Going through the motions

Grey.

Actually one of my favourite colours, my bedroom is painted grey, so is part of my bathroom. Damn, I’d paint the whole house in it if I didn’t think it would make Mr TF have kittens.

But at the moment, my mind is painted grey and I am not enjoying it so much.

Let me elaborate.

A lot of people use the colour black as a metaphor for depression: The black dog, black mood, black clouds etc etc  But my depression does not take me to the pits of despair (which I am truly grateful for) but plunges me into a pool of grey nothingness, where even the things I love the most are met with a nonchalant shrug.

I am a bit like a robot – I can walk around amongst the ordinary folk undetected, go to work, eat, sleep, go to the gym etc etc. But my mind is not there. It’s off contemplating how unextraordinary my life is, what an unremarkable person I am. Would it make a difference if everyone woke up one morning and I wasn’t there? (This one is usually accompanied by some fantasy to wake up in Fingal’s Cave or other such frivolity).

It is also usually accompanied by the fallout of the preceding mania, as 9 times out of 10, it comes directly after. (Glad to report minimal fallout this time, due to excellent support)

At the moment, my house is a mess; I tried to tidy but just ended up reorganising the cupboards which didn’t reorganising and giving all their contents to a charity shop (“We’re only two people! We only need two plates!!!!!”); I haven’t washed my hair in 5 days and it’s all chloriney from where I tried tried to swim my way out of the funk; and, in the absence of any sharp objects (thanks Mr TF!), I have paper cuts all over the tops of my arms.

But the main thing is how much nothing I feel. I would like to cry, I think it would do me good, but I can’t. I would like to laugh or shout or make jokes about a banana but..well, meh.

I also feel very much like I am floating outside of my body, looking down on it. Watching it live its life, in complete detachment from it. Things happen. Things don’t happen. Again… meh.

I know this will end. I know I am going to feel great and awful and in love and excited and queasy and petulant and joyous and cheeky and angry and reflective and relaxed and awake and hungry and thirsty and sated and happy and despairing and angst and confident and embarrassed and trusting and full of beans and wonder and… and… and… all the things.

I just cant see it yet.

Shakin’ all over!

So here we are.

Medicated.

I have resisted drugs for a long time, as I don’t like the idea of being controlled by medicinal chemicals.

But this time I knew I was heading off the cliff into the deep end of the paddling pool of grey nothingness that is a depressive episode.

This consists largely of my staring at a wall whilst shovelling ginger biscuits into my piehole, occasionally accidentally looking into a mirror and then having to cover it up with a towel.

If I’m honest though, I much prefer depression to mania… you know where you are with depression (in bed or the fridge, mainly) whereas with mania, Christ knows what you’re going to be doing in the next 30 seconds. It’s terrifying.

Mania is not happiness for me, it’s like being a wasp on speed – flying around at top speed, want the sugary thing, want out the window, want want WANT EVERYTHING.

Let me elaborate:

The two are like those relatives at a family gathering you would literally chew your own arms off to avoid.

Depression is like Uncle Bill. He’s dependable, predictable and will talk  about motorways and the resurfacing of the high street until one of you dies.

Mania is like embarrassing drunk Uncle Roy. You smile a pained smile as he arrives and think about how quickly you can hide all the booze…. uh-oh, too late.

He’s already drunk all the crusty 15-year-old Drambuie and is trying it on with his nephew’s girlfriend and has a plunger on his head for no conceivable reason.

So, ideally we would like to keep them at bay, lose their invitation “in the post”.

Sadly episodes are not invited to the party anyway, they just crash it every now and again, as and when they feel up to it.

So that’s when we have to bring out the big boys.

In this case, some anti-psychotics and sedatives.  There are lots of side effects, (more time in the fridge, aggression, sleepiness to name but a few,) which is the reason I try to avoid them, if possible.

But this time they have helped a lot.

I am having one emotion at a time, being the first one and I am writing this from the tube, not my bed, I am washed, dressed and plodding on.

I mean I’m not exactly full of the joys of spring but I can’t even begin to describe how much better I am doing.

There is one side effect which is a bit poo – I have the major shakes.

My hands are in pretty much constant movement and the only way to control it is to drum my fingers on whatever surface is near.

Soup is real no no right now – I can just about manage my granola but I have to eat at the table rather than my usual standing breakfast.

I can’t complain too much: In a competition between how I felt last week and how I feel now, now wins, shakey hands down.

In which Tilly goes flop.

So it’s been a while, indeed a “yonk,” as we used to say back in the day. A lot has happened and a little has happened and I guess what comes next is mainly therapy for yours truly as much as for anyone to actually read, so forgive me if the following is a completely self-indulgent load of nonsense.

The last time I was on here, life was looking up: I had had an operation to remove my little cysty friend and I was recovering, discovering the unadulterated joy of Ru Paul’s Drag Race. #DontFuckItUp (#ITotallyFuckedItUp).

So, what happened next?

I think the biggest thing which has happened is my long-suffering other half buying a house.  If I could give everyone a massive piece of life advice, it would be this:

Never buy a house.

It is literally one of the most horrifically stressful events that comes under the category of “normal things people do”.

It needn’t be but apparently in order to sell a property, one must either be terribly fickle or a gigantic arsehole (you can choose your preference on this one) and definitely a misanthropist.

To cut an extremely long tale short, we lost 5 properties due various combinations of the above, we lost 4 properties after having our offers accepted, 1 of which was the day before exchanging.

Now a normal person might have a little cry, be a bit angry and then chalk this all up to experience.  I, as you may have gathered, am not a normal person.

Cut to crazed Tillyflop, marching down the road in her pyjamas to “speak to” the owners of the property in a bid to convince them that actually, they had not changed their minds and did not want to stay at the property. I have absolutely no idea what I was planning to say to them, exspecially as it was 3.25 in the morning and they lived a good eight miles away from my flat (I managed five miles until Mr TF caught up, so at least I got my step count in! Every cloud and all that…)

And so began the gradual unravelling of my brain.

This is not something I generally talk about as it’s not a part of my make up that I am very proud of. However, I do feel that it’s something which does need to be shared.

It all started innocently enough – experimenting with face paint during rehearsals and then wearing the result on the way home whilst laughing maniacally (literally, it turns out):

I then started getting a nagging feeling that a series of disasters and accidents were somehow my fault, and kept finding “links” which “proved” that I was responsible for these tragic events.

Also on the other hand, I started to believe that I had magical powers and could control traffic lights and delay trains if I was running late.

All of this would have been a great short story but unfortunately it was my day to day life, to which I could not rewrite the end.

The final straw came in December 2014 – we still hadn’t moved, six months after our offer was accepted due to… wah wah wah, (I’m still not sure what the hold up was, even now), our old landlord needed us out, as we had been told to give notice by the TERRIBLE conveyancing solicitors who then promptly – did nothing and almost lost us our flat, plus £9000.

I don’t recall how it happened but suddenly, I was awake, in a field in Eden Park, about 3 miles from my house. I was wearing my pyjamas and I had no idea how I got there and I was cold. I also had no money or phone or keys.  I have never been so terrified. Maybe I had been kidnapped by aliens and then dumped as a terrible specimen of humanity, but my filthy slippers stated otherwise.

In order to explain this, I must take you… TO THE DICTIONARY!

Dissociation: In psychology, the term dissociation describes a wide array of experiences from mild detachment from immediate surroundings to more severe detachment from physical and emotional experience.

Dissociation is commonly displayed on a continuum. In mild cases, dissociation can be regarded as a coping mechanism or defence mechanisms in seeking to master, minimize or tolerate stress – including boredom or conflict.

Basically I was kinda sleep walking but I was actually awake (which is good cause I crossed a fair few roads there!) my brain just couldn’t handle this stress and felt like a calming walk and it was damned if it was going to let my body stop that from happening!

This was a positive turning point, as my husband awoke to find me gone and called the police, who were actually rather marvellous. They insisted that I was seen by the local mental health team (who to say are overstretched is a terrible, terrible understatement) and they checked back with me a few days later, which did wonders  – a phone call can make all the difference.

After a few months of therapy and some new medication I was back to being level and just about functioning as an adult (there is only so much I can blame on bipolar, guys) and I had a wonderful 2015 filled with joys that I didn’t know existed.

I worked with some of my very favourite people, (Foolish People to be exact), on a show which headlined Wilderness Festival, and we rehearsed outdoors for two months, which also did me no end of good as well as just being lucky enough to create some wonderful magic with wonderful people. They got me to sleep IN A TENT! At a POPULAR MUSIC FESTIVAL!!!! (For those of you who don’t know me, Margot Leadbetter is my spirit animal) and I actually had a jolly outstanding time.

I also had found a new favourite pass time – decorating my flat!

What could be more joyful than finding a colour of paint that makes your bedroom feel like a cosy, tranquil hidey hole? Or a warm, fluffy (yet very cheap 😉 )down duvet. Or getting bored one afternoon when your husband is out and painting the living room wall navy blue? Or making sure that there’s a place for everything and everything in it’s right place? Or making sure the books are ordered by theme, or maybe colour, or maybe height? Or ordering your nail polish by date of purchase? Or using a ruler to ensure that all the magazines on the table run parallel to the table’s edge? Or spending 3 months finding the perfect Christmas tree baubles or…

I think you get the picture.

I needed something to channel my energy into, a new project, a new purpose.

And it came.

We had thought that it wasn’t possible, after trying for almost 18 months with no success and had sorta given up by now, so we were both overwhelmed by the joy of it all, as were our families.

But in the back of my head was terror. Absolute terror that I was going to fuck this up somehow (sorry Ru), I had recurrent nightmares of just about every shitty possibility there possibly was but tried to push it to the back of my mind (it’s quite easy to do in such an empty space).

All we could of was wait for this scan and be extra careful.

But that little nagging terror stayed right there, masticating upon my ear.

And it was absolutely right.

There was this harrowing, disconsolate noise which I couldn’t quite place. On and on it went, seemingly endlessly. It scared and disturbed me deeply, I just wanted it to stop.

And then all of a sudden, I realised that the noise was coming out of me.

I lay on a trolley, my hands gripped fast to my face – if I didn’t look at the monitor, this couldn’t be true. But it was. The sonographer looked panicked and ran to fetch a different piece of equipment to afford a better look. But I knew this was no mistake – there was nothing there, just an empty sac, too small, too misshapen to do its job.

I couldn’t even look at Mr TF, I couldn’t bear to see his disappointment that I had let him down again.

I don’t remember anything else which happened in the hospital, lots of calming reassurance that this was nothing I had done or not done, that one in four pregnancies end this way (WHY DO I HAVE TO BE IN THIS SHITTY ONE IN FOUR TOO?! Why can I not be in the three in four, one of the normal, biologically sound people, just once?  I am already in a one in four exclusive club of misfiring brains, can I not be left out of this club? Would this be too much to ask? Or am I just some gruesome statistics experiment?)

What I do remember is what a gift Mr TF was/is. We had a lot of waiting to do and so we went for a walk and he just did the only thing I needed him to do – hold me and tell me that things would be fine, it would all work out, it just wasn’t our turn this time. He didn’t force me to talk, he didn’t force me to have a sit down and a chat, he just walked with me and we loved – we even laughed.

Let’s not forget, he’s going through this as well, so the fact that he took his time to do that on this darkest of days is something I will always remember and be grateful for.

More talk was had and I went out to see my friends, who I had gathered to deliver the good news (ha!) and they were wonderful too. I am so very lucky to have all these great people in my life.

It sounds corny, it probably is corny but people who get you and don’t mind the fact that you are having  terrible day and are sitting bawling in the BFI bar in the middle of the afternoon, very much looking like this:

Are an irreplaceable treasure. Hold on to them and love them with all your might because they are worth 56 times their weight in diamonds. FACT. Extra points if they feed you miniature pasties. Triple extra bonus points if they lose their shit and wave a baby around when a famous person they fancy walks past.

I’m going to leave out the next part, because it’s horrible and gory and that’s not what this is about, but safe to say that A&E find my humour “deeply unsettling” as opposed to funny.

And then I was ok, genuinely a-okay.  I carried on with working and living as if nothing had happened, with the odd glitch here and there.

Until I wasn’t okay.

I’d had a good day, I was going to a workshop, I was having fun in the rain in London – one of my favourite things to do.

I realised I needed my oyster, (even as a crazy person I have my pass ready for the gate – take heed Match man!) and promptly realised I had been pickpocketed. I mean, I can understand stealing a travel card – but a used lipstick?!  I have cold sores, if you’re reading, Thiefy McThieverson. #PersonalHygiene.

My brain started to melt into mush, the floor started to give way. I had to lie down. I couldn’t move. The nice station guard came and made sure I was okay and opened the gate for me and gave me a leaflet explaining how to get a new card etc etc (Thanks, nice Old Street station man!)

However this was the:

I needed to get away. That’s literally all I could think about, this was too much – I needed to get the hell outta dodge and make a new start in a new place and a new set of people around me.

And like the arse I am, I decided I would copy the shit out of Bonny Prince Charlie and run away to Skye. (I have actually always wanted to go there but not necessarily under these circumstances).

By the way, I am totally singing The Skye Boat Song here, please feel free to join in.

At this time, I was cycling so rapidly through emotions I was breathless, almost. One minute weeping, one minute livid, one minute hysterically laughing. I dumped mr TF by whatsapp (stay classy, duck), I tried to leave my job, I deleted whatsapp and blocked all texts and calls on my phone.

It was pretty terrifying, especially as I felt that this was all happening to someone else, like I was sitting next to myself observing what was going on, a helpless bystander, if you like. I am sorry to everyone on my tube and train journeys home, BTW. I must have freaked you all the chuff (get it – trains, chuff? No?…. *tumbleweed*) out.

I had also lapsed into selective mutism, so I was incapable of verbal communication – thank god for my wheel of emotions!

It’s a bit like Wheel of Fortune, only without the theme tune, or any real incentive to take part other than to find out what the crazy lady wants.

Thankfully the situation was “contained” (by Mr TF) and I managed to last until my perinatal psychiatric appointment, which had accidentally (but very thankfully) not been cancelled as it should have been.

In the next 24 hours I found three very helpful things:

1. Mr TF (obviously);
2. Ruby Wax’s Sane New World stage show, which has now finished but she is doing a new show, Frazzled, which starts in a few weeks. It is very funny but really, really informative and helpful – there is a forum in the second half, which was wonderful and I am pretty sure there is in this too;
3. Reasons to Stay Alive  by Matt Haig. I am late to the party on this one, I know but this is a beautiful book and a helpful book. I think everyone should read it and bask in its resplendent loveliness. It made me cry. With joy and its was actually me crying this time. It woke me up from this horrible dream and showed me that life isn’t always going to feel like a sandpaper bike saddle. Read it if you haven’t, please do, it deserves to be read, by you.

 

The perinatal psychiatrist was fantastic and started sorting out a crisis plan with me. She should have by rights refused to see me, given the above but she didn’t. In fact she talked with me for two hours and then told me that I was ill and she felt I needed to have an intervention, then explained what this meant. In the space of four hours, I had seen three other doctors, had a new set of medication given to me and another appointment booked for the next day.

They were wonderful. This isn’t me wanting to be political here but the NHS saved me twice in the space of 3 weeks in two very different ways. I am so grateful for this.

So here we are, on the meds and on the mend, under that watchful eye of the Community Mental Health Team and with a few more appointments for proper therapy and grief counselling.

I feel like me again and I feel a slight tinge of hope that I haven’t felt for a couple of years. I can do this, we all can. Maybe we just need to watch out for each other a bit and stop these silly colossal expectations of ourselves.

I was inspired to write this because of the experience I had and also because I watched The Not So Secret Life of The Manic Depressive, the follow up documentary to The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive, which is what raised my suspicions that I might have bipolar in the first place and realised that the more of us who speak up about our experience, the more help this will give to those in the same situation.

Thanks for listening, I don’t half go on.

 

Love,

 

Miss Tillyflop xxx

 

Beyond the Fringe

After two weeks of convalescing after having our friend the cyst removed, (he went to a better place,) I was starting to climb the walls a bit. I mean the novelty of having an operation, my very FIRST(!) wore off exactly 3 seconds after waking up from it and realising that general anaesthetic makes me vomit in a projectile fashion and that the very little sense of balance that I do have had temporarily left.

I had broken the rules about “absolute bed rest” slightly during this time, to carry out important work such as this:

 

So this week was another first in the life of Tillyflop –  I went to the Edinburgh Fringe. And, dear reader, I am in love.

And not just because of this:

 

It was absolutely ALIVE, bursting with crazy energy, people running from show to show (myself included) and there was just this shared feeling of good will and love. And it suited my largely nocturnal body clock perfectly.

 

I got quite excited even before we got there (which, you probably saw if you are lucky – ha!- enough to follow me on twitter.) I have only ever been as far as Leeds on the train, so I bored Chris rigid by pointing at literally everything visible from the window north of Leeds. (Although I did manage to fit in 3 episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race prior to that!) This is quite aptly demonstrated in my attempt to capture the sign at the border:

 

Skillful.

When we got there, it was even better. 

I used to go to Edinburg as a kid but never during the festival, so I had a vague recollection of it, but I had forgotten the extent of its beauty and its quirkiness.  

 

I mean:

 

 

 

It’s quite picturesquare, in’t it?

Aside from this, there were the shows too – where else is it socially acceptable (or financially viable) to watch three shows in one day and then stay up meeting friends until 3am and nothing else?  It was very difficult to choose what to see, given the VAST quantity of shows on offer, so I largely plumped to see shows that I knew people in and I have to admit that I got a bit choked up with motherly pride, there for a moment (or sixty).

So it is decided: I am going to be in a show in Edinburgh next year by hook, or by crook. If anyone needs an actor/idiot for their show next year, please do bear me in mind and maybe we can share this type of joy together:

 

Or maybe not.

The lil fucker

A few years ago, when I was at Drama School, one of the tutors gave a name to something that I had never had a name for before – the lil’ fucker in your head.

You know that ejit, who sits in there all day, telling you how crap you are?

Yes, this is the berk who has helped me fail my driving test no less than SEVEN times (I say helped, I did quite a good job on my own, what with my nerves and my four second attenti-

Well, this week, lil fucker has moved back in and this time he brought a subwoofer with him. I am rehearsing hard for my play (which is going to be marvellous, by the way – book here – no booking fees online – woo!) but it also invloves music and man, I have been practicing like Billy-O (who is Billy O, by the way? He had a very strong work ethic, whoever he was) and although I am far from anything approaching accomplished, I had started making less dying llama noises than when I began.

Until LF showed up that is. Sitting in rehearsals this morning, I was happily quacking along on my clarinet when suddenly, somebody sucked all of the notes out of my brain and replaced my fingers with bunches of unriped bananas. Skwark! GRRRRRRRAAAAAA! is what I suddenly started to produce.

Well, I am not having any of it and I have a little message for you, LF:

 

Eviction notice served.

Hills, Pills and Fingeraches

This week has been a bit exciting so far: Aside from annoying my neighbours with incessant clarinet pratice for The Cherry Orchard (more on that later,) I have been making a short film. (It’s almost as if I was an actor, isn’t it?!)

So let’s start right at the very beginning. If you follow me on Twitter,(and I would highly recommend that you DON’T,) you may remember me being in Dot Cotton (this is the name of a conference room, I have not been doing anything untoward to June Brown).

Me, not infesting June Brown.

Well, aside from hanging around being starstruck by boardrooms and making hot beverages, I was actually there for a reason. I was lucky enough to take part in the Meet the Media:Broadcast Journalism event at Broadcasting House, run by Rethink Mental Health, Mind and The BBC and tackled the issue of the representation of mental illness and those of us with mental illness in broadcast journalism. (May sound a bit worthy, but when stuff like this is STILL happening, we know that the battle to end the stigma around mental illness is far from won). It was brilliant to see something like this even existing, but it was also really fascinating to see different ways of prtraying the same story.

As part of this, me and my good friend Will performed a short play Pressing The Right Buttons for Newfound Theatre, which looked at the glamorisation of celebrity suicide in the press. It went really well and as a result, a film director said that he would like to turn it into a short film and On the Edge was born.

Us, performing AT THE BBC!

Fast forward to yesterday and Will and I are at an undisclosed location (you aren’t allowed to publically identify potential suicide spots in the UK for obvious reasons) being miked and powdered up, ready to start shooting in the unexpected, blazing sunshine. The pollen was being a nasty Nigel during our rehearsal on Monday, so we consumed most of Boots in a bid to keep it under control.

IN YOUR FACE, HAYFEVER!

Will, taking the mic.

We were atop a hill with an uncanny resemblence to a cliff face. But it wasn’t, it was just an undercover hill with a really good disguise and cover story. We both managed the not-as-easy-as-it-sounds walking and talking at the same time plus not falling over the edge (it was still high enough to break an arm or three) and we remembered our lines and even managed the odd burst of acting (I jest, Will is bloody brilliant, actually!)

It was amazing the difference being on location made – we’re very good at imagining things but actually being on a cliff/hill/whatever it wants to call itself does make a difference because of a) the view and b) the fact that we both have vertigo, so there is genuine fear in there, when you eventually get to see the film.

When is a cliff not a cliff?

It was a fantastic experience and we managed to get the whole thing done in under 8 hours (which is pretty impressive going!), the crew were mega and we had the usual perks of being fed (although the food on this shoot was rather more luxorious than usual! Nom NOM indeed!)

I can’t wait to see the finished product, even if it means I have to watch myself (which is the worst part of being an actor, I think!)

Instrument of torture (see what I did there?)

Today has been a bit less glam but rewarding non the less, I made two discoveries – the cupboard where I keep my coats makes a passable rudimentary recording studio, with the use of blankets and bike lights and I spent a good two hours in there this morning, recording demos to send to people. It’s amazing how fussy you can get over these things “Oooh, I don’t like the way I said “it’s” there”. But I got it done with only a minimal pool of sweat on the cupboard floor and managed to get it sent of with only a very small amount of swearing like a particulrly angry trouper. Hoorah.

The second discovery is that I am getting rather ancient. I spent a good 6-7 hours practicing my clarinet this afternoon and I feel like I have done ten rounds with the Marine Corps. Seriously, I don’t remember it entailing this much pain!  I got to the point where I could not bend my pinky fingers any more *sob* WHEN DID I GET SO OLD?

However, on a more positive note, the music spunds more like an injured duck rather than a mortally wounded one now, so that’s good, in’t it?

If you want to see whether I manage to not die of musical related injuries, you can come see my show. IT’S PEAK, BRUV

http://www.brockleyjack.co.uk/portfolio/cherry-orchard/

TTFN xxxx

In which Misstillyflop returns and has much news!

So it’s been a while, hasn’t it!

Almost three years since I cycled to Paris, had intimate “problems” and raised tonnes of dosh for Mind (thanks to you wonderful guys – thanks!).

Since then I have done a few more cycle rides: The Diva 100 (again) and The Norwich 100 (not as flat as I had anticipated).

I bought a new companion for Lady Bikelor:

 

And some other stuff  happened too:

 

So not much, really.

 

I decided it was time that I picked this blog back up, as much for my tenuous grip on sanity as much as anything else (is there really anyone actually reading this out there?)

I have been busy in the work departement, though. And I am currently working on a new show, The Cherry Orchard at the Jack Studio Theatre, Brockley, which runs from 15th July – 2nd August 2014.  I play the weird and wonderful Charlotta – governess, table magician and thief of old men’s hearts.

I also play the clarinet in it, which is a little bit terrifying, as I haven’t picked it up since 1995 and it often sounds like a duck has fallen down a ravine when I do practice. Having said that, we had our first musical reherasal today and it felt so wonderful to be part of an orchestra again, after NINETEEN (oh holy, holy mother of Preperation H) years’ break.

One thing I do not remember from my youth, is the amount of discomfort which comes from playing a clarinet, possibly because of my complete lack of dedication at the time to practicing longer than 15 minutes at a time, or possibly due to my current decriptude.  But I am determined, I will develop the bionic arm and lip neccesary to be the best clarinet-blower EVER.*

So if you are in town on the dates above, please feel free to pop along. Jokes aside, I am so excited to FINALLY be doing a Chekhov (Anton, not Pavel) play.

Anyway, more puffity puffing of my clarinet to do, so more from me later.

*By best, I may mean “not the worst.”

 

Day Four: Excuse-moi; Je n’ai pas de crabes, dame (Beauvais to Paris)

Today was it, then.  One final push and we were there.

We were alive and kicking, (with some minor, yet annoying infirmities, which I won’t go into…yet) and we actually started to believe we could do this!

Just one thing was between us and the finish line…a fifty –mile cycle and..oh…. ok

Just two things stood between us and the finish line – a fifty mile cycle and breakfast. And what breakfast it was.

I have four words for you : Make your own omlette. Genius. I made several of my own own omlettes (yup, the wretched boiled egg-fest taught me nothing, it would appear) and stuffed them with ham and cheese and salmon and lots of other goodies (Not at the same time – ham and slamon is something even I draw the line at.)

Just a quick fiddle with the bikes – gave the chain a quick clean and …er…pulled the chain off. (Great start, Conneff). Luckily the mechanics were on hand to fix it (I know how to fix it, before we get any satirical comments about my mechanical ability, but this would mean going back into the hotel loo to scrub my hands and quite frankly, having done this three time already today, I couldn’t be arsed with that level of faf-factor).

There was a price for this repair though – having oil smeared on my face. I wiped off as much as I could with my anti-bac wipes (they don’t work on my now gnarled and weather-beaten hands,) and off we pootled.

This morning was overcast and, goshdarnit, a bit chilly. Not that I am complaining – it seemed to enhance my performance no end (yup, I am one of those winter-loving odd-bods) and I managed the hills OK (after day two, OK was the equivalent of the four minute mile) even the big one.

I’m not saying it didn’t hurt incredibly (it REALLY DID), but I managed it one go, instead of my usual stop-start method. So pleased was I when I got to the top, that I didn’t stop to take a picture. In fact I was *almost* unphased when I realised that there was another massive hill straight away. (Please read “I *almost* cried”).

Soon enough though, I did encounter a problem in that I was absolutely desperate for the ladies’ room. And sure enough, this coincided with the only time during the whole four days where there was NOWHERE to pee! No bushes, no ditches, no trees, nada. Poo-bags. (Actually at this point, some form of poo bag would have been very useful).  So I was very pleased when we approached a village with a tabac which was open – joy of joys!

Hurriedly locking up my bike to the railings outside, I raced into the Tabac with a look of desperation on my face.

“Excuse-moi, avez vous une VC?” although they smiled and gave me the key, I couldn’t help but notice a few smirks and giggles as I raced through to the toilet. Oh god, was my French that terrible? No time to worry though as I really had to go NOW. I had a go at unlocking the door, but I couldn’t get it to work, I kept trying different methods (all of which were very much violently ramming the key in a trying to force it round whilst begging the door to open.) Three minutes later and no success, I rushed back in and asked the lady to help me open the door. She tittered and then followed me, opening the door, much to my relief.

Okay, I was in lycra, I was red in the face and I was desperate for the loo, but really, was it that damn funny?!  Had these people never been caught short whilst dressed as a power ranger? I was busy grumbling to myself, when I stood up to wash my hands and then catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I realised that not only had I NOT got the oil off my face, but the oil that was on my face was on the tip of my nose and looked very much like I had painted on a dog nose and that my attempts to wipe off  the oil had not so much removed the oil on my cheeks as spread it around so it looked very much like whiskers. I was dressed as either a bizarre children’s entertainer or a bizarre sex-pervert. Marvellous.

I managed to get off the vast majority of the oil and tried to creep anonymously back through to the front. Then I realised that when your outfit is made entirely out of lycra, this is not possible. I also realised that now everyone would know that the dog-face was accidental, which suddenly seemed all the more shameful than if I had done it on purpose.

I did the only respectable thing I could think of – leaving the key on the counter and running away – FAST!

Before we move on, I really must mention the markers which Skyline had left for us, which today excelled themselves. They could have just had plain pointers, but they left us little messages of encouragement: “No pain, no gain”, “We love you” on day two, we had the legendary “party bus” sign (in reality a bus stop with little cardboard faces with party hats on, blu-tacked into each window). But todays signs were even better, my favourite being “Mange-tout, Rodney. Mange tout”, which made me laugh even though I was at the time gasping for air at the top of a particularly unexpected climb.  They were of great assistance, especially today!

After a few more undulations, I arrived at the water stop, had a quick bag of crisps, a jimmy riddle and I was off again. Only ten miles to the coffee stop which was in a town.  Good news as my face was beginning to swell up in a horrifying fashion again and I was assured there was a chemist nearby. All good.

At this point we were going downhill over some gorgeous planes, however, as beautiful as it was, it was very much like driving through a wind-tunnel (sideways) and instead of the glorious standing up off the saddle that I had been planning, I pretty much had to curl up into a ball on top of my bike (although this did have the side effect of making me go much faster – hoorah!).

We started to move from countryside to suburbs, (I did cycle with a lovely French family for a while and we had a chat as much as we could whilst not really speaking each other’s’ language that well. Sadly they reached their destination and wished me luck. Shame that, I was hoping I could persuade the dad to let me have one of his cute children a souvenir) and after only eight miles we were at the coffee shop. I was overjoyed.

This was not to last for long.

Now, I was initially wary of sharing the following information with you lovely people, but as it is already THE most cringingly embarrassing experience of my entire life, I’m not entirely sure how it could get any worse that it was at that moment, so here we go.

I shall start by explaining, to those not familiar with the day to day workings of the ermm,…..lady garden that it is a very delicate ecosystem down there, and the slightest chemical imbalance can cause many an issue.  Just a reminder that at this point I have been riding a bike for three days solid, in padded, lycra shorts  in (mostly) hot weather. I had been sweating profusely and this had caused certain…uh…lady problems.

I practically sprinted to the chemist, as not only did I feel like I was sat on an ant’s nest but my eyes were also getting in the act and swelling up like a bouncy castle.

I assumed that the pharmacist would recognise the latin for the problem and began to explain issue. Blank face.

Oh crap.

The rest of the conversation is below. I have not made any of it up.

ME: errr…CAN-I-STAN

PHARM: (Blank stare)

ME: oh, errr… I’ll google it.

PHARM: (Nods furiously, clearly having no idea what I am saying)

At this point, my phone ceases to work. At all, in any way, and I can’t even open the web browser. I am busy cursing to myself, when:

RANDOM FEMALE CUSTOMER: Oh, bonjour, I speak English! I can translate for you!

ME: Oh, thank you so much, I have (mumble name of medical issue)

RANDOM FEMALE CUSTOMER: (Blank stare) Tweet tweet?

ME: (Oh shit) oh non! Er…ummm. (pointing at my nethers) itchy, and …

RANDOM FEMALE CUSTOMER: Your period?

ME: Not quite, no

At this point I have given up any chance of retaining any sort of dignity and begin miming. THE WHOLE SHOP joins in guessing.

RANDOM FEMALE CUSTOMER: Does it burn when you toilet?

ME: No, just itchy (Really massive mime of scratching my bits)

RANDOM MALE CUSTOMER #2: Gonorrhea?

Random shout outs of various hideous ailments from various members of the public who are browsing, until:

PHARMACIST: I know!  (Everyone gazes hopefully at her) CRABS!

I just stand there a moment, with my chin on the floor and all the other customers looking me in anticipation, simultaneously looking slightly disgusted.

ME: NOOOO!

At this point my phone decided it had had enough fun at my expense and decided to work (at last!) and everybody was very relieved to finally know my ailment.

The pharmacist suddenly realised just how horrific the last five minutes had been and apologised profusely. (On a good note, French medicine is MUCH cheaper than British medicine – Canestan take note!)

So there you have it – one of the most hideous moments of my life which sounds very much like it came from the writers of “Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em”.

After some tea, cake and intense psychotherapy we were back en route to gay Paris!!!

Look at the excitement!

I was quite excited. Ok, I was giggling like a three-year-old going to Disneyworld and the next stretch was pretty much downhill and through more urban areas, so a lot of short bursts between traffic lights – it was very much like south London, except with slightly nicer buildings and slightly angrier drivers.

I did also get to play nurse, fixing up someone’s finger (with my ridiculously large first aid kit – they probably didn’t need an adhesive patch and surgical tape in retrospect, but I insisted and he seemed to appreciate the gesture.)

I was certainly back in my comfort zone as we approached the city – I’ll admit the c-bomb was dropped (several times), with the added benefit of them having no clue what I was saying.

When I got to lunch I could hardly believe it – we had almost cycled 300 miles – me!? The fat ginger blob who finds it difficult to walk all the way to the fridge?!  As it very much appeared to be me standing there by the banks of the Seine, I guess I had managed it.

To celebrate I had 5 very liberal helpings of the amazing chilli jam pasta and two pieces of apple pie. And then used our first proper “French loo”, which appeared to be in Noah’s ark. At this point squatting was tantamount to stabbing myself repeatedly in the leg, but I was so hyped up, I didn’t even care any more.

After a pause to let everyone catch up, we set off to the meeting point for the final leg.

I was so elated, I decided to sprint for a bit and managed the eight miles in just under half an hour – I’m pretty sure I will never manage this again!

At this point, I am not ashamed to admit that I got a bit emotional. I think it’s when they handed me the t-shirt with “I cycled London to Paris” written on it. I had to take a little minute to myself and then it was time for some photos of me and the gang:

Team Facebook (Simon, Tony, Luke, Me & Sarah) give the two-thumbed Macca seal of approval.

Team HARD, being hard.

When everyone had arrived and changed into their shirts, it was time to head to the end – (the tower !!!!!!!!!!) in a convoy. I have never felt so tremendous in my whole life.

James was hanging out the window of the love bus with a claxon horn, we were all whistling, ringing our bells, singing, yelling and taking photos from our bikes. In short, a health and safety officer’s worst nightmare.  But we had no time for such petty concerns!  We were kings of the world!!!

Look! It’s the Arch de Triomphe!

People on the streets were cheering us, the folks on the tour buses were taking our picture, teenagers were trying to high-five us and in what seemed like about 30 seconds (probably closer to half an hour) we were there.

And I was in floods.

But time, tide and cheesy photo ops wait for no man, so I picked up my champagne and my bike and the following ensued:

Obligatory “cycle above head” shot

There was hugging and cheering and general wonder.

After that it was one huge blur, the tower, the hotel, the meal, the pub and then it was all over.

Not that I’m smug or anything…

I cycled to Paris. I am still in shock.

When I think of this though I am also reminded of all the amazing work that Mind do every day with absolutely no adulation or rewards at all.

This time last year, they answered a phone call from a desperate soul who didn’t know what the matter was or indeed whether she was imagining everything that was happening to her. She found it difficult to go outside because she was always convinced she had left the front door open and they helped turned her life around by pointing her in the right direction and helping her get treatment.  Also helping her realise that this was a hereditary disease, not something she had made up (This girl is me, if you hadn’t guessed, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and OCD.  I actually don’t know what I would be doing right now if it wasn’t for these guys. Okay, I do – eating cakes and maxing out my credit cards and then crying about it).

So yeah, I cycled a bit and raised some money for some great guys.

I hope to raise some more and cycle some more – LEJOG, anyone?

My sponsorship page is still open – please feel free to donate to the fabulous charity, Mind.

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/cathyconneff

Day Three: When Nettles Attack! (Abbeville to Beauvais)

After a much needed eight hours of shut – eye, I was awake and raring to go (my dreams tonight had obviously been much more eventful – woke up with both pillows on my face, maybe someone had brought some biscuits into the council planning meeting this time. Maybe Sarah had had enough with my biscuit obsession. Who knows?). Sadly it wasn’t just my head that was keen to “make a movement”…

After four trips to the ladies room before breakfast, it became clear just HOW bad an idea the seven hard-boiled eggs had been and I was worried that I may not be able to get very far in this state. Luckily, I had remembered to pack a “leading brand of diarrhoea treatment” in my day pack, so soon enough (after a couple more trips to the ladies’), I felt much better.

Off I shot and this morning I decided that an apt motivation would be sing the entirety of the Beatles’ White Album (sincere apologies to everyone in earshot, especially for Don’t Make Me Cry, which was accompanied by bobbing perkily up and down in the saddle like a sweaty, deranged Dick Van Dyke).

Luckily for me, this morning we were doing a staggered start, so not everyone had set off at the same time and it didn’t take as long as I thought to catch up with my pals (After a quick photo stop on a bridge with the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus – see below).  I think that Sarah, Luke and Simon possess magical powers of some variety, as the morning was pretty much entirely uphill, including some quite steep climbs, but today proved tear free and I managed to stay on the bike (extremely hard as that was at points!)

We did have a touch of rain, but it was a miniscule amount – just enough to make it fun, but not enough to soak you to the skin. I think my constant shouting of “plip-plop splish splash” was possibly a lot more annoying than the actual rain anyway. But it pretty much stopped as abruptly as it started and it took all of about 5 minutes to dry off completely. Result! It also made the road damp, which made an impressive “whooshing” sound and also made everyone in front of you look like they had pooed their pants.  In retrospect, maybe I could have got away without the Immodium after all…

Today was also the day for the tractor enthusiast, as we seemed to pass about 30 of them in about an hour.  I do enjoy a good tractor, but as I failed to take any actual pictures of any, please make do with this approximation (NB: Model may have had beret and ‘tache added in post-production):

After not that long, (although long enough for the speedy types to have come thundering past us, managing in 40 minutes what had taken us about 2 hours – sigh), we reached the first water stop which was by this lovely church:

More wondrous crisps, oranges, bananas and cereal bars along with some yummy passion fruit cordial helped us muchly. It was all going rather well, we thought.  Everyone was feeling a bit jolly and the cooler weather had helped us to feel a bit less groggy (and hallucinatey) than yesterday.

It was time for another toilet stop.

Although the stop was picturesque, it didn’t offer much in the way of cover, so I gingerly hopped into the largest patch of bushes could find, until I found the least exposed bit. It has taken a while and I was feeling a little bit smug. I had my aloe vera paper and hand sanitiser at the ready. I was free! I was at peace! I was…sitting on a nettle!

Now I can’t imagine that lowering one’s bits on to a nettle is pleasant at the very best of times, but I can assure you that having cycled the best part of 200 miles by now, it was deeply traumatic. So much so that I leapt up, emptying much of the content of the hand sanitiser over myself. Awesome. Ah well, at least I was free from harmful bacteria. Everyone else genuinely tried not to laugh, but it was too much. Another comedic medical moment from the Conneff. (You should come to my smear tests, they’re an absolute hoot! Not really; please don’t)

I just sat on a nettle

However, somehow I survived this deadly nettle strike and soon we were ready for the off. We managed about 20 yards before we noticed a large group of other cyclists taking pictures of a beautiful chateau. We joined them and discussed various means of infiltrating it and getting a cup of tea and some ginger nuts from the owners. Posing as window cleaners and finding a massive coat and sitting on each other’s shoulders were discussed as possible methods, but we soon realised we should probably just get on with it.   But not before maturity levels hit a new low. (I was clearly affected by the nettle venom, your honour):

Now the next bit was one of my favourite stretches of the whole thing; lots of lovely, rolling hills, sunny, but not too hot weather and more gorgeous countryside – wonderful!  It also provided one of the conundrums of the trip – one of the arrows was at the very top of a motorway bridge – had they stopped on the motorway, risking life and limb to show us the right way – or had they employed the sitting on each other’s shoulders method??? I wonder if they got any ginger nuts?

I was still pondering these pertinent questions when we reached the coffee (or Thé, in my case), stop.  I was very happy, as I got to use my ridiculously large bike lock, which had been sitting round my waist for the past two and a half days, doing very little indeed – hoorah!  Sarah bought the drinks and some Snickers bars too – I was elated!

One thing which was noticed at this point was the lack of people in the villages we had been through today – true enough there were the proprietors of the Café, but there was also a school (empty) a post office and several offices in this village – all of which seemed to be completely empty.  Where had all the people gone? Maybe they knew we were coming. Maybe they had gone to buy some gingernuts. Who can tell?

One thing’s for sure, there was no shortage of cyclists here – with the large rabble squeezed into the café, I half expected the ghost of Norris McWhirter to pop out with his clipboard at any moment and award us with some sort of trophy.

Only a short stop here, for we wanted to get to lunch in some sort of semi-reasonable time, so we soon departed and arrived there a lot quicker than expected. I was pleased as punch – the weather was now gloriously sunny, the food was GORGEOUS (Black pudding and pickled onions? – YES PLEASE!) and everyone was having a bit of a sunbathe on the lawn of this beautiful church:

And enjoying this guy. (I don’t know who this is a statue of, but he’s rather handsome, isn’t he?):

Pretty perfect all round really. Until James got a phone call heralding that the front of the pack had FINISHED and wanted directions to the hotel… Imagine a balloon, a happy, red balloon (I was quite burnt at this point) bobbling around in the sky. Now imagine a hot air balloon going very fast, passing the regular balloon and the little balloon slowly becoming flaccid and falling slowly out of the sky. This was that moment.

I set off.

Although I was having a lovely time, during the course of the afternoon, my left arm started to go mental – It was hurting like crazy and it kept going into this weird spasm thingy, requiring me to wildly flail it about like a derranged harpy. (Shut up, Chris, I said like a deranged harpy), so I cunningly moved my wrist bandage up to the top of my arm and it slightly dulled the pain – good enough for me!

I had fallen quite substantially behind after all this shilly shallying and I felt I was in serious danger of being picked up by the Love Bus (the minibus used to carry the infirm, the injured and the in….in……ummmm……slower people), so I went for it, sometimes riding in excess of TWELVE MILES PER HOUR! (In your face, Barry Sheen!) until I saw what looked very much like a tandem. Wow. Who would ride a tandem up and down these hills? I soon realised it wasn’t a tandem, but rather Sian and Hayley, peddling in PERFECT UNISON. It was really impressive, actually.  Sian very kindly offered her ibroprufen gel at the rest stop and this put a big smile on my face.

In fact, I was even happier when I realised that it was just at the top of this “Slight Undulation”. (Ok, I was happy when I got to the summit, there was much grumbling and some choice language when I saw it from the bottom!)

After some painkillers, picnic and a piddle we set off again, up through a gorgeous little village (with people in it!), past some more tractors and on to a massive dual carriage way. This wasn’t great, the road surface seemed to comprise of muesli and glass and was full of people coming home from a busy day of le working. Also the others were following me and after last time, I wasn’t feeling hugely capable of that job!

We eventually got of the dual carriageway, and onto a cycle path (everyone still together, thankfully) the most confusing cycle path in the world (with the exception of Cycle superhighway number 2 and its lane-jumping ways). After about another half-hour of hernia-inducing exertion, we arrived at the hotel, desperate for a shower and some eye drops.

I haven’t had hayfever much this year, but somehow, Sarah and I had contracted MEGA OVERKILL hayfever and were both pretty much looking like this:

There were no pharmacies about, so we made do with RINSING OUR EYES and taking some hayfever tablets. This seemed to have a slight impact. However, our mood was soon elevated by beer and the French version of “Four Weddings” (the TV show, not the film). We were then further delighted by the free flip flops in our room:

It must be said that I had a fair few beers and maybe even some wine this evening and over our (amazing) dinner, and ended up imparting way too much information about “spidermanning” your ladyfriend, (please do not google this if your squeamish or easily offended), discussing what “batmanning” your ladyfriend might involve (sitting and sulking all night, we thought) and revealing my obsession with nerdy computer games, which at this stage was taken as a euphemism for something entirely different.

Oh, how we laughed! (Actually I think I was the only one laughing, but there you go.) Then Sarah’s vegetarian meal arrived. It was a fish. Called Colin, (no, really).

Then we really did laugh.

And then, little miss inappropriate and her friends went to sleep.

My sponsorship page is till open – please feel free to donate to the fabulous charity, Mind.

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/cathyconneff

Day Two: My legs! My precious legs! (Calais to Abbeville)

My alarm is a horrible sound at the best of times: In the middle of a dream (which, incidentally was about a council planning meeting for a new school – how thrilling is my subconscious mind, eh?), after cycling uphill for the best part of a whole day, it is verging on apocalyptic.

It was 6.16am and it was time to get up.

Thankfully, we had both showered the night before, so we just had to roll out of bed and get lycra’d up. Being the fun sorts that we are, we decided to do this in the style of zombies. Well, I did, anyway. And it wasn’t really a choice.

It was amazing to find that the bag it had taken three days to pack, could be re-packed in under four minutes when you just rammed everything back in and sat on it, whilst uttering a range of expletives that was pretty impressive for the time of day.

The previous day, it had become clear that the behemoth that was Sarah’s pannier bag, was too heavy and made her bike sound like a helicopter, so we took it off the bike. However, we were then faced with a new problem – where was she going to keep her stuff?

Now ladies and gentlemen, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet, but surely on this occasion, we took the ingenuity of McGiver, mixed it with the magical voodoo powers of the A-Team and the pluck of Valerie Singleton, multiplied it by a trillion and came up with … this:

 

 Yes. That is Chris’ washbag and that is Sarah’s belt, or rather they used to be. They were now THE ULTIMATE IN COMPACT PANNIER BAGS!!!!!!

We were ready and raring to go (please read “we were tired and a bit grumbly and it really hurt when we sat on our bikes”) and soon we were off to meet the others at the Holiday Inn.

My grump got worse when I found out that the Holiday Inn people had had sausages for breakfast. Don’t get me wrong; our breakfast was lovely, ham – good, cheese – good, crepes with banana and Nutella – extra good.  I just wanted my share of hooves and trotters, is all. However, everyone was very impressed, (if you count suppressed laughter as praise,) with the tartan pannier of genius, so this lifted my spirits somewhat.

Soon we were off and even in the dim light, the scenery was breath-taking (Oy! Give it back – I need that!) My knees were a bit sore, but as we got going, the pain subsided and soon only my groin was in immeasurable pain. Huzzah!

 

I was really enjoying the ride, gentle slopes, (actual undulations!), picturesque villages, a lovely Skyline….but oh!  What is this I spied in the distance, beyond the tractor? A hill. Glum face.

Ah! But we are turning away from the hill – in your face, hill! I spit on your children! I am turning up this road which is completely…. Oh, Jesus wept… completely a cliff face, practically. (Ok, not at all a cliff face, but this is me you’re talking to here and I am prone to slight exaggeration from time to time….)

I would love to tell you that I managed to MTFU and take the hill in my stride, but the fact of the matter is that poor Simon had to listen to my whimpering (too dehydrated to manage tears) for the next ten minutes as we climbed the hill V E R Y  S L O W L Y indeed.  There were little signs from Skyline telling us they loved us as we went up. This did make me cry.  Oh lord, now I was getting hormonal as well as stinky and incompetent.

Thank god we got up the hill to the rest stop before I started singing Eric Carmen and sobbing at pictures of babies.

After a rousing bag of salt and vinegar crisps, I managed to at least look like I wasn’t a gibbering wreck and was ready to answer the call of nature. Literally. It was the moment I had been dreading – peeing in a bush.

I know, you’re now probably aghast that I have never had a widdle al fresco before, but I’m a bit high maintenance when it comes to excreting, (It took me 27 years before I could bring myself to poo in a toilet away from home.) This is the closest I was ever going to get to being Bear Grylls, so off I went, searching out a suitably inconspicuous location, gingerly readied myself and…ooooh – look at the view!

 

 It was much less traumatic than anticipated. In fact, I quite enjoyed it. It was liberating and nice and yes, I still had Andrex aloe vera loo roll and a sandwich bag to put it in afterwards and some antibacterial hand sanitiser, but hey – apart from that I was at one with nature! Woo!

The next hour or so was a blur. I don’t really remember anything apart from an overwhelming sense of how alone I was and panicking that I was lost, so I stopped and had a look at the map, propping my bike up against a hedge…when a tiny little snake popped out.  It was quite cute in retrospect, but I have never moved so fast, yelping all the way. Snakey went back into his house, probably wondering what was up with the crazy women – he was only saying Bonjour.

Back onto the bike and still in a bit of a trance I passed a chocolatier. I can tell you that it truly too a will of iron to carry on at the point but I was spurred into action by the passing Skyline bus, who sang Bob Marley at me – I was going the right way – yay!

So happy was I, I started waving to every person I saw, small child, old lady and a gent with an odd expression on his face (half smile, half grimace), who was standing by his car. I thought he must be a bit simple and I smiled and greeted him.  (I later found out that he was actually a flasher and had actually been waving his baguette and profiteroles at me. Ten out of ten for observation, Conneff).

I was beginning to flag (again) but I was soon greeted by a truly wonderful sight – everyone stopped at a coffee shop! I was so overwhelmed with joy, I started crying again. God almighty, I hadn’t cried this much since Bros split up. I blame the water.

After a thé au lait (see, Madame Bettany, I DID remember something!) and a civilised trip to the indoor toilet, I was off again.

At this point I realised that I hadn’t eaten nearly enough – my tummy was rumbling and I started seeing things. I had my one and only energy bar of the trip (Want any energy bars? They’re going cheap, people!) and one of those blackcurrant gels, which have a consistency very much like….

…anyway, somehow I made it to lunch, where Monsieur Flash was the talk of the town and I felt very daft for not noticing, but this time I did not cry (thank god for that!). I just gorged on chocolate cake – wonderful, wonderful chocolate cake, yummers!

Lunch was held by a small, tranquil lake, which was gorgeous with plenty of places to try out my new found hobby of peeing in a bush. They also had some banging tunes today – Spanish Flea, Agadoo – I was in heaven!

There was a little drama when one of the guys’ tyres exploded. This is no exaggeration – it literally exploded – we all thought someone had got a bit too annoyed with Bucks Fizz and was taking pot shots at the cd player for a moment, but then we saw a little plume of smoke coming up from his bike. Scary stuff. But he was soon fixed up with a new tyre and tube and on his way.

I don’t know what came over me after lunch, but I had a new surge of energy (probably from that half a cake I ate) and the afternoon seemed a million timed easier. I managed to do the last 24 miles in two hours (which is good for me! It had taken me over six hours to get to lunch!)  and after a little saunter up a dual carriage way, we were at the hotel!

Just in time for beer o’clock! Hurrah!

(I have discovered Grimbergen and I am in love! It is also much, much cheaper than lager – double yay!)

Dinner was puzzling, I wondered if for a moment I was asleep and was dreaming the entire plot of Cool Hand Luke, when we were presented with coleslaw, cold mushroom stroganoff and boiled eggs. Hundreds of boiled eggs.

It transpired that I was indeed awake and also the next day it would transpire that eating 7 boiled eggs in a row was an immensely stupid idea (more on this later). But we had a lot of fun over dinner (for fun, please read beer) speaking of diverse topics including flashers, hills and HARD mattresses.

Then it was briefing and sleepy time.

For the second time in a row I fell asleep mid-

My sponsorship page is till open – please feel free to donate to the fabulous charity, Mind.

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/cathyconneff