A good day.

Today was a good day.

I woke up at around 10 and listened to Excess Baggage, a travel programme on Radio 4. One of the guests was a veteran woman adventurer who'd travelled south and east Asia solo in the 1950s. I imagined her to be a spirited woman who'd be great fun to have as a grandmother. Following this, as I lazed in bed, was Reasons to be Cheerful, a light hearted exploration of grumpiness and happiness which included a brief foray into karaoke, invented by the Japanese but very popular across Asia , including Taiwan where it is known as KTV.

Having had fond memories of drunken exploits in the 10 storey KTV palaces common in Taiwan awoken, I ventured downstairs to eat breakfast. My dad was opening the mail at the kitchen table as I made the essential morning litre of tea. I made myself comfortable with a good mug of strong tea, a bowl of cereal and a section of The Guardian. My dad opened an envelope which contained a card and three sub envelopes addressed to my brother, sister and myself. The package was from the my late 'Aunty' Iris' niece, who'd been responsible for her estate. It contained a sum of money part of which was a  legacy specified in the will and part of which was at the discretion of Iris' niece in generous recognition of the fact the original sum had been determined some time ago. The precise amount is irrelevant, though it is enough to be both useful and memorable. The entirely discretionary excess from the executor was very kind. I look forward to setting up home with Rosey and choosing something useful and lasting to remember Iris by.

I wanted to get the money into my savings account as soon as possible, not out of any desire to spend it but because it made it somehow more tangible. A bank balance on a computer screen is no more real than a cheque, both represent potential, but I wanted to get on with it rather than reading the card, acknowledging it and going back to my breakfast. Getting on my bike immediately, racing to catch the next train to Brighton and paying it into The Cooperative Bank (ethical investments n.b.) before they closed at 1pm felt like due recognition of the gift.

I dashed to the station, lined up at the ticket machine behind a gaggle of school children and bought my ticket with just enough time to board the train. On reaching Brighton at 12.47, I raced the half a mile to the bank and made with a five minutes to spare, paying the cheque in immediately before the bank closed.

I had another task in Brighton too. My parents had offered to get my bike serviced for Christmas so I needed to get a quote. Strangely, it had originally been my Taiwanese bike that we thought needed the serious work but on closer examination all it needed was a once over that was well within my capabilities. My Scott racer however, had been sitting unloved (or loved from afar) in the garage for 10 years and needed all of the regular replacement parts and adjustments such as brake blocks and cables, and some more infrequent ones too, such as a whole new drivetrain - chain, cassette (cogs) and chainwheels. This was turning into a significant job, likely to be beyond the budget of a Christmas present.

My first port of call was Evans cycles. I spoke to a young man who gave me his opinion. The basic service would include the usuals - blocks, cables, housings etc and the wear on the drivechain was very obvious. He looked at the wheels, said the rims were dangerously worn and that all in, I could spend £300 to get the bike into perfect working order but I'd make better use of my money replacing the bike. He went on to say that to get a similar spec on a new bike would cost £700! How spending twice the money and scrapping a bike worked out as better value, I'm not sure.

There's a variety of bike shops in Brighton and I decided it would be as well to get a variety of opinions. The next shop gave a slightly better quote but also recommended replacement because the parts for my 12 year old machine were increasingly difficult to come by.

I moved on to three more bike shops, and each of them were scathing about the first two saying my bike was basically a good bike, even with a reasonable resale value, and that the parts were still available. They didn't reckon the wheels needed replacing but we were still looking at £150-£200 including parts and labour. Not cheap, but all machines require maintenance, even to the extent that you'll eventually spend more on that than the original price.

As I left Sydney Street Bikes, I heard a distinctive voice talking to his girlfriend about the bikes on display in the street. Not only was his voice vaguely familiar but when I took a second glance, his appearance seemed familiar too. Combined with the fact that he was talking about bikes, I thought to myself, "Is that Samer?"  Samer is a friend of a friend from London, a keen cyclist who managed to inspire the most unlikely of my social group to take up cycling. I've met Samer two or three times and this guy seemed unnervingly close but at the same time, not quite as I remembered. Just as he was walking away, I thought, "No harm in asking..."

"Samer...?" I called out. He turned around and said yes, clearly unaware who I was. "I'm Mark's mate, Toby," I said, confident that a fellow cyclist would remember me and my adventures traversing the globe in the saddle.

"Which Mark?" he asked.

"Mark Russell, didn't you live with him?" I said, a little perplexed.

"That's my brother," he replied, "I'm called Saamah too!"

"I thought you looked a little different," I said. He was pleased, explaining that there was seven years between them. We chatted for a minute or so and then, with little more to say, went our own ways, uplifted by an agreeable coincidence and congenial human interaction.

I had another reason to visit the bike shops as well. Hassocks Community Cycle Hire is looking to form a business partnership for the coming season, giving it access to highly skilled mechanics to carry out the full range of services. It was delegated to me to test the waters with shops that could be interested. There was enough interest in the shops I visited to merit putting together a more formal proposal, which we will be doing shortly. In one of the shops, I met an employee who was very enthusiastic about the project on a personal level and seemed like a good person to stay in contact with, regardless of whether he would be an actual business partner.

With the wind in my sails, I rode up to the station and caught a train that was leaving within a couple of minutes. With no time to spare, I got on at the first vestibule, where I found another bike propped up against the opposite door. I had no option but to stay with my bike at least until the train set off and with few free seats and only a ten minute journey there was little point in sitting down. I looked the other bike up and down, as cyclists are wont to do and glancing down the carriage saw my action had flushed out its owner, who was sitting further down the carriage clearly aware his bike was being given the eye. It was a nice bike with traditional road touring geometry. Aware of each other but with no reason to break the ice we carried on as before.

It was only when his bike fell over that he had reason to come and talk to me. "Nice bike," I said and he returned the complement. We got chatting and I explained that mine was a nice bike, but it needed a lot of work and that I'd got some quite different opinions and quotes from different shops. He was unsurprised, particularly about the chain store (sorry, no pun intended). We made the usual small talk and over the course of the journey I discovered that he did a bit of touring himself, appeared to be a similar age to myself and knew what he was talking about. I was just beginning to regret that I had to get off at the next stop, before I'd had time to establish how far away he lived and whether it might be worth staying in touch. Perhaps he was thinking the same and as the train decelerated into Hassocks, he gathered his things together and made ready to get off. "Oh, er, are you getting off at Hassocks, too?" I asked. It turned out that he, like me, having been far and wide was now living with parents in Hassocks in his mid 30s and I got the impression that he was probably as glad to bump into me as I was him. He lived in the centre of the village and we rode down, chatted for a short while and arranged to ride to Lewes and have a few pints mid week.

I arrived home invigorated, having established that my racing bike would soon be in top condition, paintwork notwithstanding, made progress with a worthwhile community project, and through fortuitous timing having been in just the right place at the right time to have several heartening human interactions.

To top it all, I went for a quick spin on my other bike, establishing that it was indeed in good working order and then returned home made up with a friend who I'd carelessly managed to offend online the day before. The lesson, doing things, being physically active and interacting with people makes you feel good.

How to do Christmas

Christmas is over.

I can't say I'm not glad. It was something of a disjointed experience that lacked energy from the start. On several occasions and in general I didn't quite know what to do with myself, as if Christmas were a skill that I'd lost! I didn't know what presents to buy people, particularly those who I'm less close to. Latterly, from being on the other end of the deal, I've discovered that what one does is buy chocolates. With no particular relevance to any individual, how meaningful giving chocolates is, is up for debate but they always go down well, as did my home made mince pies which I gave to a couple of people.

Greater spending power would have made it easier to get enthusiastic about buying presents. It's the thought that counts, but money widens the selection and festivities are all about larging it up. Christmas is no time to be poor - not because money is important in itself, but because participation is important and this often costs money.

As well as larging it up, Christmas is about family. It was always going to be a tough nut to crack this year. I'd been away for 10 years so my mum's expectations of a family reunited would be high and my own memories of what Christmas should be would be hard to live up to. Christmas being about family only serves to underline their absence when they're not there, but I was not alone in being alone, my brother and sister both having recently gone through break ups. I could at least talk to Rosey on Christmas day.

My dad has been ill and is still lacking energy due to the TIA he suffered in October. On top of this, his twin brother has a heart condition that is at very least slowing him down a little. They have a history of doing things together! In light of this, the biennial boxing day trip to his house near Guildford seemed particularly low key. With his children long since flown the nest and having their own in-laws to visit on the second day of Christmas, it was just my uncle and aunt, an old family friend and the five of us (I have one brother and one sister). In the good old days when Christmas trees were twice my height and the holidays went on forever, there must have been at least 15 people around the twin tables of Guildford and Brighton. There are as yet no young ones to fill the spaces round the table, leaving my parents in the position of having reached seniority without managing to pass the baton on!

My great aunt, Aunty Nancy made it down from Tamworth, after an initial wobble. Not having seen her for two years, I like to think I had something to do with changing her mind! She was prevented from coming last year by the dramatic icy weather - she can manage long car journeys but at her age the possibility of being stuck on a frozen motorway miles from service stations, as many were, did not sound prudent. Fortunately, the weather was more mundane this year. It's a good thing we changed her mind. They say when you fall off your bicycle, you should get straight back on. Once you give something up, it's hard to start again (except cigarettes).

Aunty Nancy has been old since I was young, though she was never a very old old and back then she was younger than my parents are now. Old people are younger than they used to be as they get old older. She is now a fairly young 90, still living in her own home on two floors. She even still owns a 1970s mini and has driven it within the last year - though this is not to be encouraged. Where she fitted in to the generational mix was always slightly ambiguous due to being born half way between my mum's siblings and her brother, my grandfather but to think that I once considered 65 to be old seems remarkable. Good job if we're all going to be working until we're 70. My parents, hovering around 70, are verging on being elderly but I see them as just a little greyer than before.

So Christmas this year has been a reminder of several things. You have to make an effort. It is about participation and this is a two way street. It is not a good time for those who are excluded (I am not referring to myself here, but I can perhaps empathise a little with those with more serious problems). It has a lot to do with generations and like it or not, my parents and their siblings are now the senior generation with all the considerations that entails, though in my immediate family there is as yet not patter of tiny feet to rebalance the family. Where will Rosey and I fit into this as the first to get married, hopefully in some sense settle down and perhaps build a household with children?

Onwards to the New Year and another milestone, my parents' Ruby wedding anniversary (40 years) on New Year's Day.

Nought shall come of the noughties

On Saturday night while my parents were at a Christmas party, I had a quiet night in with the remote control. Things weren't actually so bad and having waded through the listings I found Catherine Tate's Laughing at the Noughties, the story of comedy in the first decade of the 21st century told through interviews, talking heads, her own scripted monologue and original clips.

I was familiar with much of it. It would be hard not to have noticed The Office or Borat. I used to download quite a lot of TV in Taiwan and there was also a multimedia on demand service which carried quite a lot of British dramas, comedies and even documentaries. I managed to keep in touch to some extent but the show underlined just how much of our shared culture comes through the telly, even in the age of the internet. I'd missed out on programmes that reflected and contributed to the zeitgeist and marked the rise of those comedians who are now the mainstream, making me immune to cultural references and appear even more square than I really am! Now I know how parents of teenagers feel.

It was nice to be able to put names and back stories to the faces I'm getting used to in the media and to weave them into the cultural tapestry that I'm not yet fully embedded in....


As if to underline how much popular culture means to your conception of an era, two weeks later I've just watched Ben Elton's Laughing at the Eighties. Now that's what I call a decade!

Christmas shopping

I went Christmas shopping the other day. Christmas window shopping, to be more accurate. I walked around the North Laine area of Brighton, a slightly trendy cum alternative area of mostly small independent shops and cafes with a few pubs and venues thrown in for good measure. The shops are mostly in narrow streets of two or three storey Victorian terraces and for me typifies what is good about commercial Brighton.

Walking round, surrounded by others trying to get their shopping done on a week day, I felt somehow excluded. Of course, having very little money in a commercial area at a particularly commercial time of year does that to you at the best of times, but I wasn't sure I knew what to do, or if I wanted to join in.

I tried hard. I walked around many different shops - bookshops, clothes shops, junk and curios shops and a flea market. I increasingly felt that, unless your relatives either had an active interest in collecting something or had a clear need for something, all you are doing is buying more stuff to fill up their lives, that hopefully they'll like. I don't mind doing this for kids - they continuously need eclectic new things to build their characters around and the input of older generations is a good thing, but for adults it feels a bit forced.

The only alternative to buying something they actively needed or wanted, was to walk around and hope that something cool jumped out at me. Junk shops are good for that - for the unexpected. I looked around a couple, finding old nicknacks, brassware, toys and household goods from decades past. But nothing really interesting suggested itself to me. In Snoopers Paradise, I rifled through boxes of photos and postcard of up to 100 years old, presumably retrieved from house clearances. I hoped to find an image of something that would have some meaning to me or someone I knew. Unfortunately, the closest I found was a postcard sent from the next village to my own around 80 years ago. I bought it for 30p.

Having failed to find anything, I will be forced to go shopping again next week. Something I genuinely want to give people usually turns up. It's just that like this career thing, it takes a little time to crystallize in my mind.

Early indications....

It's amazing how things seem obvious after the event. Birds are descended from two legged dinosaurs; computing technology (information processing) would converge with communications and media in universal technologies like the iPad;  the girl you "liked" as a teenager actually liked you in just the same way.

I was passing the Churchill Square shopping centre in Brighton on Tuesday. It was a brisk winter's day and both inside and outside were packed with shoppers preparing for Christmas. Seeing WHSmiths at the end of a row of shops took me back to when I was about 7 years old, spending my gift tokens in that same shop in the days between Christmas and New Year.

WHSmiths is something between a newsagent, stationary store and a bookshop - a good choice when giving school kids tokens. When I went to spend mine, I found a Petite kids typewriter, almost exactly like the one below (isn't Google wonderful - I couldn't even remember the name, let alone what it looked like earlier today). I probably bought it because my dad had a grown-ups' typewriter and it looked like fun though whether he thought so when typing up lecture notes, correspondence and reports I don't know. I scraped together all my Christmas money and bought the typewriter. It was not a precision engineered machine, but it worked for a while and gave me some pleasure, albeit at the expense of ink stains on clothes and carpets.

There were other pointers too, like writing a couple of half decent poems, a few stories and keeping diaries when I was around that age. My mum was certainly proud of them - though that is obviously not a very convincing argument in itself!

Perhaps the trouble was that writing seemed like such a normal skill that unless you were going to write novels or be a journalist, how could you use it to make money? It's only now that I realise that behind every well written website, brochure or advert is someone whose speciality is words. And there are many poorly written websites sorely in need of such people.

I can do that. Seems obvious?

Families, stress and showing your appreciation.

The Wilsdon household is becoming an increasingly stressed place, and there are still nearly two weeks until Christmas!

The reason for this tension above and beyond what is normal for this time of year is that I need my parents help to collate the documents necessary to demonstrate that Rosey will not be a burden on the state, in order that she is granted a settlement visa. We have to demonstrate that Rosey and I will have a roof over our heads and if the worst comes to the worst, she will have some means of support to prevent her from starving.

My parents are very forthcoming with this help and they're both very experienced at dealing with bureaucracy. Hence we have compiled a dossier of documents detailing their permission for us to live here, confirmation that the house is big enough for four without overcrowding and enough financial details to demonstrate that none of us is in any danger of starving.

Since the visa application fee is around £800 with no refund if it's refused, we want to get it right first time.With Rosey and my ability to be together and move forward with our lives at stake, not to mention the money - there is a tendency to over-engineer and we certainly have been dotting every i and crossing every t, to the extent of fretting over the exact wording of our letters and statements, just in case the nice people at the UK Border Agency decide they don't like our use of the past perfect indicative and turn down Rosey's visa application on the advice of the grammar police. With so many different variables, some of them more critical than others, three family members working on them at a distance of 10,000 km from where the actual application will be made, tempers can get a little frayed at times.

Of course the stress of separation from my wife doesn't help my tolerance of difficult situations. I can only hope that I am making a good job of biting my tongue where necessary and that when the time comes, I am suitably demonstrative of my appreciation.

Congratulations, you didn't get the job.

A couple of weeks ago I went for an interview for the position of Communications Assistant at East Sussex County Council. The role had elements of Public Relations, marketing, internal communications, copy writing and administration. Right up my street. I was delighted to get the interview, imagining there would have been many far more experienced candidates applying.

I did my research, looking into the work of the particular department, the software they use and their internal publications and approached the interview with the attitude that it would be good experience, I was very pleased to have got this far and would be amazed if I got the job, so needn't be downhearted if or when I didn't.

The interview offered me plenty of opportunity to demonstrate the transferable skills that were my main selling point and show what I knew about the role but I struggled a little on my answers to questions about specific marketing techniques and communications within large organisations, leaving me relying on common sense and broad experience. I took examples of press releases I written in the past as well as publicity I'd generated in Taiwan for a charity bike ride and when my touring bike was stolen, and these went down well.

I left the interview feeling that I'd done the best I could given my experience and though I probably hadn't got the job, it had been a worthwhile experience.

A few days later I got the call. The initial wording and tone of voice were exactly as I've experienced before. "...I'm sorry to say you were not successful on this occasion" but the woman went on to say that from a field of 28, I was their second choice and that I was definitely employable in that position. I was virtually dumbstruck. This was a real job with real pay and the potential for a career using the language skills I hope to use, and I'd come close to getting it.

The real value of knowing that I'd come close is in knowing what kind of jobs are worth applying for. I know if I apply for a job paying £30,000, there's next to no chance of me being considered. But what about £20,000 or £15,000? After 10 years out, I have very little idea what I should expect to be earning in due course.

So a positive experience in more ways than one, though I am now left with a slightly frustrating feeling of having come closer that I expected. Maybe next time the added confidence will make all the difference.

Synchronicity?

I spent an interesting evening in the pub tonight with a couple who'd recently returned from Thailand. My dad and I walked into The Greyhound, our 500 year old local, and he was greeted by Mel who'd been the original organiser of the Hassocks farmers' market before she and her husband Matt left several years ago.

We hit it off instantly, all three of us having recently returned to the UK after an extended period away. We chatted at length about expat life, differing attitudes to health and safety in Asia as demonstrated by motorbikes that served as either heavy goods vehicles (a live pig strapped to each side) or transport for the whole family (the maximum they'd seen was seven on one bike - can anyone beat that?). If you wear a safety belt, it means you don't trust the driver and so long as you visit the temple before you set off, you won't need a helmet.

We talked of the culture of fear that exists in the west post 9/11, all the while with an unidentified bag sitting on our table teasing us with the notion that it might be... a bomb! Eventually it was taken away and destroyed by the bomb disposal squad.


As the beers flowed, conversation got more philosophical. Inevitably, the story of how I'd cycled from Stoke on Trent to Singapore before ending up in Taiwan came out as did the suggestion that there was an inspirational story to be told and I should write a book about it.

Mel had recently written a book about pre-natal yoga that is set to be published in the next few months. Anyone who's tried to be published will know that it's not easy. Having discussed my situation - unemployed, unsure of which direction to take and having a number of irons in the fire - Mel suggested that we ex-expat writers had met for a reason and if I hadn't got a job yet it was because I was meant to tell my story. I don't believe that any more than I believe that name of the guest ale, Rosey Nosey, was of significance.

If I were a betting man, I'd bet the only reason things happen is cause and effect, without any deeper meaning. From the first moment of creation, we were destined to meet and that has no significance. But that is not to say we cannot give meaning to events. The fact that we, along with the rest of the universe obey the laws of physics, does not belittle our thoughts and feelings or the meaning we give them. Rosey Nosey just happened to be there, but I liked seeing my wife's name on the bar. Science can explain why we fall in love and the chemistry that is going on in our brains when we do, but it will never explain what it feels like.

I came away refreshed in the belief that the story of how four strangers cycled from England to Singapore is one that interests and inspires people and that I am capable of telling it. The first step has been taken..As with the journey itself, the most important thing is to believe it is possible.

The first chapter: http://theplacesbetween-toby.blogspot.com/