Nudists, but no foxes

It’s weird how themes develop isn’t it? A few years ago, I was asked to give a talk at work. It was a new forum for me and I was somewhat scared of the audience. However, in the end, it went extremely well, my trepidation was completely unfounded and it was possibly my favourite talk of that year. The audience members were interactive, gave great feedback and seemed to really appreciate what I had to say. At the end, one of them came forward proffering what appeared to be a gift. Now, usually at these things the gift is a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates. Not so at this event. No, this time it was, er, a laminated certificate with a picture of a fox. I tried very hard to hide my disappointment at the lack of an offering containing calories and simply enquired as to the significance of the fox. “Well, everybody loves a fox, don’t they?” came the reply. Do they? Do they really? In the UK, where I come from, they can be a nuisance. They make noise at night, they scavenge through your garden and they have even been known to come in through the patio doors and attack children. So no, I don’t think everyone does love a fox.

Literally a few days later, I was on an outing as part of my quest to walk all the suggested itineraries in a book of walks based on the national park near where I live. In fact, I never finished all the walks and I likely never will now as a disease called kauri dieback is proving to be a scourge on our native kauri trees and so some of the tracks have been officially closed whereas the rest are subject to a rahui, a traditional temporary prohibition put in place to protect a threatened resource. Anyway, on this particular day, I was attempting a walk in an area where I had never been before. The walk started by crossing a suspension bridge over a river just to the side of the car park. As I rounded the corner to step on to the bridge, I noticed two people at the far end, one dressed as a fox including a full head mask, and the other photographing them. It took all my being to walk past and pretend this was nothing out of the ordinary and just a completely normal Saturday afternoon occurrence. As it turned out, I walked for about 10 kilometres and these were the only people I met all afternoon. The rest of the time, I was literally alone. The reason for the fox get-up will remain a mystery forever but it seemed such a coincidence that I had received the certificate and had a fox conversation only that week. After this, places I have visited that have been deserted have earned themselves the description of being so quiet that there wasn’t even a fox about.

My next lecture was at a charity event with patients’ families as the audience. At the end, one of them lumbered forward with a gift and I joked, “it’s not a fox, is it?” As it happened, it was a box of Lindt (how do you say that word?) chocolates but I was left having to explain the fox comment and so I told the story of the gift from the previous talk. One of the patients came to my clinic shortly after this. I am especially fond of this little boy and his family. They had been having tough time and I had helped them with some advice. As he came in, I could see he was carrying a gift which he gave to me with a big grin. It was a lovely bottle of wine, complete with stuck-on pictures of foxes which he’d cut out himself. The card read something like, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my family. Everyone loves a fox, don’t they? Love from L xx” It had me giggling for a long time afterwards and I was touched that they had remembered the story.

As the cycle trek approaches, I thought I had better start thinking about equipment and whether I needed to buy any supplies for the trip. My padded cycling shorts seem to be serving me well but clearly I am going to need more than one pair for an eight day trip. A friend had given me another pair but they were nowhere near as generous with the padding. And so I investigated my own pair wondering if the same ones would still be available as I had literally bought them about ten years ago. A quick look revealed them to be made by a company called Muddy Fox which, yes, is still churning out cushioning for the cyclist’s derrière. The joys of internet shopping meant that hey presto, five minutes later I had ordered two more pairs at 80% off to be delivered to my door with minimal effort. It had been a while since my previous fox anecdotes but I was pleased to be reminded of them.

This week we have had a public holiday and so off I took my Muddy Fox-sporting backside on my bike for a long overdue practice. The problem with these summer public holidays is that everyone and their dog seems to be out and about in the sunshine and I knew my favourite cycling spot would be crowded with people and, hence, cycling hazards. So I decided to try some cycle paths I hadn’t visited before, one of which was along an estuary a bit of a distance out of the city. The access was via a less than salubrious street and so it was a complete surprise that when I emerged on my bike along the waterfront, it was like a millionaires’ row with these massive impressive great mansions with the most lovely views across the water. Between the houses and the sea was a gently undulating path which hugged the contours of the cliff making for a scenic ride with a mild breeze and some loose native bushland providing some relief from the unremitting sun. Yet the strangest thing was that it was exceptionally quiet. I went past a few little beaches without a single soul on them. It was so quiet, you might say that there was not even a fox. I cycled for about 15 kilometres without a single fox in sight then suddenly, I spied someone – a man, sunbathing in his garden – completely in the buff! Why would you do that if your garden backed on to a cycle path and the fences were railings through which all details of said garden could be seen? He was lying face down and seemingly oblivious to my cycling past and so perhaps it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. I was mooching this point as I carried on my ride, only to be confronted around the next corner by another nudist, this time a woman striding through her garden with literally everything (and shall we say she was somewhat generous?) on display. As this was one of those rides where you go out and back, turning around at the end to come back along the same route, I came past the same gardens again. While the woman was gone, the man was most definitely still there, still lying prostrate upon his patio. How bizarre then, that the only people I spotted on this ride were naked? Let’s hope that this is a one-off and I won’t be reporting back in a few weeks’ time that my life has become a series of naked encounters in the same way as the fox coincidences unfolded. Although wait, there could be worse things…

Until next time xx

Friendship

My friend died this week. It was not unexpected but it was much earlier than we had all anticipated or hoped. She was only 48 years old. I am not going to talk much about her at this stage because her funeral has not yet been held, I am collecting my thoughts and I think I will do her more justice if I leave it a little while.

What I will say is this: she was unique. The outpouring of sadness since her passing has been everything to those of us left behind – phenomenal, touching, unbelievable with a generous smattering of superlatives sprinkled on top. You sort of expect that at some point in your life you will have to deal with the death of your family members but you certainly never expect to be involved in planning the funeral of a friend. It has been a confusing and disorientating time.

But, as always, with one emotion comes the opposite. I am sad because I never got to say things to her that I wanted her to know; happy that we shared a lot in the 12 years we knew each other. I feel guilty about being left behind, seemingly perfectly healthy; yet relieved. I feel somewhat angry that she was robbed of the other half of her life, yet thankful that our paths crossed and that she packed so much in to the time that she had.

T was persuasive. She had a knack of getting people to do things that they may not necessarily have ever planned or wanted to do. She was also skilled at coaxing you to do things that you did want to do and to which you had never got around. And so it is that this blog exists. I have wanted to record my many anecdotes for a very long time but my mind was too full to be able to think logically enough about where to start. Would I do it as a book or a blog? Should it be chronological or themed? Shared or private? Ultimately it is what it is and much like my anecdotes and capers themselves – random, unscripted, unplanned, certainly not curated which was one of T’s pet hates. I like it this way. There is the freedom to write things down which pop into my head, have provided some laughs or which are important to me at the time without the stress of sitting here thinking “what will I write today?” One day there may be a video, others a photo or two and sometimes just words. There is always something to draw on because life and people are amazing and nothing ever stays the same.

The cycle trek started with T. I am not sure I have ever explained how it came about but it was almost spontaneous. After previously completing a trek to Vietnam where I raised a lot of money despite losing the soles of my walking boots, I was tempted into another to Sri Lanka. However this was called off to due lack of interest and while on the one hand I was relieved to not have to walk up 5550 steps to Adams Peak in the middle of the night, I was thoroughly disappointed as well. I spent a little time mooching about considering other options and then T became sick. We were sitting in a cafe a few days after she and I had learnt of her terminal prognosis and she told me she’d been invited to take part in this cycle trek for her pet charity via which she sponsors two children from local underprivileged families. I giggled. I’d never cycled anywhere before, ever. She persisted, “go on, do it for me” and with a cheeky wink of her eye it was done. One side of me loves making a ridiculous spontaneous decision and so that afternoon we also booked a girlie weekend to Wellington and I came home and agreed to go to the winter World Transplant Games in Switzerland. Three trips in a day! The exhilaration was addictive.

Espresso martinis — A round of espresso martinis; one of many of a espresso martini tour!

I have long been panicking about this trip. Can I do it? Should I do it? Now I have to do it as people have sponsored me but will I end up walking half the way or riding in the support bus being laughed at and feeling that I’ve let people down, especially my mate. In the last few days, the sheer panic became almost visceral and at a time when emotions are in overdrive and my body and mind are exhausted. The trip is incredibly close, I haven’t been on my bike for weeks and my body feels weighed down by an overload of carb-laden junk food grabbed on the go in recent weeks.

So, what do you do when you need help? You reach out. I hate the way this phrase is now used so commonly in North American English that it devalues it, but that is what I did. I just needed people to say simply “it will be ok”. If T was here, she’d just say one word: IDIOT. What I hadn’t expected was the sheer number and nature of replies to my desperate Facebook posting that I received from all over the world from friends old and new. And they confirmed what I knew deep down – of course I can do it. I can do it because I want to, I’m determined and T will be with me in mind just as she would have been anyway as she was never coming with me in person. There won’t be the little recovery packs she made for me when I went to Vietnam but she’d obviously already bought some of the contents and I will take them anyway. More than that though, all of these amazing people will also be there, egging me on, willing me to the finish line and they will be there for me, not just for T.

I went off on my bike yesterday, just for a short time and it was another glorious day in Auckland. The harbour performed and put on a magical display of green-blue waters against the blue sky backdrop with tiny white sails dotted here and there. When I came home, there were flowers on my doorstep. “Our most difficult task as a friend is to offer understanding when we don’t understand”. I’m going to leave it as that as it says everything that needs to be said. Friendship is special, precious, enduring. It comes in many guises and can catch you unawares. Make the most of it every day.

Back on the bike — Get back on yer bike woman!

THANK YOU – for every text, email, photo, social media message and for just being you and being available to write a few words at a special time. It was an honour and privilege to provide that friendship to T. She would be delighted that it is now being returned to me.

Now I’m off on that bike…

Tiger balm, table wars and transplants

Last week I had the privilege of attending the winter World Transplant Games in Switzerland. Not that I have had a transplant myself, but I went as a supporter. I was fortunate enough to be able to escort a young patient who attended a children’s ski camp as part of the games. He certainly had a ball and after just a few days of skiing looked almost like pro!

My time at the Games was mainly spent skiing in the daytime. I first went skiing in 1982 with my school. I am not the sportiest soul and quite possibly the clumsiest person I know. Mrs Bowen the PE teacher had a right old laugh when I declared I would be attending the school’s ski trip to Italy. She was laughing on the other side of her face a few months later when I came home from the trip as the only bearer of a silver medal, and a two star silver medal at that. Over the years I have been skiing again several times to countries such as France, Austria, Germany and New Zealand. But my last trip was probably about 12 years ago and I had lost my skiing mojo.

I look now at these fearless young kids racing away down the slopes leaving clouds of powdery white snow behind them and I am in awe. The older I get, the more of a scaredy cat I become. Who knows why? Someone said there is a lot more at stake. Maybe, but I don’t think so in my case. My 11 year old self had my whole life ahead of me with hopes of careers and families in the future. My much older self has already had a decent career and I don’t have a family of my own to leave in my wake should something terribly tragic come to bear. But perhaps stories of people falling and having devastating head injuries have had an influence. Natasha Richardson died after hitting her head skiing and Michael Schumacher was left in a (presumed) vegetative state. Not that this has ever been confirmed, but one has to think that his life must have been catastrophically altered given his complete disappearance from the public eye. Obviously these are just celebrity faces of tragedy and there will be many more whose names we will never know. On the other hand, there are hundreds of thousands of people hitting the snow-strewn slopes on a daily basis who have the most fabulously exhilarating time and come to no harm whatsoever, other than to their wallets which seem to shrink in an instant that the words “ski pass” and “equipment hire” appear on the horizon. As cautious as I may have become, my childhood memories of whizzing along (or slipping as Big Li would say) on the white stuff and the complete exhilaration that brought with it were beckoning to me and were ultimately too much to resist.

So along I went to the ski hire shop on the first day with my wads of cash, hopes and fears and took the plunge. In the good old days we wore hats. Now I had a helmet, a modern day precaution I was pleased to see almost universally embraced in the resort I was at. I felt instantly unwieldy with my bulky clothing making me almost unable to flex any joints and the ski boots making it impossible to walk any distance. One day I left my glamorous padded trousers undone so I could bend over properly to manhandle my legs into my ski boots. If only I had remembered to do them up again when I stood up. It would have saved me embarrassingly realising they were heading south as I walked awkwardly to the bus, skis over my shoulder and so in no position to be able to pull them up with my be-gloved hands. Then there is the major decision-making as to just how many layers you need to wear. Ski chalets are designed to be warm. You get lulled into a false sense of security that maybe it is not so cold after all. I returned from a day on the pistes and was so incredibly hot in my apartment, I stripped down to my thermals. Sadly I forgot this until I was striding across the road to the supermarket for milk, the sudden rush of coldness all the more tangible when one is only wearing matching snowflake-emblazoned thermal undergarments.

Never before have I attended a gala dinner in snow boots and a furry hat

This is what happens when your ski goggles have sat unused in your wardrobe for 15 years…

Beautiful Anzère

Paragliding on skis

For the doubters – I really did go skiing

But the moment I stepped out of the cable car onto the snow, it was like the old days. Who can resist a scene of glittering white snow against a deep blue sky and how amazing is it to ride up the mountain in the gondola and see all the beautiful tracks of skiers and snowboarders in the almost virgin snow below? People suggested I should not be scared or nervous as the techniques would all come back to me “just like riding a bike.” How ironic given that we all know that until recently, I’d never really cycled. However, they were right. These people always are. I tentatively headed my skis down the nursery slope and it was fine. I tackled my first drag lift with unfounded trepidation and after only half an hour it was like being transported back many years. Admittedly I fell off the ski lift on the first day but some sort of disaster was inevitable. As my sister would say – this is H, so anything is possible. The next few days I had mixed luck; a day of cancelled skiing due to bad weather and the lifts being closed; two wonderful private lessons with a local guide, mainly helpful from a navigation and confidence point of view; skiing with new friends; losing my gloves in a cafe after another obligatory vin chaud stop; my first ever fondue with my mate Liz; falling while stationary; my skis falling out of the outside of the gondola car in mid air after I put them in the snowboard slot. But all the while, I was captivated by the frozen beauty of the slopes which had sucked me in all those years ago. This early in the season the pistes were quiet. Sometimes I would be skiing along and notice I was totally alone for a few moments. It was picturesque, breathtaking, serene, all at the same time. Mind you, I am more than four times older than I was the first time I ventured out skiing and copious amounts of tiger balm and generous helpings of vin chaud were needed to soothe my aching muscles. Thank goodness for my mate Jean who was able to source these brilliant giant tiger balm patches. The aforementioned thermal undergarments held them in place very securely and I even slept with my calves encased in these delights. I think you’re meant to keep them on for a maximum of an hour or so but the packets are in a language I can’t understand so therefore this information didn’t exist in my mind!

After arriving in the dark, I was delighted to wake up to a wonderful view from my apartment!

All rugged up and ready to go

Stop procrastinating and go and get measured for skis!

This wonderful pano is what I can see from my bed when I wake up in the morning

Anzere taken from the top of the gondola

Yet the real inspiration on this trip was not the skiing but the totally incredible people I met as part of the Games. Such is the modern era of medicine that a transplant recipient can now expect to have many years, often a whole lifetime, of restored health – all at the expense of a generous deceased donor family or a selfless living friend or relative who puts their own good health at risk to transform the future of their loved one. Some people were there as sole participants, others members of large national teams. We were grouped into restaurants for our meals and so I spent most of my time with people from Canada, Australia, Ireland, Norway, Hungary, Kazakhstan, Sweden, Spain and Poland. Aside from the ridiculous table wars which saw the restaurant absolutely insist we sit with our own compatriots and not mingle, those of us from countries with only a small contingent having to buddy up to form a table of orphan nations, this was the most sociable time – one of bonding over shared tales of transplant experiences. As an observer, it was striking that one could look around the room and not know who had undergone a transplant, who was a live donor, who was a family member and who was a health professional. These people’s tales were touching, poignant, sometimes almost unbelievably so. Yet any suggestions of tragedy or bravery were universally dismissed as they had all refused to be defined by their illnesses. While there was occasional questioning as to who was “a liver” and who was “a heart”, for the most part, these were ordinary people with ordinary lives except for an extraordinary interlude from which they were now recovered. That is not to say that they had not experienced pain, hardship, loss and sadness, but they had just got on with what needed to be done to rebuild their lives after organ failure and transplantation. My own charge, who had the most wonderful time at the ski camp, was just a tiny baby when I first met him, his body ravaged by liver disease from which he would never have recovered save for a transplant. He raced down those slopes faster than me despite never having been on skis before, all the while half of his mother’s liver playing a constant reminder inside him of how differently things might have been. The boy is incredible. He has never even had a day off school. I should be led into thinking that my own silly tales pale into insignificance except that these amazing people would say that they are equally affecting as it is context and timing that makes upset and tragedy what it is to an individual.

What we must remember however is that these people survived transplantation because of positive attitude, supportive families and friends but most of all, the selflessness of their donor or donor family. Every day, thousands of people die while awaiting a transplant. Not everyone has a suitable or willing live donor. Some people live in countries with no access to transplantation. If, by reading this blog, even one of you changes your mind about being a donor when your time here is up, or takes this opportunity to discuss your wishes with your nearest and dearest, then my job will be done.

Thank you World Transplant Games Federation for the amazing work you do and for the opportunity for me to spend the last week with you all. Until next time… x

Thirteen years in paradise

Thirteen years ago, I left the motherland and emigrated to New Zealand. It was New Year’s Day so symbolic in terms of making a new start. It was not intended as a permanent move. I had come to the end of my training in the UK but there were no suitable jobs for me but there was a temporary position available in Auckland for just over a year and a half. It made sense for me to apply and, if I was successful, bide my time and gain some valuable experience while awaiting the perfect job to become available back home. What could possibly go wrong? I had personally never been to New Zealand but anyone I knew who had ever been there had only positive reports, whether they had been for travel or for work. One colleague said there was only one problem with living in New Zealand and that was that I would never want to come home. On the other hand, I was chatting to some people about it at work one day and they said they’d bet I’d never return to the UK to work, to which one of my supervisors offered his opinion that I was too hot-blooded to stay there as it was “not Latin enough” for me, whatever that meant.

I had a telephone interview one evening. It was a UK public holiday that day and I was sat on my sofa in my pyjamas surrounded by Post-It notes containing jottings to what I thought would be the obvious questions. I had my cats of the time, Parsley and Saffy beside me. They always fought over who could sit the nearest to me, Parsley usually trying to squash his generous form between me and the arm of the settee while Saffy snuggled on up to my other side. On this particular day they were both insistent on my lap as the only suitable place to lie down which made for some discomfort mid interview. On the other hand, if I threw them out, they would just meow and scrap in the hallway. I was also armed with a large glass of wine for Dutch courage. I didn’t actually drink any until the torture was over. I say torture but the interviewers seemed friendly and kind and did not ask anything testing or controversial. I guess if I had been applying for a permanent role I would have done more homework. I read the Rough Guide to New Zealand, bought a book about where to live in Auckland, did what needed to be done for the visa process and that was about it. It didn’t really matter because the plan was to go for the year and a half, do what there was to do, see what there was to see and make the most of it. I couldn’t imagine that I would not like it and I sort of believe that such experiences enrich us anyway.

The decision to leave the UK on 1st January was not intended to be a big statement. My contract in the UK ended on 31st December, the team in Auckland wanted me to start as soon as possible and so I decided to just get on with it. I had one last festive season with the family, not that I knew that at the time of course, and then headed straight on to my new venture. To some extent I was pleased that my mother’s knee replacement, for which she had literally waited years, had finally taken place just before Christmas. This meant she was not able to come to Heathrow with the rest of family to see me off. My sister’s sobbing as we all said our goodbyes just before security was enough. My mother’s would have been unbearable.

My employer in Auckland had been very generous with the relocation package and so I travelled in business class for the first time with a stopover in Penang. Unfortunately the Boxing Day tsunami of 2004 had just occurred and the island had experienced some tragedy, although to a lesser extent than neighbouring countries. I had spent some time looking at the information from the British Foreign Office to ensure it was safe to travel to Penang and not alter my plans to go directly to Auckland, especially given the threats of possible aftershock tsunamis. In the end it was a relaxing few days where I did a little sightseeing but nothing too stressful.

Although the satay sticks were absolutely delicious, I stressed for my of the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Auckland as the landing card was confusing and it looked as though I’d have to pay tax on anything worth over a certain amount. Of course I had many of my worldly possessions in my cases so undoubtedly I had far more than this limit. In the end, this did not apply to me which was a huge relied but knowing so beforehand would have saved my sleeplessness for 12 hours. I landed in Auckland around lunchtime on a sunny day and, in fact, it did not rain again to any significant degree until April. I couldn’t understand the complaints of my new colleagues about what a terrible summer it had been because by British standards, it was spectacular. What I did not know was that it had rained all over Christmas which is the largest sin the New Zealand weather gods could bestow upon the Land of the Long White Cloud.

I was fortunate enough to have booked a wonderful B&B in a trendy suburb not far from the city centre and run by a really helpful couple who gave me plenty of advice. In my room was a bottle of New Zealand sparkling wine and a bunch of flowers with the simple message “we will miss you” arranged by my bestie, the aforementioned Big Li. I was not about to cry though as I was on an adventure. I spent most of the first day just trying to stay awake and acclimatise to the time zone. I took a bus trip around Auckland to get my bearings. I had no idea what the term CBD meant at this stage – that was how naive I was. On my way back, I was hungry so I stopped at a nice looking cafe near my B&B and had an early dinner. Little did I know that I had just walked in to one of Auckland’s most iconic dining establishments. Choosing what to eat was easy. Selecting a wine was a much bigger challenge. I was not used to such an expansive wine list where the wines are simply listed as where they are made and the year. I was procrastinating over my choice when the waiter asked if I needed some help. We settled on a glass of Craggy Range Chardonnay. I don’t remember the year but wish I did as I would love to have a bottle in my current collection. It was delicious and probably heralded the start of an interest in wine which had been only bubbling away under the surface until that point.

The next few days were a mix of formalities and fun. I had to take my ID documents to the CBD to formalise my opening of a bank account and in the opposite direction to complete my professional registration process to allow me to start work. I did some more exploring with a trip to Waiheke island to do more wine tasting and sight seeing. This was the first time that I experienced to magnificent Auckland Harbour and she put on a mighty fine show that day with me returning to the B&B to be told off my the owners for being a little sunburnt.

I started work the following Monday. What I did not appreciate until this point was that because Christmas, New Year and the long school holidays are in the summer, New Zealand workplaces are like graveyards for the first few weeks of the year. I met new colleagues in dribs and drabs over what seemed like a very long time and I spent some protracted period being the “new girl”. The team in which I was working was small. There were only two other senior personnel and while they had worked together for some time, they had taken on some new work which was really in its infant stages and it was this to which I could bring the most experience. I suddenly felt as though I had a valuable role to play and that I wasn’t just here for the party. Over the next months I must have made my mark because people started to mention how good it would be if I could stay. This was not possible as prior to my temporary appointment, a permanent staff member had already been appointed and sent away overseas for further training. The strange thing was that even as his arrival got nearer, which of course meant my departure, I didn’t panic about joblessness. There was still nothing suitable back in the UK but I had this feeling that things would work out. My nana Williams had this fatalistic phrase of “what’s for you, you’ll have” which often proved right, and so it did. The most senior of my colleagues came to my office one day and said she had decided to retire and would I consider staying. And that was that.

People often ask me if I might go home one day. The answer to this is emphatic. No. Why would I give up a lifestyle which I enjoy so much? I have a lovely home in a private setting in a small friendly village far enough away from the city to be in the country but near enough to work to be convenient. I have a lovely group of friends whom I know I can turn to at any time. I have been able to shape the job to be mine. I am now the leader of a team which I have grown to be much larger than when I arrived and of which I am really proud. We are consistently recognised as punching above our weight in terms of the quality of our work and performance improvement. I have built up a national reputation and people look to me for expertise and experience. I live in a peaceful country which may not be hot-blooded as my supervisor put it but it is beautiful, progressive and exciting all at once. It is not perfect, but then nowhere it. None of this is intended to take anything away from my motherland at all. I am fiercely patriotic to my birthplace of Wales and forever grateful for my upbringing and education in the UK. I miss my family and UK friends every day. But the world is a smaller place now. Travel is easy and advances in social media and our virtual connectivity in even the relatively short time I’ve been away mean that no-one ever seems too far away. But New Zealand is my home now and this is where I shall stay.

Who wouldn’t want to live here?

This is my home now

Usually on the 5th of January I raise a glass of Craggy Range Chardonnay to this amazing place. A good friend of mine who has the most amazing memory for people’s special days usually provides it. But not this year as I am off on an exciting holiday. This posting is long, so more of that later…

Thank you New Zealand. Thank you for having me and for all you have given me and done for me. I am eternally grateful.

I’ve been struggling for days to upload the video that goes with this posting but the dodgy wifi has got the better of me. Another time perhaps.

Arohanui xx

Travelogue: Switzerland Day 1

The journey was long. The wifi is dodgy. The hour is late.

So I’ll just leave you with a video to enjoy. Note: the bison lamp sadly does not show up in the video. I promise to get a still photo soon…

A bientôt xx

No resolutions for me

Happy New Year from me! Just a quick video as I’m playing nursemaid to my cat ASBO who is not so well xx

I’m never going to the toilet at work again

Well what a week! It’s been a beautiful week in Auckland with endless glorious weather and yet I was working. I can see the harbour from my office window and have had my desk turned round on purpose so that it is not too distracting but it just looked so fantastic and it did make it difficult to fully concentrate on the task in hand. I didn’t really mind working between Christmas and New Year given that I’d worked Christmas anyway and have time off in January and February. It can be quite productive working when there aren’t many other people there as you can get a lot done. It was my big aim to get my admin work done and my desk cleared in a mission to finally go paperless for 2018. That much I did achieve. As usual though, achieving anything was hampered by misfortune and ridiculous happenings.

Viaduct harbour — This gorgeous city in which I live

My office is on a floor which we rent in a private office block across the road from the main building so I often spend all day walking back and for. These last few days I’ve mainly been cooped up in the office, decamping mainly to get coffee and lunch. On Wednesday, I managed to get locked out of the office by simply going to the toilet, which is in the stairwell, without my swipe card. I also didn’t have my phone so attracting attention was impossible and no amount of banging on the door would alert anyone and the staff simply weren’t there. I ended up having to go down the stairs, exiting the building and walking barefoot to the main building to use a computer to look up people’s phone numbers to get help. It took me more than 2 hours to get all this sorted out and made me feel even more of a saddo that I was in work but everyone else was at home enjoying themselves.

It’s not the first time I’ve been locked out of course. There was the recent incident when I couldn’t open the door between my garage and house so I slept in the car briefly before realising I had a spare key secreted away in the back of my handbag from the last time I’d been locked out and rescued it from the neighbours. Then there was the time I slept in the garden after losing my handbag in an Uber. We all know that that ended badly… Then there was an occasion at work when I got locked out in the very same toilet after hours while changing to go to a black tie event. That time I had my phone with me so called a colleague who lives close by. Little did I know he would arrive so quickly while I was still in my bra and pants!

Yesterday was my mate Big Li’s birthday. Big Li is my UK bestie. She’s not big but she occupies a big space in my life, hence her nickname. She called me Aitchie, as in HE for my initials. That’s just how it is. I miss her. It as an odd thing being so far away from family and friends and yet when you do meet up, it’s like you’ve never been separated. We’ve been friends since University days. It is strange to think our friendship rose out of the twist of fate of being randomly allocated to the same tutor group and so we were sent on attachments together. Big Li had a car and lived close by so would give me a lift. This was almost a ritualistic event in that I would wait at the end of the my street and she would stop only very briefly, fling the door open and I’d jump in hastily, all to ensure the car didn’t stall, especially on cold wintry mornings. The car was a Fiat Panda, very lovingly referred to as the egg box. There was always an assortment of cassette tapes strewn all over the floor and at least 3 locks that would be applied when we pulled up. There’d be the one between the gear stick and the hand brake. Then there two between the pedals and the steering wheel. This always seemed like a rigmarole to me, especially as I couldn’t imagine the egg box ever being stolen. Even thieves have standards… It was ages before I found out that these locks were all for show as Big L had lost the keys some years before. In recent years, Big Li and I have had some great trips with a mutual friend where have met up only briefly, usually when I have been somewhere closer to them for a conference. We have had just the best time. There were various escapades in Taipei when Big Li and I ended up eating (not very much) deer penis. Then there was Berlin where the three of us accidentally, yes accidentally, ended up at the poshest Michelin starred restaurant where we had the most fantastic degustation meal while Big L was dressed in jeans, C was wearing flip-flops and I hadn’t dried my hair. Most recently we had a driving holiday in Spain where Big Li and myself segwayed around Barcelona then drove to meet C further north. This involved Big Li taking sedatives to counteract her car sickness while I struggled with the left hand drive car, gears, motorways, the annoying Australian satnav man, all while she snored away in the passengers seat. One night we stayed in an uber-modern newly-opened hotel in Pamplona. While we sat sipping the obligatory cava proffered as a welcome drink, the receptionist started taking our fingerprints. It seemed somewhat unusual until she explained that they have no keys and this is how you get in to your room. What a marvellous idea. No more pitching up at reception as you’ve left your key in the room and slammed the door behind you. So, if a small hotel in Pamplona can employ such technology, why don’t we have that at home, at work and in the car? Surely it will come but I feel like I need it now! If I get locked out of anywhere else ever again, I think I may just never leave the house again. I’m certainly never going to the toilet at work again. I’ll buy a commode instead. Actually, I won’t as we have glass walls and no blinds but otherwise it would be very appealing.

On the cycling front, it’s been a mainly successful week. I’ve cycled the furthest I’ve ever been in one ride at 31 kms and it felt fine. Much of it was fun and I really did enjoy it. That’s about half of the average day’s cycling in Sri Lanka so I feel hopeful I can at least complete the trek. Hills are still a problem however. I asked a friend who does a lot of cycling for advice. At first, everything he said made sense: anticipate the hills, change down through the gears gradually, try to keep momentum up. Then he used the word cadence and the rest of the conversation was white noise. He may as well have been speaking in Swedish. Actually, maybe he was speaking in Swedish?

Hobson's Bay — My starting and finishing point

Yet another beautiful harbour view

Job done! 31.15 kms cycled – the furthest I’ve ever been in one day, ever

I pimped my ride yesterday with a bell, phone carrier so I can pick up GPS and a mirror. I even bought a lock so that I can tie up my bike while I go in a shop or cafe. Presumably next week I will be telling you that I forgot the combination and had to abandon my bike… The bell and the mirror have become absolute necessities because there are some really stupid people out there. I have been cycling on this shared cycle pavement with very clear marking as to which lane is for cyclists and which is for pedestrians but it seems that this is too difficult for the average pedestrian to understand. I feel I’ve cycled enough to now understand the biggest hazards:

Tourists – these are also usually the quickest to jump out of the way when you shout at them
Beautiful people who stroll – these people never move. They would rather be run over than step aside. They are entitled to the whole pavement
Couples walking hand in hand – also very unlikely to move and usually the male gives you the evils
Dog walkers – why is it the poor dog that has to walk in the cycle lane while the owner has the pedestrian lane? Usually they are quickly pulled out of the way and there is often a smile as well
Mercedes – obviously if you own one of these you can park it where you like. Even on the pavement. Even on the cycle pavement
Rolling skating adults – I just don’t get adults on roller-skates. They never move out of your way as they are usually uncoordinated, totally out of control and only milliseconds away from falling over
Prams – I hesitated to write babies but it’s not their fault that their parents seem so incapable of driving their carriages in a straight line in the correct lane. Why expose your baby to the risk of the cycle lane? I’ve lost count of the number of babies in prams I’ve encountered who have been parked in the cycle lane while their harassed parents stress over and tend to an unruly toddler. Please don’t do it. Keep your babies safe

Do enjoy my video where I explain more details of the lock out. It is New Year’s Eve tonight. I hope you all have a fabulous evening. I plan an afternoon cycle and then a party with friends. Take care everyone, take your keys with and keep them on you at all times… xx

My festive knees

So today is Christmas. Yes, I am writing this on the actual day. I didn’t prepare it in advance and just press send. That’s how much I love you all. All together now – aaaaahhhhh!

In Christmases gone by there was a routine and I think that perhaps this loss of routine this year is what has made me feel so un-festive, except that being totally honest, now the big day is here, I have shaken off all my grinch-like tendencies in favour of having a lovely day with wonderful people.

When I was little, my brother and I would leave out the obligatory treat for Santa, usually a mince pie* or similar, an alcoholic beverage and carrots and water for the reindeer. Then we’d go to bed leaving our stockings at our bedroom doors and, I can’t speak for him, but it would take me hours to go to sleep. That is quite something as I’ve always been a head-hits-the-pillow-and-sleep-comes-in-two-seconds sort of a girl. My father always said I could sleep on a chicken’s lip. In the morning, we’d be awake unfashionably early (remember I’m an owl) and we’d literally run through to our parents’ room with our stockings, now overflowing. We’d all get into bed together and unwrap the stocking presents right there. I believe this was a conventional double bed, not a queen, king or super-king or something even bigger that the likes of Elton John have custom made and yet we’d all be crammed in – and in later years there was our sister as well!

Eventually, my dad would go downstairs, on his own, to check that Father Christmas had been and also that he had left because of course children are not allowed to see him. This was an absolutely critical stage in the proceedings. He’d also put the kettle on of course as neither he nor my mother can properly wake up without a cup of tea. He would then shout up the stairs and it would be safe for us to go down. There were always presents aplenty, arranged in neat piles, my brother’s at one end of the settee and mine at the other. When we had a new sibling, she had the armchair. My mother was always strict that we opened them one at a time so it was not too chaotic and everyone had chance to digest and appreciate what had been bought and received. Then it was breakfast, followed by a visit to one set of grandparents while my mother cooked lunch, possibly calling in on our Auntie Sylvia on the way home. The other set of grandparents joined us for lunch, there’d be more presents and then time to enjoy what had been bought. Of course this all took place in the northern hemisphere. It’s hilarious that here in the south everyone assumes that the UK Christmas is usually, if not always, a white one. They’ve been watching too many movies. I only remember one white Christmas in 48 years and that was only in 2010 when I went back to the UK from New Zealand for Christmas. In reality it would be grey and miserable so Christmas was an indoors activity. People are often quite sentimental about a cold Christmas but I have no desperate yearnings to return to those days. I am perfectly happy to spend the day outside in the sunshine although some stuffing and Christmas pudding remain obligatory and slip down very nicely thank you very much.

This year, things were as far removed from this routine as possible. I woke up home alone, vaguely thinking of shaking my bones to get out of bed and get ready for work when I had a FaceTime call from the UK family. How technology has come on from the Christmases of yesteryear and isn’t it just wonderful that you can now sort of join in the activities on the other side of the world? Even better that my nephews don’t forget what I look like and vice versa.

Then it was off to work which was surprisingly fine. As much as I don’t like working Christmas Day, I have to just remind myself how awful it must be to be a patient in hospital on Christmas Day. When I was a young trainee, I worked for a consultant whom I knew would not come to the ward on Christmas Day and so I felt safe to send one of my favourite patients on leave for the day. He lived locally but had been in hospital for months. Little did I know that one of the other consultants planned to come in especially to see him, with a present, as he was a favourite of hers too. She enquired as to where he was. I very nervously said I’d sent him out for the day. I thought she would be a bit annoyed as it hadn’t exactly been discussed. But no, she was delighted and we sat and mused about how lovely it was that he had been well enough to go. When he returned, he brought me a chocolate bar from his selection box to say thank you. That was one of the best Christmas presents I’ve ever received but even better that he was beyond happy that he and his family had spent the most wonderful day at home. In the end, he did well and I think about him every Christmas and hope that he is still in good health.

This year, all the patients are too young to know that it is Christmas Day and they won’t remember anything about it so that is something to be truly thankful for. One family had gone all out in bringing Christmas to their child with about 15 relatives, a Christmas tree with presents underneath and a full scale buffet feast in his room. There was barely enough room for him! The weird thing is that these families always go to great trouble to wish the staff a Merry Christmas and they always appear so grateful which just seems wrong.

I was just preparing to leave work when I got wind of the most amazing fact: the coffee cart at work was open! On Christmas Day. I know it’s a special day and all that, but you can’t let the caffeine levels become too depleted or the grinch-like state is totally unshakeable. So, caffeinated and feeling much more lively, I went to visit my friend who has been unwell. I was really pleased for her that her Welsh family have come over for Christmas and that they’ll have a lovely time altogether. She has bought me a present suitable for cycling which I can’t wait to wear. I’ll be sure to take a selfie or make a video when I sport it. I had a day off cycling today but will be back at it tomorrow. My Christmas Eve cycle ride was just lovely. Do watch the video as it explains all about my festive knees, which I got my friend to photograph as I knew they would be appreciated…

I later went to some other friends for lunch. There were 7 adults and 2 children, both of whom love their auntie which is just so sweet. One of them even had his birthday today too! One of the great privileges of being an auntie is being able to spoil the children, not necessarily in a material sense but being able to do things with them that they are not normally allowed to do, even if it is just allowing them to stretch the boundaries a little. So when I was in the toy shop and I had their parents’ voices in my head saying “please don’t get them a drum kit”, I couldn’t resist the temptation to both oblige and be a bit naughty and so it was percussion instruments all round. And what fun we had!

Now I’m waiting for the UK family to FaceTime again with details of the Secret Santa gifts and I am just about to open mine. Even the Queen mentioned the marvels of modern day technology in her Christmas broadcast. I do hope you enjoy my Christmas message. As I am sat here with a very small glass of something nice, I feel I must recommend it to you as it is totally divine. It is Lewis Road Creamery Chocolate Cream Liqueur. Buy it. You will not be disappointed… And anyone coming through Duty Free any time soon, yes please, I need a top up!

The last few days I’ve been trying to think which is my favourite Christmas tune. Due to procrastination, I can’t settle on a single jingle. But, I will leave you with a contender.

Feliz Navidad

Feliz Navidad, prospero año y felicidad

I want to wish you a Merry Christmas

I want to wish you a Merry Christmas, from the bottom of my heart

So, from me, Feliz Navidad, Merry Christmas, Nadolig Llawen, Meri Kirihimete xx

*In New Zealand, a mince pie would usually be made of mince meat. A mince pie made of dried fruit needs to be prefaced with Christmas to avoid confusion…!

Cwm Bi Dingle is wherever and whatever you want it to be

Somewhere in mid Wales is this wonderful place called Cwm Bi Dingle. It is green and lush. It is dry and arid. It is deep in the Brecon Beacons but it is also beside the sea. It is both hilly and flat, wet yet sunny and when I say it is in mid Wales, it is also in the south and possibly the west as well. It is wherever and whatever you want it to be but is most definitely one of the most magical places on earth. You see, no-one really knows where it is. Perhaps they once knew, but now they have forgotten and to a large extent, it really doesn’t matter. Cwm Bi Dingle is a different place for me than it is for my brother or my parents. You see, Cwm Bi Dingle exists only in our imaginations. I’d love to go back there. I can picture it now. For me, it had a moors-like quality with wild flowers which fluttered in the wind to which the moors are prone. There was the most terrific ice cream van where you could buy the whitest ice cream and where a 99 came with not one flake, but two.

When I was a young child, I was quiet and serious. This may be difficult for my current-day friends and colleagues to believe but it is true. Mr Davies, my favourite school teacher, even wrote on my report that I was too serious for my own good. My mother still has that report somewhere. I was also quite fearful about certain things, one of which was getting lost and not being able to find my way home. I once got lost while playing outside at my Auntie Gwyneth’s house. We didn’t visit Auntie Gwyneth very often so I didn’t really know the lay of the land where she lived and on trying to find my way back to her house, I was threatened by a snarling German Shepherd dog. I back tracked and walked a different way but then I got lost. On another occasion, my mother took me shopping to Cardiff and we went into a department store. We went in a lift between floors and this is my earliest memory of going in a lift. At first I thought it was magic. To go in on one floor and exit on another was both unbelievable and incredible to me. But soon my face crumpled and I began to cry because it seemed that we had left one world and entered another, one where my father and baby brother didn’t happen to be. I was so upset that this was only solved by my mother taking me down the stairs to show me that we were only on the floor above where we’d set off.

One of my parents’ preferred Sunday activities was to go for a drive. Most of my childhood, both my parents had various Ford Cortinas. I think my father had a blue mark 2, a red mark 3, a gold mark 4 and a navy mark 4 estate before eventually breaking the cycle and graduating to a Volvo. My mother had a mark 2 of indistinguishable colour with holes where the locks used to be, a back seat that shot forward whenever she braked and a radiator that overheated every time she drove it. Anyway, we would venture out in one of the many Cortinas, often with a picnic and sometimes with my grandparents in tow in their Morris Oxford. The destination was usually wherever took my father’s fancy. Now, what I would not have appreciated at this stage is that my father’s knowledge of the geography of south and mid Wales is faultless. There is nowhere he hasn’t been and he can beat any satnav directions to a destination. His job as a younger man involved driving throughout the region and he knew the roads intimately. But, his inability to state where exactly we might be heading on one of these trips and precisely when we would be arriving back at the house was always interpreted by me as us being lost. Panic would set in, my lip would start quivering and I would almost silently weep in the back seat whereupon my brother would start laughing, fuelling anger and more upset on my part. Our sister hadn’t been born at this stage but I remember later trips where she was squashed between us in her car seat and when she fell asleep, her head would always flop down onto my shoulder (never my brother’s) and leave a warm, wet patch.

It was on one of these trips that we discovered Cwm Bi Dingle. “You know where we’re going, don’t you Dad?” “We’re not lost, are we Dad?” And so it went on. “Don’t be so daft Love, we’re off to Cwm Bi Dingle”. On the next trip, we had the same old questions but I was reassured all was fine as we were off to Cwm Bi Dingle again – and again, and again. At one point I asked my parents why we hadn’t gone to the same precise part of Cwm Bi Dingle as the first time, the place where we’d had the ice creams. The answer was obvious – it was a big place and it wasn’t possible to see all of it every time we went. If I’m honest, no visit to Cwm Bi Dingle ever lived up to the first time but it didn’t matter too much because at least my father knew how to get there and, consequently, how to get home.

I don’t remember when or how I found out about this elaborate scheme. Not that it was elaborate. I think he had made this place up on a whim, in the spur of the moment but it became embedded in family history forever. Maybe there was no big revelation, just a gradual realisation that Cwm Bi Dingle was in fact a series of places. It wouldn’t be correct to say that Cwm Bi Dingle never existed as all of the places were real. It was just that they were all places with other names, none of which was Cwm Bi Dingle and they were all in different locations.

In the present day, I wouldn’t say I enjoy getting lost but it usually frustrates me rather than causing mass panic. I have a relatively well developed sense of direction and am confident I would be able to find my way home from anywhere by simply re-tracing my steps. But today I found my Cwm Bi Dingle.

I wanted to try a new cycle route so I looked up local possibilities and settled on a track of around 7.5kms. It was not a circuit so there and back would be 15kms and I vaguely thought I could do it twice to make 30kms to build up distance and stamina. Armed with the map downloaded onto my phone, off I went. I immediately went wrong even while driving there and ended up entering the track about a kilometre after the start. The track seems to connect a series of parks and each time I entered a new park I’d end up circling it at least once before finding the exit. Signage was terrible, not helped by some of the signs looking like they’d been turned around either as some sort of jape or to conspire against me. A couple of times I ended up on the main road by mistake and there were several car parks where I just went round and round until it became more obvious where I was supposed to be heading. The map on the cycle track website was not terribly clear and not all the road names were marked. A map of the area on the navigation of my phone looked totally different but did not have cycle paths marked. I ended my outward cycle when I reached the motorway! Yes, I could have continued all along the side of the motorway to where I work but it’s not very scenic and I can save that for another day. Worryingly, my map didn’t show this cycle path joining up with the one alongside the motorway but perhaps the connecting of the two is a recent event (or I went wrong again, which seems more likely).

How did I get here? — And all of a sudden, I am unexpectedly beside the motorway!

So, unsurprisingly, my cycle trip was 13kms one way and 7.5kms on the way back. What a difference! Parts were alongside the river so there was some undulation and there were more teeny tiny hills for practice, some of which were preceded by downhill sections so I was able to gather some momentum and speed for the ascent. This is the first time I’ve cycled over 20kms and I felt I could have carried on longer if it hadn’t been for risking getting more lost but also the light was fading and it was getting dark. In the end, it didn’t matter that I may or may not have cycled along my intended route. It was the distance that was important, the fact that I really enjoyed it and that my confidence continues to grow with each outing and I begin to feel more at home in the saddle.

So, Cwm Bi Dingle is whatever and wherever you want it to be. Today it was in west Auckland but its precise location remains unknown and is irrelevant as long as you enjoy where you go and get something out of the experience. Now, where was that ice cream van with the double-flaked 99?

A disaster on the teeny tiny hill and a puncture

I’m an owl. I go to bed late and as much as I’ve tried retraining myself over the years to become a dove, it always fails. My most successful attempts have been on returning from Europe when jet lag tends to help me achieve a brief dove-like state but it is always short lived. Those people who retire by 9.30pm and get up at 5am are a source of envy but an enigma to me. I’d love to be like them and they’re always so smug, but failure always catches up with me. I try regularly to go to bed at 9.30pm but I never actually get there before midnight despite the fact it is just around the corner from the living room in my very small house. The combination of my owl status and my fondness for procrastination always conspire against me. I am also queen of the snooze button. I’ve literally tried everything – putting my alarm across the other side of the room, keeping my bedroom cold, drinking a litre of water before I go to bed and so on. Nothing works. It takes my setting the alarm every 5 minutes for at least an hour before I can even think about swinging a leg over the side of the bed. And I may as well forget it in winter as the slightest chill in the room is such a disincentive to rising. I love my bed and I love it especially in the mornings. So it is a challenge to get up in time for the gym 3 mornings a week and it never gets easier.

By the way, my sister has an irrational dislike and fear of owls. This has made me realise that they’ve been omnipresent for the last few years. You can’t even buy a decent tea towel without an obligatory owl festooned upon it. Recently however, I feel they may be on the wane in favour of unicorns. Unfortunately my sister doesn’t like unicorns either. It’s a double whammy for the poor love but at least provides the rest of us with birthday and Christmas buying fodder. What a fussy one! She will kill me when she reads this…

You can understand therefore that getting up needlessly early is the worst kind of torture for me. And so it was today. “Don’t be late” said Sam, my boxing trainer at the gym. “I have someone else directly after you”. I managed to leave the house on time, gym kit on, work bags in the car, cats fed and watered, house alarm set and so on. So, imagine my disappointment when I was a few hundred metres down the road and I heard a sadly familiar noise. I had a puncture. As I was not far from home, I drove back. I thought that at least I could try and sort it out from the comfort of my own home rather than beside the road. At first I thought my workmen could help when they arrived (yes, the renovations continue still) but then I thought no, I’d rather they finish the endless renovations this side of 2018. So after a shower, I called the AA and waited patiently. Actually, they were very efficient. You don’t even need to speak to a human to get them to come and a friendly man called Chris appeared quickly. However the wheel was changed to one of those space saver jobbies so my next port of call was a tyre shop where I remained for the rest of the morning, my work time ebbing away along with far more dollars than I wanted to relinquish. They’re never pleasant places are they? A waiting room of torn leatherette chairs and decades-old magazines and a toilet which looked like it had not been cleaned since the last millennium where a “hover pee” was definitely the order of the day. As I sat there waiting, I thought fleetingly that at least it was the Italian branded car that had suffered this fate and not my bike because if I had a puncture on the 2 wheeled vehicle, I would literally have no idea what to do other than walk back to from where I had set out. I must resolve to put this right, I thought casually. I shall learn to change a tyre. I am really not sure how I thought I would learn this but at least the intention was there.

So, imagine my shock, when on ascending the teeny tiny hill this evening, I lost my bike chain. There are 3 things I have been dreading on the bike, other than failure of course: the chain coming off, a puncture and falling off. Not knowing what to do about the fact that at the front of my bike the chain seemed to not be around any of the 3 cogs (is that what they’re called?) but rather was flapping loosely in the breeze, I initially thought I’d just get back on regardless and give it a go in case I’d made a terrible mistake. I had not. Then I realised I had no choice but to walk the bike 4.5 km to the start of the trail, where I had parked. After a few metres I came to the realisation that this was ridiculous and forced myself to have a proper look at the bike and to really think about how I might be able to re-connect the chain. And I managed it – even without resorting to Google. My hands were filthy, but the chain was back on and I could resume my cycling. It felt like a triumph.

So, a puncture and a chain disconnection in one day but maybe not how I can completely imagined these events unfolding. Now all I need is a fall…

In other news. I have received paperwork from the charity organising the trek. There is the usual stuff about insurance, visas and ethical tourism. But then there is the packing list. This is always most enlightening. For example:

Underwear (or undwear as they’ve typed). Do I really need to be told to pack my kecks? I’m highly unlikely to forget underwear. It feels so strange when you forget and head out of the house without any, floppy bits a-swinging in the breeze, that you instantly remember. It’s like putting milk on a shopping list. But thanks for the reminder anyway
Thermal socks. Hmmm. It will be more than 30 degree celsius most days
Jogging shoes. No thanks. Cycling 470 kms is enough without resorting to jogging on holiday
Cycling gloves to avoid sunburnt hands. Well that’s helpful as I’d never have thought of that as a potential problem
Travel towel. Sorry, I’m not falling for that old chestnut again. They’re so small and non absorbent you can only dry one bum cheek and it gets so wet you may as well throw the damned thing away. I’d rather manage with a flannel or drip drying
Pannier or handle bar bag. I wonder if I show up with my small bag if someone will finally show me how it actually fits on a bike?
Cycle helmet. Hmmm, you said they were provided
Toe clips. What are they?
Bike shoes. Ditto?
Bike pedals. I really, really hope you haven’t rented bikes without pedals for us
Bike saddle. Same
Gel seat. Well yes, the catastrophists are so concerned about my nether regions that I’d already thought of that one
Playing cards. OK, is this the 20th century still?

But I know exactly what will happen. I’ll feel I should take it all anyway just in case and end up with the world’s largest case then only ever use about 10 per cent of it. But, it’s a start and they haven’t mentioned bringing any resuscitation equipment so maybe it’s not so bad after all.

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Thanks to those who have already made donations. I already have enough for more than one bike. I am truly grateful. Here is the site for anyone else feeling jolly and generous this festive season!

Right, my next post and video will be my festive message to you all. You have been warned xx