Going Solo

Kindred Spirit

I don't much like flying alone. At least if you travel with someone else you can be certain that though you might end up sitting next to a bore or a snorer, you will be forewarned - you chose them. 

And, while I'm aware that travelling takes organisation and time management, I can't seem to achieve either unless there's some unlucky soul about (say BOF) to hassle me, or else start practising Bikram yoga poses with a freneticity that hints we're about to miss something again. 

So when on Saturday I was heading to the Land of the Swimming Pigs to visit Daddy Mason, I checked with BOF how much time I should leave for getting to the airport. 'Leave at half 6' was his response. I made it out the door just after 8, and spent the journey to Heathrow fretting that I'd miss my flight. It wasn't so much DM's rage when I failed to arrive at the other end that troubled me, rather the thought of BOF's weary disappointment when I returned to the Pad flightless.

Travel-sized toiletries:
what successful holidays are made of.

Another potential hazard is packing. Every time I pack I decide that this time will be when I really get it right. To this end, I'd bought a magazine containing 'THE' guide to the perfect capsule wardrobe. I then squandered precious packing time fretting that I didn't have any travel-sized perfume bottles or own a kaftan. 

Terminal 5 is very shiny and very distracting. I steamed through security with efficiency born of the fact that I was quite late. Then congratulated myself with a large latte from Pret. Large. It was much too big. I'm not in Friends. The resulting jitters made it difficult to carry my hand luggage or find my passport. 

Ever nervy about boarding planes after a recent flight marred by baby-vomit, I slinked on to find I was (astonishingly) seated beside a non-obese, sane-looking American woman. We even chatted as I sat down. 

This soon prompted internal disquiet. (Was I being too friendly? Would she tell her friends later about the mad girl on the plane who wouldn't shut up?) After take-off, I fell silent. More concerns. (Was I now being too standoffish?) 

It was at this point that I accidentally threw my drink over her [white] jeans. 

She squawked awkwardly and we didn't speak for the rest of the trip. This was something of a relief.

Fancy being Kate in the Countryside's chaperone? Get in touch. 

The Sporting Season

BOF's other career

Though January is traditionally the month for punishing work-out regimes and implausibly rigorous weekend timetables of self-improvement, the New Year spirit remains strong in the Pad. If anything, our commitment to sports has reached an almost embarrassing peak.

This morning found me late and munching my cereal at speed as I dashed for the door, when young BOF returns from his morning run.

He is buoyant with endorphins and the Battersea Park scenery.

‘Hello! Just had such a great run Kate I can’t understand why you don’t like running outside! I can’t understand why you don’t come for a run with me! Let’s go tomorrow, let me tell you about my route, OK...’

I am so impressed, I tell him, but I really have to go, as I’m about to be late for work.

‘OK! Great idea! Have a lovely day!’

‘Bye.’

‘Oh Kate, wait...’ I turn back, wondering if I’ve left behind my packed lunch. Or, indeed, my gym kit. ‘... Look at my stretch – it’s great – I learnt it at Bikram Yoga.... Look!’

I flee, shouting compliments on the complexity of the stretch over my shoulder.

Later, more follows.

No caption necessary

My Pimlico Guru, proud of her success at encouraging me to join her gym, tells me all about spinning. The ultimate city sport - it's for people with no space and no time. I must go because I’ll love it, I’m told. Because there is a man who shouts at you until you try harder.

It sounds like a cult.

But I go. Of course I do. PG gets me by implying that there’s a competitive element to spinning and I get embarrassingly excited at the thought.

When I arrive the spin-room is darkened and I can hardly make out the antlered forms of the sweaty bikes. Inspirational music blasts at club volume. I climb on the bike PG has saved for me (‘I had to fight someone off for you! The class is oversubscribed!’) and Shouting instructor spies me.

‘Has anyone not done this before?’ he asks pointedly, as the spin-crowd observe my feeble attempts to change the bike’s seat height. He swoops down.

‘HAH! (gesturing at PG) Did she bring you then? Are you ready for this? Are you?’
‘Erm...’ (Oh God, it is a cult. PG and The Shouter are in league.)
‘I’ll fix your bike then. You don’t have any water? You don’t have a towel? Oh dear me (knowing look) you really haven’t been spinning before have you now...’
(The whole class titter. They love him too.)

Forty minutes later and the walls run with sweat. As we reach the climax of ‘I Gotta Feeling’ (The Shouter: ‘You’re almost at the top of the hill now. How fit do you wanna be?? YOU DECIDE!!’) I eye the squash courts through the window and think longingly of Saturday morning’s Fight Club.

And then it’s over. The Shouter dismisses us and his adoring spinners throng round him gratefully as they leave.

‘See you next week!’ I exclaim involuntarily as I pass.

Damn you cult.