As we approach the end of 2020, universally accepted as the year that can absolutely do one, I felt that it warranted a profound and meaningful post full of reflections and learnings.

I also realised that I really had nothing to say. What could I share that would add a little light to the perennial darkness of this year? I’m not saying that there aren’t those out there that can bring you hope and light, I’m just saying that a sarcastic, nihilistic, over-anxious ginger is probably not your best bet.

And so…

This one is from the very talented Dave Holder, but beware, he may make you fat.

Ingredients

• 1 Chicken, or a load of chicken thighs. Bone in is preferable, but you could go boneless.

For the Marinade

• 1 small carton of buttermilk. 
• 1 egg
• Hot sauce of your choosing – I prefer Sriracha
• Salt / pepper
• 1tbsp smoked Paprika
• 1 tbsp garlic powder
• 1tbsp dried Tarragon (optional, but I loves it)
• 1 tsp dried chili flakes (optional)

For the Flour

• 100g plain flour
• 100g cornflour
• Salt / pepper
• 1 tbsp smoked Paprika
• 1 tbsp garlic powder
• 1 tbsp onion powder (optional)
• 1 tsp dried chilli flakes 

Method:

Whisk together the buttermilk, salt, pepper, spices, hot sauce and egg together in a large  bowl. It should be nice and pink, depending on how much hot sauce you put in. I like to aim for that sunset colour you get on a crisp November evening.

 Place the chicken in the bowl and cover completely, massaging  in to all of the nooks and crannies. Really get in there and don’t be shy – it loves it.  Take some cling film and cover the chicken – press the film onto the chicken directly  so there isn’t an air gap. Clear some space in your fridge and leave it to chillout (ha!) over night. Remember not to touch your face or balls, and wash your hands whilst singing Build Me Up Buttercup, twice.

The next day, start by putting on some appropriate music. I like the Southern Gothic playlist on Spotify for that authentic, pure experience. 

Take the chicken out of the fridge, fling the cling film into the bin from the other side of the kitchen, and appreciate how awesome you are getting it in first time.

Casually grab a large plate or very large glass bowl and put in the flour and spices. Mix these all together and set next to the marinated chicken. Don’t throw the marinade away, as we’ll use it again in a sec. Take a piece of chicken, let some of the marinade drip off, then place in the flour mixture. Give it a little press so the seasoned flour adheres, and then place back in the marinade for a second dredge. Then back to the flour for a second coat. Leave it to one side to set up for about 10 mins so the coating dries a little. Repeat with all your other chicky pieces. 

Grab a large pot and fill it roughly  1/3rd of the way up, but no more than half way up, with veg oil or the equivalent for deep frying. Heat that up to 180 degrees whilst you wait for the chicken to relax. This is a great  time to drink some beer, or give Jen a foot rub. Or both. Note: If you don’t have a Jen, you can substitute this with a loved one, pet, or yourself.

Fry the chicks for about 6-8 mins in the oil, doing them in batches if you need. Once they’re done, pop them on a wire rack, and instantly add a pinch of salt. You can brush on some BBQ sauce at this point if you like. 

Eat all the chicken 

Somewhere between the decree that non-essential workers work from home and lockdown, my partner and I decided it was a good time for me to go stay at his for a week or so.

That was some five months ago. Guess I live here now.

So, this one is for my long suffering partner and favourite Sound Engineer.

Note to said partner: I’m using Sound Engineer for simplicity.

Note to all others: see point one.

(And yes, that is also the story of how it takes a pandemic for me to commit to anything.)

Now, I’ve run gigs, I have worked in events, I have worked building stages, hell, I’ve even been allowed behind a lighting desk a few times. So surely, surely, I knew what to expect.

I know, cute right?

Without further ado, here is what I have learnt living with a Sound Engineer.

• Know the difference between Engineer, Stage Crew and Technician. Oh and remember, one person can be all of the above, depending on the circumstance. Or a producer. Sometimes they’re producers. (Don’t worry, they’ll ensure they explain the difference, as many times as required…You may need a notepad.)

• Mics. Mics everywhere.

• You are now stage crew. Don’t believe them when they invite you along to “sit in the van/ come backstage at the gig”. You will be working.

• Everything is a Fire Hazard or a Trip Hazard. This will be explained to you very patiently, and in great detail.

• Sentences not to say:
  • But aren’t remixes just, like, someone else’s music?
  • I understand how sound works (also to note, sound and noise are different things- any confusion on this score will be hastily explained away.)

• You can now start earning surprise approval from sound professionals by remarking in front of your boss that a taxi rank just hijacked the frequency of the radio mic in the middle of your conference and it’s not the tech’s fault. You will be rewarded with sweets.

• Being offered coffee or Haribo by sound professionals is the highest gesture of respect – do not refuse.

• You will never be in charge of packing again. Fitting more stuff into the van/building/fridge than there is physical cubic space for is a personal challenge. DO NOT OFFER ADVICE. (This activity also requires constant humming of the Tetris theme tune.)

• Tetris is now a suffix (Van-Tetris/Fiesta-Tetris/Fridge-Tetris)

• Any new album must be listened to on repeat for two days. This allows for 1.5 days of them explaining it to you, and half a day for you to actually listen to it.

• Remember those days when you’d buy cheap headphones/speakers? Because, really, they do the job. Those days are behind you now. You are spoilt and can never go back.

• If someone ever indicates that “you wouldn’t understand” about something sound/technical related because you are a girl/un-initiated/young/old/possess a cat/once ate the skin of an avocado on a dare, you now have someone who will, out of principal, teach you exactly enough to make sure you can show that person up.

And one last piece of advice: Never assume they can’t hear you when wearing those big headphones. They’re open backed.

So. I bought a house. More accurately I bought 5% of a house and every time I log into online banking I see the huge, terrifying minus figure that is my mortgage. (Etymologically mortgage means death pledge by the way.) My friends like to remark how incredibly adult this is, which surprises me because I’ve never accused my friends of being delusional before, or myself of being an adult.

So let’s set the record straight. This is how not to buy a house.

Most people carefully plan buying a house. Most people do it when they are financially confident, a bit more settled and are probably reasonably sure they know what they’re doing. Most people do not do it because they’ve found out the landlords of the lovely house they’re sharing are selling it in 3 months, and they’re not sure they want to pay for the staggering increase in rent when they move (it was a very cheap house). Most people do not do it when they’re barely above minimum wage and most people do not try and do it in 12 weeks. The last point probably explains why most people don’t end up technically homeless for two months.

Yes. That’s where I spent two months of my life. On that chair, with no internet, no TV, just a bike, a kindle and a suitcase full of clothes to live out of. And I count myself very bloody lucky that I had employers who had a room I could live in (and were kind enough to let me).

I won’t show you pictures of the bathroom though. No one needs to see that.

 

Choosing a house is quite obviously the first step.

Well actually, it’s kind of the second. First you find someone to buy a house with you. Or you’re some sort of modern millionaire. My brother and I had accidentally been living in the same shared house (I crashed in the spare room for a couple of weeks five years ago and just consistently failed to leave) for some time and had talked about buying a house many years ago. Since then I’d spent all those savings on a very expensive MA in London and we’d sort of forgotten it. Or at least I had. Steve hadn’t.

So essentially, Steve decided to buy a house and I sort of latched on for the ride.

The whole house buying processes largely seems to consist of a lot of signing things. That’s mostly what I remember. A lot of emails, a lot of signing pieces of paper and at least one really nerve wracking bank transfer. You can decide to sign more pieces of paper. See, mortgages come in a couple of guises. You have a joint mortgage (that’s the one where people lose the house in the divorce/ family feud/ estrangement) or you can be sensible and get a co-owned mortgage. This is the one where your percentage of investment is protected rather than the house considered 50/50 regardless of your input. The conversation we had on this topic went like this: “Oh, you busy?” “Yes, on my way to work. Why?” “We need to decide on which mortgage” “oh, yeah. Joint one involves less effort right?” “Yeah. Shall we do that?” “Yep. Great. See you later.”

We did make an effort to read things before signing them. Well. We definitely did once. Whilst drinking wine. And there’s definitely one I never read. Steve kept following me round when I was busy until I signed it to make him go away.

(If the devil ever wanted to buy my soul… Hell, for all I know he already has and I thought the contract was a supermarket receipt)

And then everyone else takes over and sends you a complete lack of updates for a couple of months until you get a call asking for money. A REALLY LARGE AMOUNT OF MONEY.

After that it’s literally waiting for the photo opportunity. You know the one. We all do it: The keys, in your hand, because jesusbloodychristonastickyouownafrickenhouse.

In this case, my hands covered in bike oil because my chain came off half way to the estate agents. 

All of our stuff had been in storage for three months by this point and very sensibly we could have spent one night in our separate accommodations, but we’d spent a long time homeless and petty things like lack of furniture, cutlery or indeed beds weren’t going to get in our way.

We drove to the storage unit and collected: one computer monitor ( minus stand because I’d stupidly packed that in a different box); one set of speakers (minus the sub which is also the power supply because -see above); one computer tower, one chair (handily repurposed as the monitor stand) and two mugs.

We dined on a piece of wood we found in a cupboard with plastic cutlery I bought at the shop and watched a film with headphones in. Because this was now our house. Even if we had no idea how we’d done it (or in my case, how to pack either).

Note: Oh and when you do buy a house, try not to buy one that gives you nicotine poisoning; has windows that are not in fact attached to the frame; or requires adjustable spanners to hold the shower together. But that’s probably a whole different story.

I once worked out I’d lived with over 120 people. But that was 6 years and 200 miles ago. Since then, I’ve gained a few pounds, lost a few memories and added several delivery addresses to my Amazon account.

Once upon a time, house sharing was a University Thing. You went to Uni, collected some stories and then settled down and had a couple of kids to tell the stories too. (My mother has a particularly charming one about being hidden in a closet whilst her crazy flatmate rampaged around threatening to kill her.)  Now we resign ourselves to spending the best part of our young adult life to the strange smells and odd noises of shared houses. Sure some people fall in love and rent together, and others just can’t quite bear the thought of sharing a bath with four other people, but short of love or impatience, we are the house share generation.

Which is kind of sad as a definition. Time Out recently called us Generation Rent, which distinctly lacks the punchy enigma of our predecessors Generation X. As for Baby Boomers, that’s a great name if you don’t think too hard about it. If you do think too hard about it, it conjurers some pretty alarming images.

House sharing is an art. Not an Art (unless you have very strange housemates), but it certainly requires a certain skill set and sensitivity. Admittedly the skill set usually revolves around being a heavy sleeper and becoming a pro at Jenga.

Every house I’ve lived in shares common traits. There’s always one person you subtly try and avoid. Perhaps because they’re annoyingly cheerful, perhaps because they’re a lurking near silent presence. Sometimes it’s just because you really dislike them.

Disliking your housemates is a terrible thing, when you have good housemates it saves the energy of having to find your own friends. You come home and poof! Instant friends. Admittedly you’re the kind of weird friends that know what each other mean when you say, “sheets but no pants” and know, in fact, exactly what your pants look like. But these sorts of things build friendships from however unlikely the source. When you’re living with people, they intrinsically become part of your daily function. I once spent 20 minutes wandering around my house in a vaguely confused state because my housemate was on holiday from work so he wasn’t buttering his toast and drinking half a cup of tea at 7.48 am. You get to know their footsteps on the stairs, their friends and their bad habits. You learn a little about their lives and their ambitions, but mostly whether they mind you borrowing milk.

Housemates are good for your morale, they’re people who have no defence from your bad days or good days because you both need to use the kettle and the cooker so you engage in the small talk of your day to day lives. (Except one guy I lived with, but he’d been a pot wash in the same pub for 8 years so I guess he really didn’t have much to say) In this way, they know the minutiae of your lives better than your friends do. I had a housemate who worked in finance and everytime I asked him how he day was I got as non committal response. Turns out this wasn’t because he was particularly reticent, it’s just in finance, every day is exactly the same. But for the rest of us, we offloaded our daily triumphs and frustrations, and in cinderella fashion, at around 11.30 pm on a Thursday after a bottle of wine we all turn into philosophers and counselors to talk each other through frustrations and fears.

There is also another way we derive moral support, and that’s generally because there’s always one person you live with who is worse at life than you. If there isn’t, well, just remember, you’re making everyone else feel better.

This cohabiting carries with it some responsibility, like taking your housemate to hospital because they fell down a bus and broke their face (it wasn’t a very good face anyway) or getting a phone call from the police to confirm your housemates address because he’s “fine physically but it’s a personal issue and you’ll have to discuss the details with him”. They neglected to inform me that they’d confiscated all his possessions including his phone and he showed up a couple of days later in prison clothes casually cooking breakfast. He was very proud of those prison clothes, and most put out when another housemate took a liking to them, and in fact stole them when he left.

Yes, I lived with a guy who thought been arrested for graffiti was a good way to get new clothes, and another guy who thought  those clothes were worth stealing. They’re not even the weirdest ones.

Generally you end up mostly liking most of your housemates. Occasionally in retrospect. The Uni housemate I lived with who used to climb up the walls and suspend himself on the ceiling seems a lot funnier now he doesn’t scare the crap out of me at 8am in the morning. Incidentally, he never actually worked out how to climb down, and settled for falling. This did not dissuade him. Occasionally you live with utter crazies like the depressed Hungarian who alternated which girl she wasn’t speaking to and obsessed over the boys in equal degrees. Her cat was about the same degree of mental as she was.

I also have a private theory about the correlation about crazy and cats. But this is probably a digression.

I used to have a housemate that generously offered “What’s mine is yours” which was kind of a brave statement when 7 of you house share but I took it to mean I could borrow squash rather than adopting his family and bank cards.  Whether intentionally or not, a surprising amount of things are communal.  Books have waiting lists, milk is fair game (Top trick- drink lactose free milk, they’ll die of thirst before touching that.) and if you manage to have all the same clothes as when you moved in, you’ve not been washing them. The wrong tops in the wrong laundry pile seems quite obvious, but occasionally you get half way through a day before realising you clothes don’t feel right. In the case of one of my housemates he made this discovery in the middle of a presentation when he pulled hair bands out of his pocket stared at them for a moment and mused “I don’t think these are mine”. He doesn’t wear a ponytail, turns out he does wear girls jeans though. (He still does, actually, I gave him those jeans. But kept the hairbands.)

But, there is always one (me) who holds a few things (Knives and frying pans) for only a select few (no one) to use. Until you have proved that YOU WILL NOT PUT THEM IN THE DISHWASHER or have been politely reminded of the proper care for frying pans (MARK DID YOU JUST EFFING USE A METAL EFFING FORK IN MY FRYING PAN?! DON’T.) then they are things that will remain quite firmly in my food cupboard. Thank you very much.

Oh and cats. You might not think you own a cat. The cat has other ideas.

My favourite game in a shared house was the Sunday Morning Milk Game. This has very simple rules and winning depends on a combination of dedication, faith and laziness. It consists of checking all food areas, divining who is mostly likely to need the shop first and then loitering in the kitchen until someone cracks and has to go to the shop whereupon small change is magically produced and housemates presumed to be out/ asleep/ missing emerge with requests.

And in all houses, even single one I’ve ever lived in, from Devon to London and a dozen places in between, there is always one person who leaves all the lights on, and one who goes round turning them all off. And so continues the eternal battle between Light and the Darkness.

 

My best friend recently turned 30 and even more recently bought a house. I’ve vicariously experienced this through text messages explaining that they argued so much about what colour to paint the living room that now everything is magnolia. (which solves the mystery of magnolia living rooms across the world.) She’s understandably a bit panicked about owning a full set of keys, some of which she can’t identify but presumes unlock some new level of adulthood.

So this one is for her.

Adulthood is a precarious notion.

 

 

At 18 you are definitely, like, yeah, a full blown adult.

By 22 you’re pretty sure that you’re not an adult but that someone’s going to email you the instructions any day now, and hey that’s cool, because you’ve just discovered Mojitos.

By 26 you realise that the instructions were a lie and Mojitos don’t dissipate overnight but linger patiently behind the eyeballs waiting for your alarm to go off. You  glower at people suspisciously on the street wondering how the hell they got that adulthood thing down.

By 28 you’ve come to the conclusion that nobody has a bloody clue what they’re doing. Besides, adulthood sounds boring compared to this haphazard freefall, and hell yes let’s try the new cocktail bar, it’s open on a Tuesday right?

By 30 adulthood has snuck in the back door and is now sat in the corner making “ahem” noises when you press play on the 5th episode of Walking Dead in a row at 1am on a Thursday. You find yourself admonishing people who stayed up all night. You gently shake your head, they really should go to bed early, they need a full nights rest. (They don’t, they’re 22). You start thinking yoga might be a good idea and Mojitos a bad one.

Of course, age is just a number. That’s what people say. Except the people who say it are usually a) hitting on someone much younger than them or b) on their 7th Jaegerbomb on a Monday night.

But it’s true that some people get boring earlier. Some people get adulthood earlier and don’t get boring. Some people stay childish longer and get boring. Or stay boring.

We’re reasonably sure adulthood is a thing, but no one quite knows what to do with it. Some people rush towards is, some people run away from it. Most of us just trip over the edge of it and stumble around for a bit before one day realising:

Shit. I’m doing the adult thing. Look! Look at me adult! I’m gonna adult over here, and then I’m gonna adult over there. And then I’m going to drink until I fall over. 

Because, Adulthood, as far as anyone can tell, is not a full time vocation. My Dad is a proper adult. That doesn’t stop him hiding behind trees.

So, how to tell? What warning signs are there that you might be adulting. You could be adulting already… how can you know?

The grave symptoms of that most serious condition: Adulthood.

1. Ordering a medium glass of wine, even when it’s someone else’s round
2. Owning and using shoe polish. In severe cases, with separate brushes for polish and buffing.
3. Pinstripe shirts. Particularly prevalent amongst those working in finance. No one knows why.
4. Understanding your pension rather than just assuming someone somewhere gives you money because you keep receiving letters.
5. Having two shopping lists, things you want and things you need. And sticking to it. This is particularly worrying when the want list includes things like waterproof trousers- at what stage did your desires reduce to waterproofs?
6. Owning furniture. Furniture that you’re quietly cataloging for what you’ll need in the future.
7. Wanting flowers to “brighten up” the house.
8. Doing your ironing in advance, not clad in pants five minutes before you need to leave for work.
9. Having a filing system. One that isn’t a variation of “in that drawer, probably, but it might be stuck to something because I think I split coffee on it”.
10. Having ‘Acquired Tastes’ – which is adult speak for eating stuff you don’t like until you like it. (Olives, guys? What’s that about?)

My housemate defines adulthood as being able to take responsibility for yourself and your actions. But hey, he doesn’t own a pin stripe shirt so what does he know?

The Duppy Share rum blending at the Plough bar and kitchen.

 

Blend  is sort of a dirty word word in the spirit world.

It really shouldn’t be, but it sort of is.Whisky is a great example because whisky is drunk by two types of people. People who know about whisky, and people that think they know about whisky. You can be damn sure it’s the latter group that will order a single malt, not one of those blended craps. After all, you’d never see James Bond ordering anything but a Single Malt.

Well of course not but that’s because A) James Bond is a fictional character and b) his creator was a desk clerk with delusions of grandeur.

Now I’m starting to develop a taste for whisky, mostly due to the fact I know whisky drinkers and they keep convincing me to try them. (Turns out that terrible costcutters own whisky I once drank when I was 16 has precisely no relation to what whisky actually taste likes) but my heart belongs very certainly to rum.

I drink rum in all form it comes in. I mix it, I drink it straight and I am drawn to cocktails that promise a taste of it. I drink anything from golden to navy black and yes, I even drink the Sainsbury’s  own. (Try not to judge me).

And just to rescue my reputation from those admissions, my favourite rum is the El Dorado 12 year old.

Anyway, back to the point.

A couple of months ago I was introduced to the new kid on the block – The Duppy Share. Before we even get to the drink, you need to take a moment to appreciate the story. With whisky about 2-3% evaporates per year during the aging process. They call this the angels’ share. Which makes very little sense to me. What do angels do with whisky? Are angels even allowed to drink?! In the caribbean the heat causes the drink to age more quickly and obviously, more heat means more evaporation, up to 7% a year.  The caribbean mythology is that there are mischievous spirits called duppies who steal the rum and have an epic party and presumably even worse hangovers.

It also happens to be a terribly nice rum. It’s almost like a whisky in it’s oaky style, not heavy in molasses, or over sweet. So naturally when I clocked they were doing an event at the plough, I signed myself up.

The plough is very much a bar rather than a pub (believe me, there is a detailed description of this distinction coming soon). I’m not generally a bar person, I like pubs that I can sit and read a book in ,but I make an exception for the Plough. The Plough is lively enough to make it feel like a friday night every day of the week but never so crowded you can’t grab a seat. It’s the kind of place you go for a few beers to wind up the week, chat to your girl mates and all the things that seemed terrible are now the things you’re giggling over. I like the people there and I like the selection even more. They actually stock the El Dorado 15 (I’ve never worked up the courage to ask the price, I know how much the 12 is at retail) generally excellent spirits and they have a craft beer menu titled “beers to try before you die”. The minute they start stocking Westons or Sandford Orchards ciders, I’m moving in.

Let the blending begin

Rum, to be rum, has to made from sugar cane, above a certain percentage and can only have water or caramel (for colour) added to it.

Duppy is a blended rum. Which I’ve never really thought about before. I don’t usually get past oooo pretty and mmmm tasty. Step in Ryan and Jess to eludicate. Jess explains that this is no whisky tasting which is probably already obvious from the pots of coloured felt tips. (and the rums.) We then get to try a Jamician 5 year old, a Barbados 3 year old, The Duppy Share and a Guyana Navy rum (fun fact- Navy rums are so called because they’re 57% proof which is the exact lowest percentage of alcohol that soaked gunpowder will still ignite and so the only rum allowed onboard ship.)

But as promised there’s no bizarre associations to various flauna, but instead this:

This is the flavour chart of The Duppy Share. Proving that Jess and George co-founders of The Duppy Share actually did some work whilst travelling the Caribbean drinking rum (Seriously guys, any ‘research’ you need- I’m your girl.). Jess explains that The Duppy Share is carefully created to be a mixing rum and a straight rum. Which makes me realise I’ve been terribly unfair to some of the rums in my aqquatance because I keep juding them on how good they are in a cubra libre, but some just aren’t right with lime and coke. Gosling’s is designed to be drunk with ginger beer (they patented Dark ‘N ‘Stormy). Havanna 7 is beautiful with coke, El Dorado  I made the mistakte of drinking with a mixer, but is designed to be a sipping rum.

This all makes sense when you profile several rums because you start to think about what flavour you want and what effects the mixer will have on the overall drink, whether it’ll add to the sweetnest of needs to conteract it . Also, yes, I forgot the colour point on the Navy, hence the mysterious triangle.

So now we’ve mapped four different rums, it’s time to make our own. I analyse my maps trying to look imaginative. My fellow rum students are carefully depicting exact flavour profiles, discussing with Ryan and Jess the careful balancing of different rums to create their blend. They carefully build their drinks, tasting and adjusting. I on the other hand put some Jamaican in The Duppy Share to bring out a bit more sweetness and tropical fruits.

I promised no weird analogies, I know, Jess explained tropical fruits to be anything else that was covered by the other points. Which is a damn sight simpler than ‘tropical fruits’. (How tropical is tropical? Do bananas count or does it need to be harvested from the heart of the amazon at midnight by a tribe that’s only outside contact is trading fruits for corn?)

I like the oakiness (tastes a bit like whisky) of The Duppy Share, and just about everything else. I also like slightly sweeter rums. So I basically make a child of Jamaica and Duppy Share. As it’s a Tuesday, naming it seems fairly obvious.

 

I then realise I’ve accidently opened up a great joke and send the picture to my mum telling her she has a grandchild. Seeing as there was some amount of rum drinking involved in this decision and she still hasn’t  replied, I’m going to go out on a limb and say this wasn’t nearly as funny as I thought.  

 

In my last post I offered a crash course in motorized methods of traversing London. Of course there is another way to get around.

This all starts with my boss. My boss did the Halo 250 which is a 250 mile bike ride across two countries in 24 hours. So I started making noises that I would cycle to work (12 miles round trip- totally comparable to his herculean effort right?). I made these noises for a while and then my friend, slightly bored of hearing this, suggested we cycle to a pub about 6 miles from her house to see  how I felt after that distance. Turns out my friend has a terrible sense of distance and I actually hauled my sorry unfit arse 20 miles on a borrowed bike, before collapsing on her sofa with a cider, a sense of achievement, and a strong desire to feel my legs again.

So that was it. I started to cycle to work. And now I can’t stop (I’ll explain why later).

Here are the things I have learnt

1. It is by far the quickest and most reliable way of traversing London.

Remember those apocalyptic storms around the time of the vote that shall not be named? ( coincidence? you decide) It took me 33 minutes to get to work by bike. Which is three minutes longer than normal. It took my friend 3 hours to go 3 miles by bus. He looked somewhat stressed. I on the other hand just looked like a drowned rat having an asthma attack.

Generally by bus it would take me anything up to an hour and 40 to get to work.

2. You develop a deep and personal relationship with traffic lights.

Lights are very important (Yes, cyclists do obey lights occasionally) and like a bad relationship with God, I plead with them each day. Usually to go green so  don’t have to lose my pace and start all over again, but just occasionally, red. Please Oh Saintly Light, give me a break and go red.

3. It’s a surprisingly vocal experience.

From yelling to muttering to the occasional agonized grunt/scream, cycling is a noisy affair. I spend a large amount of my travel time chatting to cars. Usually things like: out of my lane,  out of my lane, thank you, NO! goddammit! out of my lane. As for the screaming, It helps. Makes you like like a weirdo, but helps.

4. A lot of drivers have no idea of their road position.

It’s almost as if they can’t hear me mutter away three cars behind them. But:

5. Some drivers are very considerate

Usually Taxis, vans and people who drive frequently and don’t want the idiot cyclists ruining their side panels. Except in Pimlico. There, they aim for you. On which note:

6. I no longer have a fear of death.

7.Saturdays are the most depressing day.

The only people cycling at 8.30am on a Saturday are a) people who think a twenty mile ride is a nice little spin before breakfast. b) Me.

There’s nothing quite as galling as watching these lyrca clad super-humans gliding past you on gossamer thread tyres chatting amiably to one another as you doggidly wrench protesting muscles into a last effort. And they dress better. They all look cool, sleek, professional whilst I’m reasonably sure I look  like, well someone who mutters to them-self in ripped trousers and occasionally lets out a grunt of effort at the last stage of the hill.

8. I have become one of “those people”

I was told this by someone recently. I’m not really sure what one of those people is. Possibly someone who writes a blog post about cycling to work.

9. There is always a head wind.

I’m pretty sure this a meteorological impossibility. But nevertheless, it’s true.

10. You never have a hangover.

Obviously I’m a sensible adult and would never wake up on a work day with a raging, blinding hangover. But when I do, the 6 miles of car dodging, light begging and pedal stomping cures it.

11. I haven’t woken up skinny yet.

Which seems palpably unfair.

12. I can’t stop because I’m lazy.

I’m sure as one of those people I should claim health benefits, free exercise, money saved, motivation etc etc. But simply, it’s quicker. So I get to stay in bed longer.