thinking time is taken up with idle speculation and random thoughts. At the same time, I've really noticed how much general faffing I do - at work, at home, whenever I'm on my netbook, whenever I'm standing in a corner and idly staring at drying paint, or whatever. Now, I'm certainly not alone in this - it's amazing how much faffing you can get away with: Boris Johnson appears to have set up an entire career out of being a professional faffer. And, come to think of it, virtually every presenter of daytime TV. But it sometimes seems to me that I've spent too much time in thoughtful idleness, and it leads me to wonder how much more I could do by being more mindful - that is, more focused on doing something rather than let my mind wander.
Then again, this makes me wonder whether it is worth being mindful: Would I actually be doing anything worthwhile, or would it just be Doing Stuff? In which case, it's faffing, but concentrated faffing. In fact, this is a variant on this good old question: 'What If...?' 'What if I'd done more at school? What if I'd jumped to this job? What if I'd stayed?' etc and so on and so forth.
The fact is, it's so easy to flail around in life, and it is extraordinarily rare to find people who focus single-mindedly on things - and it should be borne in mind that such people are committing themselves to a high-risk game - if they fail and fall, they fail and fall spectacularly. And they don't get to smell the roses along the way. There's nothing wrong per se with the faff: it's when the faff takes over from real life and we mistake it for such. But also, when we are jolted into notcing that what we are doing is an act of faffiness, then it is time to do something different.
And that's the end of this bit of faffery.

Christmas Time, Mistletoe and Wine etc.

Yes, I know, a long pause between the triumphal entries of my ride into Paris and now, and there is a very good, but rather sad, reason. I'll probably talk about it another time, but it's too personal and raw for now. 


Instead, let's talk about Christmas, well, just a little bit. It's a great time of year for broken promises, whether they be New Year Resolutions that last about as long as a snowball in Hell, or intentions to make Xmas Xtra Special This Year, ending up with everything going into meltdown. As ever.


One things I always intend to do is write a short story for Christmas, something festive or spooky or something. I haven't had much joy with doing this so far, and none this year either.
However, I've been digging through my old archives of written junk, and I discovered this little piece from December 1992, so I thought I'd share it here, as a sop to festive writing. To be honest, it's pretty miserable stuff. Oh well.

A BRIEF TALE

It was Christmas Eve, the time towards chucking out, the pubs heaving with beer and nicotine and revelry and sweat and the juggernaut thudding of music, when you could stand at the doorway of a bar and feel the difference between the heat within and the cold without like walls pressing against each other: It was the time to stagger off in search of any parties that might be happening, anywhere awash with alcohol. One such group of people, hot and laughing, were planning exactly this.

- Onl On!

-What,now? Wooh !

-Phil! Are you with us, you old sod?

-C'mon !

-Are you coming Phil?

Phil Bravo, drunk as the next, but his insides remaininq somehow sober, raised a hand in denial.

-Not I. No dosh.Tired. Must wait for Santa.

-Oh, come on!

-No.thanks, must wend my weary soon.

-You sure? Oh all right then.

-See you soon. Merry Christmas.

A chorus of goodnights and kisses flurried briefly, then fluttered into the road with yelps and cheers sidling along, echoing to silence, Ieaving Bravo to finish his pint. The pub emptied, the barmaid

cleaned up around him.

-C'mon now!

-Sorry. Here you go.

-Ta. Merry Christmas.

-And you.

He left, legs heavy with beer, lurching into the street, the cold clear wind scouring. Christmas.  It grew less every year, lost its weight, became insubstantial, he thought.

Times I remember, magic, wonder. Transformation. Looking at myself in a bauble on a tree, spinning the little glass orb round on its thread, my reflection rolling over it, ghostlighted. The imminence of the next day, the eager anticipation that kept me awake half the night, sent me hurtling from the bed like a dog out of the slips in the morning.....The fairy castle of lights and turrets and frosted crenellations my father made from blue card and glitter, placed by the tree every year, and I believing the magic, the sheer magic of it all.

What is it now? Another holiday, a long weekend.

Bravo entered the town's High Street and looked up its length. Christmas lights clung to the lampposts, a flotilla of lanterns and decorations harboured in the cold night, feeble in the immense blackness, the indifferent anonymity of unlit shops, the broken reflections from the puddles.

What's missing?

He tried to remember what it was, the formula or the way of seeing things that made it good, that made this time so special, so fecund with maybes and nearly theres. Faintly, faintly, from a nearby church, a high thin arc of song reached into the air, arched overhead, and just as he thought he could almost hold it, the melody disappeared into the gap between the stars.

He couldn't imagine.

The glitter and the goods heaped in the shop windows looked cheap, there'd be rain tomorrow, having to deal with the bloody relatives, the niceties of the season, then back to sodding work. All this intruded into his mind.

Where had the magic gone?

Phil Bravo, disappointed adult, staggered home, his mind on Christmas dinner, the new day’s surfeit.

Elsewhere, as Midnight moved on, some children, somewhere, half asleep, heard the possible clatter of secret hooves, a shuffling on the roof, bells maybe. And certain animals, as they dreamt, found they could speak for a while, spoke and laughed and kept the secret to themselves.

December 1992

The London to Paris cycle ride, part four

A thump on the window. Le Campanile's version of a wakeup call. I'd actually woken a little earlier, feeling remarkably good, certainly better than I deserved to. And, contrary to expectations, not particularly sore: In fact, I seemed to be floating slightly, with a faint grin on my face. We were all up earlier than any of the other days, simply because we had a rendezvous with Paris at 2.30. I found I couldn't eat much - too early to eat, or maybe too excited, I don't know. It was a somewhat perfunctory affair, a croisant and a coffee, then I packed my daysack and main pack for the last time, keeping the former as light as possible for the last leg. The morning was cool, with mist hanging around the tree tops opposite the hotel, but it boded heat - you just knew that when the sun got going, it would turn into a hot one. We threw our bags into the support van, saddled up, and, from me -
'ALLONS-Y!'
We pedalled onto the road again, the whole pack of us. The atmosphere was one of excitement and anticipation, of knowledge of a job nearly done. We turned a corner, then another, and then whoosh! into the mist and the forests and the hills. Riding through fog is always a strange and exhilarating experience - the movement into the unknown, the way the opaque curtain closes behind you, the sense of being held in a bubble, the way  it emphasises that, as you ride, there is only you and the now and the road.
And what a road! A sheer joy of tarmac: with the exception of our voices and the odd car, we moved on in near silence, a ghost peleton, a glimmer of brief rushing colours passing through the fog. As we came out of Compiegne, I also saw, for the first time ever, a red squirrel. Sadly, little Squirrel Nutkin had not heeded his own road safety advice.
It was splattered across the road.

ENGLISH ROADKILL vs FRENCH ROADKILL
There can be little doubt that roadkill in the United Kingdom exhibits a far greater range of wildlife than it does in the French Republic. Upon the roads of the Green and Pleasant Land, one may observe Hedgehogs, frogs, toads, rabbits, pigeons, squirrels, pheasants, peasants, grouse, ptarmigans (in the north), quail, sheep, muntjac and other varieties of deer, even the odd wallaby. France, however, displays a far greater amount of roadkill. rare is it to go 200 metres along a main road without encountering a flattened rat, or exploded mouse. If one wishes to enjoy sheer roadkill headcount, then France is the country for you.

The roads were fairly hilly, but by and large not excessively so. Well, that's how it seemed at first. We went into dips, then rose again, occasionally climbing up out of the fog into a brief view of a small island above a sea of white, before dipping again. But then, we hit a hill. A big bugger. It went on and on, and then on a bit more. And then a bit extra. Finally, we got to the top. The road was clear of mist, although it still lay in the fields to either side. The sky was suddenly properly visible, the kind of blue that turns gradually paler as the day passes. Turning on to a side road, we waited for others to catch up. A couple of minutes passed. Ross appeared, struggling with a very spongy tyre. Following him was Sabrina, clearly having problems.
'You Ok?'
'No!', she smiled, nearly crying at the same time. She'd done something to one of her legs, and was obviously in quite a lot of pain. We stopped for a breather, and she hobbled off her bike, nearly collapsing. Kris, Glen's trainer, had a look at her leg, and tried giving it a massage. It had already started swelling.
'I felt it go as I came up the hill', she gasped.'I just started off too cold'.
While Kris looked after her, I tried helping out Ross and his back tyre, which had suddenly gone flat. He tried reinflating it with his pump, but it was a screw-in type, and kept on taking the valve out. We tried with three different pumps, with mine eventually getting a bit of air successfully into it. Someone else had also developed a flat. It seemed as if, on the final day, whatever could go wrong, would go wrong. The support vehicle turned up, and Marco got to work with inner tubes and pumps. Suddenly, from out of the mist, there was a tremendous roar, the sound of what I thought was a  jet fighter flying low and very, very near.
'Jesus! That plane's close!'
'It's not a plane', replied someone, 'that's the Eurostar - the line's just down in that valley'.
Never heard a train sound like that. I felt my legs were getting cold, so rather than run the risk of them cramping up, I decided to ride on to the water stop, which was only a couple of kilometres ahead, and located in what should have been on the stereotypes bingo list - a lovely, honey-coloured chateau:

what - no bananas?

across the road, over the field, electricty pylons poked their heads through the mist, and down a misty lane with sunlight lancing, a man on an old-fashioned bicycle went by.
He wasn't playing an accordion though.

honest, that's a bloke on a bike without an accordion.

the road on which we stopped was Rue Jean-Paul Satre, which almost counts for the sneering existentialist philosopher in a black roll-neck sweater listening to jazz stereotype.
The rest of my pack came in a few minutes after me, and once they'd had their fill, and Sabrina had been checked over again, the nurse asked her if she'd be ok.
'I've come this bloody far, I'm finishing this!' Good for her.
We carried on into a brighter day, and as we headed towards Paris, we came on older roads, and an older type of road surface: cobbles, or CCCCCOOOOOOBBBBBBLLLLLEEEESSS AAAAAGGGHHH, as all the people on road bikes called them. My cunning plan to use a heavy mountain bike was finally coming to fruition, I kidded myself. It was only in the villages we passed that we encountered this - in between, there was still the baby-smooth EU-subsidised, Tour de France-attracting tarmac. We glided down one hill, across a plain and towards another ridge, on which a ruined turret jutted from the tree tops, looking in sunlight like a ragged face staring towards us. Another uphill, a sudden bout of cobbles, the sound of Sabrina going 'Oooowww!' as she went over them, a brief stop at the top, and then we were in the Oise Valley - the Oise, which debouches into the Seine. We were almost on the final leg.
 We rode through a village with more traffic than we had been used to, and there on a corner was -
man with baguette under his arm exiting a boulangerie!
we cheered, much to the bemusement of people watching us go by.
Lunch. At ten o'clock. Did we care? Hell no - there was apple pie, more pasta of various hues, a final melange of options from the previous few days, and 80's music: What more could you ask for from a saturday in France with the sun rising? The nurse gave Sabrina an injection to help with her swollen leg, and within half and hour she was feeling a lot better - well, she could actually walk, for one thing. Lorraine, who had taken the tumble the day before, was sore and riding slow, but still in one piece. In fact, everyone was bubbly and ready for the very last section.

would you like some pie with your cream, Ross?

We thanked the field catering team (Extreme Catering, for those who want to know), and got into the saddle.
And promptly got almost lost. Well, actually, we were in the right direction, but Dave suddenly said,
'Hang on, this must be wrong - we're doubling back on ourselves'.
We looked at our maps, tried to work out what was going on, then went back down the hill, went down a side road, saw that was wrong, saw another group of riders, then decided to follow them. And that was the last example of signage anxiety of the trip. Carrying on up a hill, I ended up ahead of the others, and decided to stop and put on some sun cream - by now, it was seriously hot. The rest of the group came up the hill, and on we went - down one road, through another surrounded by older houses, down a hill, up the other side and then, a couple of kilometres later -
Pylon after pylon, marching across the countryside, all aimed in the same direction. Planes coming in to land, or lifting up into the sky from some as yet unseen airstrip. Glints of glass, roads to the left, to our right, ahead, all with a single destination - the towers and buildings on the horizon, so close -
'PARIS!'
we whooped and cheered, and seemed to get more life into our legs. We were almost there, it seemed. Team Rouge (me, Kev, Sabrina, Dave, Glen, and Ross ) ploughed on. And on.
In fact, there were quite a few more miles to cover. The Banlieus of Paris approached. We went down one downhill, and in front of us were the skyscrapers of the financial district and suddenly, between two buildings, gone in a flash, the Eiffel Tower. Not everyone got downhill in one piece. We passed Dulcie, being helped by the support vehicle, who'd come off in a pothole, bashing her knee.
On went the banlieus, and the traffic became heavier while the roads became narrower. It was time to switch to city-style cycling, slower and more defensive, and after the freedom and speed of the last few days, immensely frustrating. Paris exuded heat: It clung to us, a clammy shirt of humidity, and left us sapped and increasingly thirsty. The traffic meant that it became difficult to overtake or move ahead easily. At one stage, we were forced to crawl behind a guy driving a mobility shopper down the road, who I suspected was thoroughly enjoying reducing our speed. Finally, the Seine appeared, and we moved along its banks, frustrated by the traffic lights - but where was our stop? We still had kilometres of avoiding pedestrians, cars, and parked vans that abruptly pulled out, earning at least two a thump on the side from me.
'Where the bloody hell are we bloody stopping?' I yelled, annoyed.
'There!' said another guy just in front of me, pointing at Marco, who was waving frantically in the middle of the road. At last, the park!
'Well done guys, you're here! Get in the park and have an ice cream.'
I didn't even mind spending three quid on a Cornetto.

Paris! And this, unbelievably, is a public toilet.

Team Rouge!

So, we all got drinks and ice creams and changed into our MacMillan Tshirts, and suddenly no-one really knew what to say. It's always the same when you reach a target or achieve something: there's a moment of anti-climax, of doubt, of 'well, what next?' We stood or sat, relaxing, and actually there wasn't a need to say a thing. We had ridden three hundred miles in four days, and you don't do that too often.
But we hadn't quite finished yet. There was still the small matter of another ride in formation to do, and do THIS:


Holy Shit! We rode round the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Elysee! It doesn't get much better than that.
Well, actually, it did.
We headed towards the Eiffel Tower, the support vehicle ahead of us, holding us together as a pack. As we approached the Champs du Mars, it slowed right down at some traffic lights, then suddenly roared off as they turned red. We had to wait, and it dawned on us that we had to do a sprint finish. We lined up, poised on the  pedals, waiting for the lights to change. One of the Discover Adventure team was ahead of us, waving a flag and beckoning, and the the lights changed, and BOOM! we cranked it as hard as we could, and there ahead of us was a roundabout and friends and relatives all screaming and cheering and waving flags,  and Marco was shouting 'keep going round, keep going round!', so we did, everyone whooping and laughing.
Fortunately, there were several little blokes running round with buckets of beer, and by God, they tasted good. The beer that is, not the little blokes. All that was left was the photos and greeting families - and for Laura to fall over on her bike because she couldn't get her cleats out in time. It was time for a last pedal - down to our hotel, The Pullman Rive Gauche, which was definitely a notch better than the other hotels we'd stayed in. I went to get my key and find out who my roommate was for that night - turned out it was Ross once again, but:
'My girlfriend's got a room. No offense, but I think I'd rather spend the night with her', he said, grinning.
Bonus!
I had a couple of glasses of champagne that had  been laid on, and checked on my bike, which was in the stack that were being loaded onto a lorry for transportation back to St. Pancras.
'You did well on that', said one of the Discover Adventure guys. ' When I first saw it, I thought, nah, he'll never make it.'
'It's not that big a monster!'
'That is a Claud Butler. I reckon that's one of the heaviest bikes ever to complete this challenge. However, I've seen someone try to do this on a shopper bike.'
Feeling terribly chuffed with myself, I went up to my room on the fifteenth floor, one I could enjoy in glorious solitude, with views across Paris and the Parc des Princes. I poured myself a beer and treated myself to a long, hot, shower, a great big grin spread over my face.
And that's where it ends, nearly. The victory dinner was socially pleasant, but the food was, beyond doubt, a disaster. If I thought the grub at Arras was bad, it hadn't come remotely close to what awaited me here. It was :

shame on you Pullman Rive Gauche! Shame

THEY SERVED ME CAT FOOD.
Well, it was some kind of potted lamb meat, served on a bed of couscous. It's really hard to bugger up couscous, but by God they'd done it. And the lamb - it really did taste as bad as it looks in the photo. However, it was more than made up for by the party in the bar across the road, which went on to past three in the morning, survived a sudden torrential thunderstorm, and saw at least one broken table.
All that was left was a couple of hours walking round a sunday Paris. I ended up in the Tuileries with Kev, admiring the gardens and statues, then headed back by metro to the hotel. And finally, coming up the exit tunnel, there he was:
An accordion player.
Accompanied by a tuba player.
Playing a rendition of The Birdie Song!
What an adventure. What a great five days.
To everyone who made this possible, thank you. To everyone who participated, you're all brilliant. To Sabrina, Kev, Glen, Dave, Ross, and Kris, thank you for making the whole thing so enjoyable.
And would I do this again?
ALLONS-Y!

The London to Paris cycle ride, part three

Day Three: Arras to Compiegne
Ahh, I love the smell of Ralgex in the mornings...
The early morning air hung heavy with the aroma of embrocations and unguents, along with the post-storm smell of the earth. We were getting ready  to set off again, and I stared blearily up the road.
I hadn't had a decent night's sleep. Strawberry lager, proper lager, Chartreuse and Gin and Tonic were not entirely conducive to nestling gently into the arms of Morpheus. However, I would probably have managed more if it hadn't been for the fact that my room mate was a heavy snorer - or, to be perfectly honest, a heavier snorer than me. He sawed away from about half three to about five, and I finally managed to get a little sleep before the wake up call at 6.10. God, my legs hurt. I stretched one leg out of the bed, reached for the ibuprofen and tried to find a cool spot on the pillow.
'Stretching your legs?' asked my room mate.
'No, hangover'.
Well, it could have been worse. I could have had Glen's Chartreuse and Cognac hangover.
Once again, Sabrina, Kev and I rode out into the day, and once again, it was a cool start, but now promising to get warm sooner rather than later. And my God, it hurt to start off. Ow.Ow.Ow.Ow., went my legs as they pedalled around, but after a few kilometres they got into their stride, and on we went. Glen was somewhere to the back, and we were joined by Dave and Ross as we cycled. The land undulated, the vistas opened up, and suddenly we were in a landscape of tranquil bucolic charm, a scene entirely unrecognisable to someone who'd stood there some 95 years ago.
The valleys that had been fought over, inch by bloody inch, by imperial forces during the First World War. The sky remained grey and the mood among us remained quiet, sombre even, as though this was a place that should be either flitted through with the minimum of fuss and attention seeking, or should be processed through at a funereal pace. Here and there, as we turned a corner, along with the small roadside chapels, there would be a cemetery, neatly tended, its gravestones serried and white, inscribed with the names of boys who'd been sent off to die a long time ago. The whole landscape, despite its sleepy charm, seemed to me to carry a terrible song of sadness. Every building, every stand of trees, every little hillock, every stump, each single little thing had been fought over and had witnessed mechanised, industrialised mass death. We spoke almost quietly, discussing what we were seeing, what we remembered of WW1, what we knew of these wars. I described my Great-Uncle Charlie, who had been in the first push over the top at the Somme Offensive, who got shot and spent three days in the mud before being taken prisoner. I talked about Karen having served in Iraq, and Ross mentioned a friend of his who was in the SBS, and who had been in both Iraq and Afghanistan.On we went, the land climbed, the smooth road unrolled underneath us, more wind turbines appeared, and suddenly we were in the Somme Valley, and approaching our first stop of the day, at the Thiepval Memorial.

I don't want to say much at this juncture - if you've been there, you'll know exactly how it feels. If you haven't, go. The number of names of people who haven't even been found is staggering. I found it deeply upsetting. One of the other cyclists sat quietly in one corner of the monument, red-eyed. We walked quietly around the monument and its superbly-tended grounds, visited the information centre, then getting our fill of bananas and oaty snacks. After nearly an hour there, we saddled up again and climbed upwards, and the sun came out, and seemingly, all of a sudden, this:

look at that view! Not Glen, the green stuff behind him.

look at that view! Not the green stuff, my complete absence of beer gut!

that's what we're heading to - next stop, downhiiiillll!

...and the day just exploded into a joyous one of cycling. I was still aching a bit, but the road and the weather and the company worked together to make it everything not just endurable but utterly enjoyable. We were far more relaxed, I think, and this made it far easier to ride. The land remained ridiculously pretty, and on one stretch I noticed a 2CV shooting along a poplar-lined road. I should also point out that I had spotted not one, but several, discarded packs of Gauloises, so I was doing quite well with my stereotypes bingo. The pace, while still vigorous, was distinctly more chilled out, and people rode sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. I found myself riding by myself for a while, totally absorbed into the Flow - not the flow, but the one with the capital: the same place you find yourself when writing after a certain amount of time, that point of almost effortless effort where there is only the Now, the Here, where you feel you can continue for mile after mile, hour after hour. My legs smoothly pedalled the bike with seemingly the minimum of work, the road held the tyres in a kiss of kilometres, and the landscape flowed from beautiful moment to beautiful moment. By now,  our mini-peloton consisted of me, Sabrina, Kev, Dave, Ross, Glen and Carol, the indefatigable 73-year-old. She's quite a fascinating person, not because of doing such an event, but because she is one of those rare humans who can lob a simple question and then you end up compelled to speak without even noticing it - she's a natural listener, a person with a touch of the Jane Marple about her. We'd asked her earlier about why she was doing this.
'well, I decided to do all those things that I'd never done once I reached 60, and keep looking for challenges. I've forgotten how many marathons I've done, now'.
She'd certainly done well in this ride - she was by no means at the back of the pack.
Lunch was in some kind of picnic layby. As well as our group, a family were trying to have lunch on a picnic bench nearby. Glen accosted them, sat down, started chatting and got fed. The rest of us made do with a lunch comprising some of the stars of the previous couple of days' lunches, plus a chicken curry pasta that tasted almost exactly like a pot noodle, with the same effect - you feel a little bit grubby and shameful eating it, but you end up wanting more, a bit like illicit Office Nookie. All this, and 80's music.
While we were stretching, eating, relaxing and finding convenient bushes, the question of what to wear came up. Not this:

reminds me of wrestling on World of Sport....

but rather, when cycling, do you wear pants or Go Commando? I won't mention who brought it up, because I'm being possibly unusually tactful, but she was clearly suffering from Tight Pants Syndrome.
'I tried both ways over my training - Commando is definitely the way to go', I said.
'Really? It's been really painful today'.
'Imagine what it's like having some meat and two veg down there'
'That's right', said Dave. 'Get 'em off, let the air circulate'
I should also point out that the lunch break was where I would apply:

BUM BUTTER
also known as Udderly Smooth, an embrocation originally designed to be applied to cows' udders to prevent sores and injuries, Bum Butter is not actually made out of either bums or butter. That would be perverse. Instead, it is a paraffin and glycol based compound that, when applied, brings to mind the 1970's pop song 'Slip Sliding Away...'

 - that is, I would apply it if I could find a secluded spot, which fortunately I did on this occasion. We didn't hang around too long on this occasion, and before long we were once again on our way. The Tight Pants Person wafted along with a look of bliss on her face.
'Oh my God! That feels so much better! Wow!'
On we went, and things started to get a little silly. Another knot of riders, lead by Laura, stormed past us, laughing noisily. In Laura's case, actually laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. We carried on at our own pace, through a few villages and up a couple of hills, then down some wonderful downhills. We came towards some huge golden fields, hay baled in tall towers, and we noticed four figures in one of them.
'Why are there so many scarecrows in one field?' I asked.
As we got closer, it became clear - Laura and her group had stopped and were posing in the field, arms outstretched and heads lolling. From a distance, it would have been easy to fool, except that they were heaving with laughter.  The ride continued, but there was now no sense of tiredness - we talked easily and the miles melted away. A few miles before the last water stop, we cycled over a little bridge with a picturesque duck pond to one side and a stream issuing out of the other. We stopped so that some of the group could take pictures.
'God, that water looks really nice', said Glen.
A minute later, he was wading bare chested down the stream, splashing along. and trying to catch fish in his hands.
The next water stop came in due course, next to probably the prettiest of the places where we took a break.

what do you mean, the bananas have almost run out?

There was even a bloke with a fishing pole and a fag dangling from the side of his mouth.
By this time of day, it was pretty hot, so we made sure to drink and replenish and set off at a relatively leisurely pace for the rest of the journey. By now, everything undulated, rather than climb in bloody big spikes, but somehow we stilll managed to get these wonderful downhill sections. Laura & co whizzed past us again, and again laughing like drains, so we were wondering what they were planning up ahead. We climbed a bit, then a  bit more, then reached a plateau looking down into a village and the prospect of a good downhill, and then
THUMP
Lorraine, who had a constant supply of drugs and Lanacane, took a tumble. She'd come too close to the side of the road, hit a pothole, and ended up arse over tit on a grassy verge. She'd been remarkably lucky - the way she'd fallen could have resulted in a broken neck, and a little further on would have seen her fall down a 30-metre slope. Several of us stopped and made sure she was OK.She was deeply shaken, and her bike, while not exactly buggered, wasn't entirely damage-free, but after the support van had arrived with the nurse she rallied. Actually, she rallied when some slender, muscular olive-skinned bloke in jodphurs came riding past on a horse. He slowed down as he reached us, then when Glen (who had caught up with us) said to him 'wou;d you like to help her?', he gave an almost imperceptible shrug, then galloped off across the fields.
Once the nurse arrived, we carried on. A couple of miles down the road, we found Laura and co, lolling on a haystack
'We've been here ages! what happened?'
apparently, they were going to do some kind of display for us, but instead they just got bums full of straw. Oops.
Compiegne was visible from their field, and it wasn't long before we entered the town. We cycled past the centre and headed towards the outskirts. Because of problems with hotels, we were split into two groups, with the majority heading towards Le Campanile for the night. It came nto sight, and didn't look too bad - a kindof Travelodge-type thing. I found out that I was sharing a room with Dave. I also found out that they were charging lots for a large lager. Anyway. Several people had already arrived when we got there, and had scouted out the local supermarkets for bargain beers, and were lolling on the front lawn with cans.Sabrina went off in one direction with Pat, who was visibly fuming about something being fucked up, to a local petrol station. I went in the other direction, following someone else's advice, going past all these wonderful boarded up villas, or places guarded by snarling dogs, then, as I was about to turn into a road with an offy, what do I see in the evening sunlight?
Two blokes playing boules while smoking gauloises and complimenting each other.
Parfait!


I came back, had beer, showered, and went to dinner. Tonight's dinner wasn't as bad as the dinner in Arras, pretty much in the same way that the bombing of Dresden wasn't quite as bad as the bombing of Hiroshima. It consisted of something that was recognisably pork, though from which bit fo the animal was impossible to guess. It even had a few sad and lonely slice of some kind of pickle shoved apologetically underneath.
Fortunately, there was plenty of booze on supply, despite the fact that we needed to get up even earlier the next morning. Kriss (Glen's personal trainer, no less!) helped massage Gemma, and I played the Elephant on a Moped Trick on Laura, although I was laughing so hard I buggered up the punchline.

All in all, it was a wonderful day of cycliing. I got to bed at late o'clock, wondering about the final 55 or so miles to Paris that lay ahead.