onionbagblog

The plan was for a Cycle UK big old bicycle ride on Sunday. Storm Boele decided to interfere. Whatever.

I didn’t fancy pushing the pedals for 75 km, not even with a Raleigh Electric.

No worries, let’s go for a walk instead.

There were no great changes. It was the usual: down to the front along the estuary, reach the Creek, and then backtrack through Alresford. It’s a very convenient and Strava pleasing 9 km door to door.

I reached the Quay. Woh, it was bloody choppy down there. The Harker’s Yard race day over at Ardleigh had already long since been cancelled because of Boele.

I was PONCEING it around wearing an extremely fetching G Force knitted beanie. It’s quite a loose fit and doesn’t hug your head. I had to sacrifice fashion for practicalities. No one wants a ponceified G Force piece of elite knitwear being washed up into the estuary.

The bright conditions overhead were a welcome return after the bloody depressing downpour of yesterday. I can take a little bit of wind if it means there are Estuary Wilds sun rays to soak up.

I reached the Sailing Club and had a brief shifty to make sure the kayaks were still there. Yep, all present and correct. The wind was blowing around the most pleasant aroma of yacht varnish. Yep, it’s that time in the season again.

I walked along the riverbank and out towards the estuary. It was pretty deserted. SHOUT OUT to the three cyclists who really shouldn’t be cycling along here, especially the cargo bike rider who had the most unsuitable choice of wheels for this territory.

I reached a wooded area ahead of the Creek. I was pleased to be wearing wellies. It was pretty hard work, pounding up and down, wearing thick green rubber on my feet.

Alresford was a little dull but functional. It managed to provide the Strava OCD-pleasing 9 km circular walking route.

I celebrated by wearing my ponceified G Force piece of elite knitwear indoors for the rest of the afternoon.

To the University! ..on Friday morning for something of a double header. We were booked in first for table tennis and then badminton.

Blimey.

We made our way through to the squash court to play table tennis, which added in a further racket sport complication.

In the main sports hall it looked like some workshop was taking place for juggling. Oh gosh. Rewind 36 years ago and this is one of the societies on campus that I helped to set up.

Still got it, Jase. Still got it.

We arrived at the squash court to find our table wasn’t set up. No worries, a bit of DIY action and soon we were good to go.

It was around about this time when I first noticed I had some pretty bad body odour.

Oh dear.

I’m usually fastidiously clean. I had showered in the morning and I put on a fresh sports top but that’s where it all falls down. I think my cheapo cheapo Lidl sports tops now reeks of sweat so much that it’s impossible to wash any of it out.

I was reminded that our very first date in the same location 36 years ago also involved body odour. That’s me, not her.

Keeping up with the fashion stakes was my playing partner, who was wearing a korfball top. I have absolutely no idea.

The warm-ups followed: forehand to forehand, then backhand to backhand. We’re getting quite some speed and rhythm going with these. We then went straight into the game.

Nothing was working for me. I got very angry.

Even though we were playing in a squash court, some of my shots were rebounding off the walls rather than hitting the table.

“We’re not playing squash you know.”

Remarked my playing partner. Cheers for that, luv.

I was 8-2 down when we got booted off by some squash boys who looked the real business. It was probably for the best.

We made the short transition over to the Essex Sports Arena for our badminton court booking. The Rebels Volleyball Women’s team were setting up for what looked like a pretty hardcore training session.

And so, table tennis to badminton. Much like drink, you should never mix your racket sports.

Chin chin.

It’s been about a year or so since we played badminton. It showed with our early shots I’d forgotten that you can’t really spin a shuttlecock.

We spent half an hour or so doing mainly warm-up practises: the usual forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, as well as setting up some smash shots.

We then entered into a game situation. We had to consult my friend ChatGPT for the precise scoring sequence for badminton.

We managed to get through to 1 game all. This was time to call it quits.

There was some serious WHOOPING coming from the volleyball women. I think they were having more fun than I was.

Pedal to the Metal: envisioning how Notts could be transformed via sustainable transport

via Left Lion

Burnham blocks Corbyn’s demand for public inquiry into Britain’s role in Gaza

via Morning Star

The best jazz is always live jazz. This is no exception. She’s got a remarkable vocal delivery. You have to be in the right mood for this. Some of the freestyle scatting did grate at times. I prefered some of the sections where there were no vocals. Apologies, Betty, but still a welcome listen as I continue my slide towards midlife jazz vibes.

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The weather was too good to resist on Thursday afternoon for another bicycle ride. There were bright blue skies up above and lingering in the back of my mind was the fear of the beastliness that I knew was to come in less than 24 hours' time.

I rolled out on the Raleigh Electric. Within the first ten minutes I had experienced two close pass incidents.

I reached Ainger’s Green. The crappy St George’s flags are still flying from the lamp posts, albeit now having slipped down to half mast.

Close passes and crappy flags. I sometimes wonder, why do I bother with bicycle rides when there’s plenty to annoy me?

Then I reach the lanes. Oh woh. These were bone dry and completely empty of all traffic. I almost picked up something of a late October suntan with the glorious conditions.

Not a lot changes around these parts. The wind turbines continue to turn. I had headwind, then tailwind, and then a little crosswind to contend with. I spent a lot of the ride in tour mode.

I passed a particularly stunning house that I’ve always had my eye on. It’s now got a for sale sign. It’s been beautifully refurbished but it’s in a crap location. Oh well.

Around 30 km in I started to get some cycling hippy shit in my mind. I figured out that the cadence, as I turn the pedals, also turns the clogs in my mind. I can be very creative when I’m cycling.

There you go again. Stop being a fucking peddling hippy.

Some new infrastructure was in place on the main Clacton Road that is usually quite hellish to ride upon. My loop route involves around ten minutes or so along this road before you head for the safety of the lanes once again.

The new infrastructure meant there was a one way system with a couple of sets of traffic lights. This led to a slightly better journey.

I then reached my favourite spot on the entire ride. The road is incredibly smooth as you enter into a valley that curves around, showing some amazing vistas up ahead. One of these included a pumpkin patch. They look like tiny satsumas in a field from a distance.

I managed to fit in a Lidl run on the way back. That’s always a bonus.

That’s one more ride ticked off before the next storm approaches.

I returned to running on Thursday morning. Blimey it’s been a while.

I make it seven weeks at least. I put aside six weeks after the latest PING incident on the treadmill with my calf, and then an extra week ate into that as I’m in tattoo recovery mode.

The PING thing is unfortunate. My left calf went PING way back in November of last year. No worries, I thought. I’ll soon run this off, ever so gently, and I’ll be back for full on ParkRun PBs come Christmas Day.

Nope.

Like a fool I played pickleball the following Monday after the PING and did some serious damage.

Christmas Day ParkRun came and went. So did New Year’s Day ParkRun.

Oh dear.

In fact my left calf didn’t really heal at all. I turned instead towards power walking.

You bloody idiot.

Around June time, when it was clear it wasn’t healing, I went to see the good Doc, who told me I was a bloody idiot for doing power walking with a damaged calf.

Six weeks was spent with no activity and then I gently, gently managed to return to running.

And then the treadmill came along. This time it was the right calf. I’ve not had much luck with my calf injuries in the past twelve months or so. Gosh I bloody missed running.

Which kind of takes us round to where we are now. I took six weeks more off after the treadmill incident and then, as mentioned, inking got in the way.

I decided to take it steady, with a really spectacularly dull and boring route on Thursday morning. It was basically up to the University and back, at the convenient turnaround point. If something went wrong I could just gently walk back and I wouldn’t be stuck out in the middle of nowhere.

I felt great as I started the first plods. I was going at a slower pace.

There were bright blue Estuary Wilds skies up above. This was indeed the calm before the storm. Something wicked this way comes over the next few days. Rowing has already been cancelled until next week.

Speaking of which it was good to see F from the rowing club going about his daily walk as I approached University. We’re both in a similar lifestyle position now, meaning a little more time, a little less money.

But you’ve got to get out and do things, yeah?

I reached the University and turned around. I thought, hey! This feels rather funky. Let’s lift the pace ever so slightly." I wasn’t on for any PBs but I did manage to increase my speed.

I had to, as some fella I almost overtook on the left hand side as he was walking, turned around and pulled a big greenie right in the middle of the road.

You dirty dog.

I arrived back at base pretty much shipshape. At least I managed to get around.

It feels good to be back but this is only temporary. Some extremely intensive INK action is booked in during the Christmas run in.

I very much doubt I’ll make Christmas Day or New Year’s Day ParkRun this year but this will all be self inflicted for vanity reasons rather than anything involving PINGS.

Hopefully.

To St Dunstan in the East!

I’m not quite sure where the recommendation came from but the lure of an abandoned church right in the heart of the City seemed too good to ignore.

We got lost, you don’t say. We got very lost. We almost went to the wrong church.

I told my walking partner to look out for the church that hasn’t got a roof. She took me to a church that’s got a bloody roof.

After a few false starts we finally found the abandoned church. It was well worth a visit even with the evening gloom starting to settle in.

Then just as we walked up, there was an amazing ray of sunlight that poked through one of the magnificent stone structure window frames.

It was all very atmospheric. It was also very full of Italian tourists but don’t let that put you off.

There’s a random palm tree growing right in the middle of the church. I thought it best not to ask any questions.

I couldn’t be arsed to look up the history. It seems like quite a good meeting point right in the middle of the City if you want some tranquillity.

I still marvel at old churches that have no roof. St Peter’s back in Alresford is a fine example. Maybe all churches should have no roof. That might get me back in them.

We lingered around for a little longer, taking in all the various sight-lines and observing how the light changed as the sun started to descend.

BUT OF COURSEe we gatecrashed a photo shoot with some ME ME ME people with a full on lighting rig.

Pray to God that all this Insta shite somehow gets swallowed up and we can go back to just living our lives through our own eyes and not through a lens.

“Christ we look like fucking tourists.”

That’s what she said to me rather than me to her.

We were waiting in the queue for The Garden at 120 Fenchurch Street. We had an hour to kill and I was being my usual penny pinching arse tight self.

The Garden at 120 Fenchurch Street is fantastic if you like your freebie London experiences. We weren’t alone as we joined the queue just as the skies started to darken.

I’ve been here before on my own. It was midsummer and there was a break in play back at The Oval as rain threatened. I legged it up to Fenchurch Street and had a quick shifty around a completely deserted garden just as the sun was breaking through. I could see that play was likely to start back again down in SE11 in the next half hour or so.

Even with gloomy skies and the setting sun on Wednesday, The Garden at 120 Fenchurch Street was well worth a look. You get a full 360 view of the city, stretching out to Crystal Palace in the south, through to, Gawd knows where, with my crap North London geography.

We focussed mainly on Not So Sunny Stockwell and surrounds. After around fifteen minutes or so I got the hee bee gee bee heights. I don’t know how I managed to live on the 12th floor of a tower block for over a year.

As the name suggests, there is a garden in the centre of the viewing space. I calmed down my vertigo with some OCD pleasing hedge trimming viewing. I then realised they were probably plastic.

The impressive wisteria could have done with something of a snip though. That’s something I’m not going to miss next summer with all the constant trimming of the green wisps. RIP Estuary Wilds wisteria. You won’t be missed.

I regained my spatial awareness once again and allowed myself five more minutes of looking around at the office blocks down below. The Lloyd’s building, right in front of you now, appears anonymous. This was the future less than thirty years ago, with its inside out architecture.

We took a mental shot of roughly where St Paul’s was. We had a Too Good To Go bag to pick up half an hour later.

TUCK IN.

To the Bank of England Museum!

Blimey.

I never knew this even existed.

Thanks to a helpful tip-off from the always informative Ian Visits, we decided to drop in on the After the Fire exhibition. Actually it was just any old excuse to gain entry into the hallowed Walls of Dosh.

As expected there was a serious security check just to get into the museum. This included flashing my belt. There was something of an uncomfortable moment when I went to loosen the belt to take it off.

“No! NO! NO!!!! Sir”

Phew, I think I just about got away with that one.

The exhibition itself was very compact but also informative. It’s a story that’s not normally told: how London was rebuilt after the Great Fire, and then subsequently how this led to the rise of the insurance business and coffee houses.

It’s a pretty fundamental concept, but one that I’d never really considered - namely how, after a FUCK OFF great big fire, insurance then became a thing. People were worried about the Great Fire of London, part two.

The exhibition takes the form of a visual display as you look at four large picture boards, each detailing the chronology and developments around insurance and coffee houses.

You find out how the Royal Exchange was built as a consequence immediately after the Great Fire.

Oh the irony that it was then burnt down. I hope the owners had insurance.

I also learned that the first fire engines were known as giant squids. That’s a random fact that will be filed away and probably never used again.

On a more serious note it was good to see that the exhibition didn’t shy away from the slave trade and the involvement of Lloyds of London.

After having finished the Great Fire exhibition I wasn’t expecting to hang around at the Bank of England. I wasn’t expecting there to be a dedicated museum all about banking in England.

But there it was, laid out in superb detail, with a dedicated section all about the history of the building, its predecessors, plus how the bank came into existence.

Time was a little tight. We managed to take in most of the rooms. One of the highlights was lifting up a gold bullion that was so heavily encased so you couldn’t slip it down your shreddies, even with a loosened belt.

We didn’t quite get to see every exhibit. My attention was mainly taken by the amazing architecture right in the depths of the Bank of England.

A decent find.

A bit of a period piece. You can certainly hear some of the sounds around at the time: Revolver, Dylan’s electric, even The Byrds.

This sounds like a Kinks album from any time between ‘65 and the end of the ’70s. I like the way that The Kinks were never… dedicated followers of fashion.

Arf.

I didn’t get the concept at all. I’m not sure if there actually is a concept in there, despite what Wikipedia says.

Too Much on My Mind was an absolute delight. I’ve not heard this before.

Good, crafted songs, not outstanding, but a worthy listen. I might try and buy this if I can get a cheapo cheapo copy.

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