Sunday 8th February 2026

About a decade ago, we put some books in the attic to see if we would miss them, and if we did we would take them to the charity shop.

Then the trapdoor to the attic broke, and I bodged it with a screw or two, and although the door held, we couldn't open it.

Truth is, all it needed was a catch to hold it closed, turned out to be a five minute job, fixed after the plumber had to go in the loft to reset the water.

And so then, the books.

On top of the books, are several photo albums, all of which I have digitised, so what to do with them? I have no family left, no one to leave family pictures to, let alone pictures from work's parties in the late 80s.

The albums are still pretty good, but who uses them now? I guess its the tip for them.

Jools got them down when I was away. I didn't want to throw them, but who needs them, and the space they take up?

So, the tip it is.

That was Sunday morning sorted. Or at least once we were back from the gym and cooled down. And me had a shower.

And we had breakfast.

It was another bright day, but felt cold, especially with me still in my shorts.

Before the football started, I cooked lamb and mint pies, roast potatoes, steamed veggies and the last of the gravy left over from the roast beef.

It was glorious.

I also finished up two opened bottles of red. One had less than a glass, the other over two. I slept partly through the Brighton v Palace game.

Then the big game, Liverpool v Citeh. A bit of a chess game for seventy minutes, then it went crazy and was over with Citeh winners, 2-1.

And that was the weekend over with.

A lack of confidence

I was away last week, so missed some of the news.

It was dominated by Peter Mandleson and the fact as Ambassador to the USA, he passed trade sensitive information to convicted sex trafficer, Jeffery Epsten, after Epstein had been convicted.

Keir Starmer had appointed him as Ambassador, replacing the previous incumbant, who had done nothing wrong, but despite warnings about Mandleson's previous untrustworthy behaviour.

On Wednesday, at PMQs, Starmer was skewered by Baddenoch on the issue, and then the Cabinet Office said it would release documents relating to Mandleson, after redacting what it deemed to be in the National Interest.

Parliament did not belive the Cabinet Office, and instead decided it would form a committe, and that would decide what was in the National Interest, not take the Cabinet Office's word.

This is remarkable. Parliament, or the House of Commons, deciding, with a majority of Labour MPs, that it cannot trust the Cabinet Offfice's statements on the matter of National Security!

This has been largly missed by the media, but is a remarkable turn of events.

Instead, it has been a feeding frenzy about Mandleson, Andrew and the Epstein files, and yet no one seems to be concerned with the victims of trafficing or those who were under age when they were raped. Raped by the great, rich and "good".

The Government is now not in control of the release of documents, a process that would have previously been under the control of Ministers and lawyers.

Saturday 7th February 2026

It is the weekend again. Apparently.

After four days away, it was good to be home, sleep in my own bed, even if I woke up covered in cats.

Or cat.

But it was a Saturday, and that meant a day of phys.

I could have bailed as i did 40,000 steps over four days away, but if I were to skip a session, then that could be a slippery slope.

Jools had booked swimming, so I could go to the gym, and plod on at my own pace. Not that we race each other.

So, after coffee, we were on our way to Whitfield, I made my way upstairs, while Jools went to the changing rooms downstairs.

I had listened to all current podcasts when away, so I listened to an old Parallel Universe as I puffed away.

Once done, with Jools planning on going to the sauna and having a shower, I went to the car and drove to Tesco to get some fruit and veg.

And filled the tank up.

A text to Jools to say I was done, so when I got back to the sports centre, she was coming down the steps. She hopped in and we drove home, all tasks done for the day.

Once back we put the shopping away, make a brew and feed Scully again.

Before breakfast, I went for a walk along to the street to snap flowers in bloom before the rain arrived.

Just as well I did as rain did arrive before lunch, by which time I was shave, showered and dressed again.

On the walk, the Alexanders had began to flower, so I snapped them. That was about if for the new flowering plants, but many more to come soon.

Lunch was stir fry and chicken, so to have fibre into us, and that was it as the afternoon turned towards football.

Norwich were on the telly, playing Blackburn. A piss poor game, but Norwich scored twice late on to take the points and move four places up the table.

Then onto the sofa with Scully to listen to the main batch of games, before it was rugger bugger time, with England playing Wales.

Could Wales find their old form?

No.

England dominated, and were 29-0 up at half time.

So it goes. So it goes.

A quiet beer and some peanuts in the evening, and that another day at the coalface done.

Phew.

Friday 6th February 2026

Time to go home.

And somehow I managed to get some 11 hours sleep or snoozing.

I finally got up at quarter past eight, and made a brew.

The last act is to pack, look round the room several times to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything.

That done, I close the door and drag my case along the endless corridors, up and down the stairs as the lift still hadn't been fixed.

I couldn't face their piss-poor breakfast, so I take the lift down to the street, saving lugging the case down five flights of stairs, and out into the grey, wet morning.

I wasn't really hungry, so pondered breakfast, but decided I would get something at the buffet on the station. I would also not get a taxi, so walk the fifteen minutes through town, past the Alehouse and up the slight hill to the station.

There was no buffet.

And I had fifty five minutes to kill.

So I listened to a podcast and tried to ignore the damp chill.

Trains to Worcester came and left, and then the little two car train came for me. About half a dozen others got on, and on time at half ten, it rattled out and up the branch line, but taking the chord to join the main line southbound, passing through Warwick until we reached Leamington Spa.

I had twenty minutes, so managed to get a panini and a coffee, finishing those off before the train arrived. Another rake of mk 3s being pushed by a roaring 68.

I got a seat facing back, and again the views out of the window were grey drizzle, but the valley around Banbury were now flooded much more, and the meandering river in the middle, lost from view.

All was going well until we came to a halt at High Wycombe, where we were not supposed to stop.

A freight train had broken down somewhere in the London area, blocking the line.

We were to be kicked off at Gerrards Cross, sadly, one stop short of the end of the Underground at West Ruislip.

Instead of being just left there, another train was going to collect us from the other, down, platform.

So the 40 or so of us, all climb over the footbridge to fill the platform.

Then came the announcement that the train was now back over on the up platform.

So we all climb back over the footbridge, and by the time we reached the platform, the train was there. It would run fast into Marylebone as the freight train had been moved.

So it was we arrived at Marylebone some 40 minutes late, which might be a good thing for me.

I went down to the Bakerloo, went one station to Baker Street, then changed onto a Circle Line train to St Pancras.

Up to the station and rushing past the Eurostar queues, up to the Southeastern platform, where a direct train to Dover was leaving in ten minutes.

I showed my ticket and was allowed onto the platform, walked to the front of the station and got a seat.

Phew.

Last leg of the trip, made exciting by a drugged up scrote in the seat behind me, doing deals on his phone and swearing. Then it turned out he had no ticket so was subject to a £100 fine on top of his ticket. He whined to his mate on the phone how the guy was screaming at him, which wasn't the truth.

He got off at one of the Folkestone stations, and peace returned to the carriage.

Jools was waiting, so after loading the case, she drove me home, and once inside we had a huge brew.

Dinner was battered sausage and chips from the chippy, that Jools went to get. And we were all done by six ready for the quiz.

I came second, which was nice.

The case was emptied, dirty washing in the basket and camera battery set to charge.

And it was the weekend.

And football to watch, with Leeds thrashing Forest 3-0.

Happy days.

Thursday 5th February 2026

It was Thursday. I laid in until nearly eight, snoozing and dozing.

I leap up, have a shower and get dressed. Despite the dreadful weather forecast, I would go out.

And after Col and Aidan mentioned their trips on buses, I thought I would take the X18 to Warwick.

One left at 09:52, giving me just enough time to walk to Wood Street, find a place to eat and be ready.

It was indeed raining, but it was just five minutes to Wood Street, and opposite the bus stop was an independent bakery. I go in, order a tea and a cheese and salsa or something toastie.

Both were good, but I realised I had ten minutes before the bus, even though there was another in half an hour.

I go out, cross the road and soon a bus with Warwick on the destination board pulled in. I didn't notice the route number, but instead of the express service, I was on the slow, calling at all villages services.

But it was fine, I was in no hurry.

So the bus roared and bounced its way down narrow roads in housing estates, short bursts of full speed, before pulling off into a village.

The rain still came down, running down the windows, but they were all condensated, so you couldn't see out of them anyway.

All trips on buses in the county cost just £3, so was a bargain.

After an hour we arrived in Warwick, pulling in at the small bus station. We all thanked the driver as we got off, as its what Brits do.

A map and signpost showed the way to the town centre, so I walked up the street until it opened up into a square with the town hall in the centre.

If only I knew where the church was. I looked round and saw the four pinnacles of the tower over the roofs of the shops.

I walked towards it.

St Mary was open. Col had checked that it would be. It was due to open at 11, it was ten to, but the door swung open, and the warmth inside hit me like a woolly blanket.

I received a warm welcome too. A guide showed me to the Beauchamp Chapel, down some steps where Elizabeth I's beau is buried with his higher born wife, so in eternity, she lays slightly above him to remind Dudley he didn't marry Good Queen Bess.

The church is huge, and full of delights. I was inside for nearly 90 minutes, and still missed things to photograph and admire. There was some ancient glass, and some good Victorian glass too.

At quarter past twelve I was done, or churched out. I walked outside, and into the Rose and Crown opposite, where I ordered a pint of Timothy Taylor Boltmaker, which was so good I had a second, and an Indonesian curry with sambal.

Delicious.

One last thing to see and snap, was the Westgate with Lord Leycester Hospital beside it. The latter sadly closed until March, so I made do with shots of the gate, with chapel above and the timber framed buildings of the hospital, timbers and walls all at different angles.

Rain began to fall. And it looked set in, so I checked with the bus timetable, and it seemed a bus was due in ten minutes, so I walked back to the bus station, to shelter A.

And waited.

And waited some more.

It was twenty five minutes late, so not sure if it was the next one early, or the previous nearly half an hour late.

Whatever, it was the express service, and it made good time. I sat on the upper deck, because its the law on a double decker, so the trees being shaken in the strong wind, scratched down the roof.

It was still raining in Stratford, so I went into Tesco for supplies of pop, crisps and biscuits before walking back to the hotel for a feast of dirty food.

I read more of Cameron Crowe's book as rain hammered down outside. It grew dark and so I climbed into bed to read, so to keep warm.

Wednesday 4th February 2026

A certain William Shakespeare was born in Stratford, and so it is understandable that the town and businesses make a bit of a deal about it. The Royal Shakespeare Company also have two theatres in the town, and it is why I came.

King Lear was partly set in Dover, and he wrote about Early Purple Orchids, so its a bit of a slam dunk for me to go to Stratford.

I woke up early, outside it was raining, but the forecast had perked up and it was supposed to clear and maybe even have sunshine.

I decided to pay for breakfast in the Premier Inn, so went down, or up, to the restaurant to fill me up.

Maybe it was because it was early, but the selection was poor. I had cereal, then sausages and hash browns, but the rest already looked like they had been in their dishes for hours and appeared tired.

But there was coffee.

Which was good.

Once I had eaten and put on my walking shoes, I left the hotel at eight to explore.

I already knew the town layout from the walk to the pub the night before, so after cutting across the main road, I headed up Wood Street, past Marks and Spencer with its porticoed entrance to the roundabout, where historic streets lead off in all directions.

I walked down each, taking shots of the timber-framed budlings, old inns and shops, past the school Shakespeare himself went to and the adjoining Guild Chapel, I walked on seeing more interesting buildings along the street.

I finally made my way to what is called Shakespeare's Birthplace, another timber-framed building, but set pretty much in isolation, and surrounded by tat shops, including as seems to be mandatory now, a place selling Harry Potter related tat.

I was to meet one, perhaps two friends. I had an hour to kill, so thought a coffee would be good, so I walked to the roundabout, to a small independent place. As I approached it, there was a voice behind me:

"Ian?"

I did have a camera swinging from my neck, so Colin had made the correct assumption it was me. We had never met before, but are both members of the GWUK group.

We shook hands and went in to have a coffee and talk.

We moved off after half an hour, walking down towards the river as another GWUK friend, Aidan, was soon to arrive, but had missed a tight bus connection in Coventry, so would be half an hour late.

It was dull and grey still, but no breeze, so reflections of the RSC Theatre were like in a mirror. Swans patrolled the water, flecked with scum from, well, best not to ask.

There was only a few folks about, but the sky was looking brighter.

Aidan called to say he had arrived, so we told him we were by one of the many Shakespeare statues or memorials, this one by the river.

We could see him walking over the bridge: he waved, we waved, we all waved.

It was suggested that me might like to go to the RSC to the bar on the third floor, which had five views over the river, canal and town.

We took a table and had a drink while we talked, and explored, ad we took turns to sit in the "Insult Chair": Col was a polecat I think, I was something similar, but Aidan got several sentences.

Next was the desire on my part to go to the parish church and see Shakespeare's grave. It's always open I was assured.

We walked along a narrow street, past the dual-named pub The Black Swan / The Mucky Duck, and along to the church, where the door was found to be very locked indeed, and not to open until Saturday.

Oh well.

We ended up outside the ancient pub, The Garrick: was it a real ale pub? I checked my list and it was, said to have four different real ales.

We went in.

We took a table in the bar, while Aidan and myself had a pint of Hung, Drawn and Portered, which went down a right treat, so we sent at least two, if not three more pints after it.

Outside the day grew old and dusk fell. But buses soon stop, so Col and Aidan said they didn't want to catch the last bus in case they missed a connection, and be stuck in Coventry or somewhere worse. So, they bid me farewell, and I stayed and ordered a fine plate of steak and ale pies with veggies and chips.

I walked back to the hotel in the dry for a change. I had been invited to a pub quiz at the Alehouse at half seven. But the truth is once I was back in the hotel room, I wasn't going to go out again, as I had already topped 14,000 steps and was pooped.

Tuesday 3rd February 2026

I like to think of myself as well travelled, but there are a few glaring omissions, even in England, places I have never been to.

Stratford-Upon-Avon is one place, and I have wanted to visit there for years and years.

Last month there was a sale by Network Rail, and extra 20% off tickets if you booked ahead, and a sale by Premier Inn, with rooms from £45 a night.

I got the tickets for less than eighty quit return, and the hotel was indeed £45 a night.

Cheap as chips.

All I needed was the weather.

Oh yes, the weather. A week of rain, heavy rain and then more rain was forecasted. But I had booked, so all was set.

Whatever the weather.

Tuesday came, and I gritted my teeth and decided to do the usual session in the gym first thing, then come home, shower, pack and have breakfast, so Jools could drop me off on the way to her class.

And that's what happened. Up at five fifteen, have coffee and be out by six. Do my session and be back home before rush hour.

I had three hours to faff around and make myself all lovely.

We had a brew together before Jools went out, and I had the shower, packed before coming back down for breakfast and one last check of the tickets and itinery.

We left just after ten, into town, and at the station, where it was tippling down. I dashed inside, went into the buffet for a coffee and sausage roll, before going onto the platform to wait and eat.

The train was on time, and three-quarters empty, so it was a nice trip up through Kent, under the Thames and across the Essex Badlands to Dagenham where the line dives underground to Stratford and again to St Pancras.

I had seventy minutes to get to Marylebone, so could take my time, take shots and generally not get in the way of those who were on a tight schedule.

Marylebone was a cold stone box. I had an hour to wait, I wasn't hungry, so people watched and looked at the fine station: one of London's lesser know terminus, but on the Monopoly board, I think.

The train came in: a class 68 hauling wonderful Mk3 coaching stock. I would be comfortable with seats that lined up with the windows.

I settled in and waited for departure.

The Cotswolds Main line is unelectrified, and seems to go under London rather than through it, at least for the first few miles.

I saw Kilburn fly by, and other stations too quick to see their names.

Out into the country where the drizzle and thick cloud brought dusk at two in the afternoon. It was dreary, but there's nothing I like more than staring out of a train window.

We stopped at a few places: Leamington Spa, Banbury, where the train picked up a few passengers, but was never busy.

I had to get off at Dorridge, which is like Norwich but only when you have congestion. And wait half an hour for a local train down the Stratford Branch.

Thankfully they had a coffee shop, so I have a cappuccino and a cherry bakewell slice, just finishing it before the last train of the day arrived.

It was a half hour trundle through the mist and gathering gloom, pulling into Stratford on time, where it was pissing down.

It wasn't far to the hotel, but I grabbed the only taxi and he drove me through the one way system, dropping me at the door.

Where it was still raining.

I was given the room furthest from reception, a 130 second walk along narrow corridors up and down stairs, and finally along a dead end passageway to my room.

Phew.

After half an hour I decided to find a place for a drink. And in an unusual move, I had done some research and looked at the CAMRA website and made a list of the real ale pubs in the town, and the Stratford Alehouse seemed to be the best.

And it was just a 15 minute walk.

I set off following Google Maps, up Wood Street, then over the roundabout. It was dusk, lights showed warm and inviting in the pubs and cafes on the way. But I kept on going.

I reached the alehouse, it was indeed warm and inviting too. But also had four ales on tap, they had tables, and an impromptu pub quiz was under way. A practice for the following night.

I ordered a pint and set about answering what I could.

Two hours and four pints passed. It was a fine way to spend the evening, but I was hungry, so the guys in the bar told me an Italian five minutes away was great.

I bid them farewell and set off. I find it, but they are busy and only one chef was on duty.

No dice.

Opposite, was a Brazilian eat as much as you can place. They also had a salad bar. So I went in, got a table and was soon tucking into a large plate of greens and salads.

I had some meat, but my appetite isn't what it used to be, so was soon full. But mostly of salad. So I paid and left, walking back along wet deserted pavements, past closed shops and eateries, over the intersection and back to the hotel.

Back in my room, I put some music on, but was soon sleepy, so closed the curtains and soon fell aslee.