Howard was visiting from the sticks, and on Saturday we rode down to Rye as the weather was lovely and he had never been.
Rye is a picturesque coastal town whose peace is shattered every sunny weekend by hundreds of bikers roaring up and down the main drag. It's reached, if you're a biker, by an old military road from Appledore whose bends could have been designed for motorcycles.
We weren't the only ones to have seized the day and there were a fair few bikes in the car park, but the queue in the teashop wasn't too long. I had finished my cake and was just about to enjoy a last mouthful of coffee when a filthy great pigeon landed on the rim of my mug with its foul, germy feet, and when I shooed it away it knocked over the milk jug.
My plan was to continue through Camber and Lydd to Dungeness, a scenic and enjoyable route, but I managed to go the wrong way on the A259, so we carried on to Hastings and home up the A21.
In the evening we went to see Bolt, which broke all previous Disney-Pixar records by reducing me to helpless tears within two minutes of the start because the puppy was so devastatingly adorable. Initially I felt that the film's cuteness budget had all been used up on the doggie, but thanks to excellent plot and character development I was finding the cat and the hamster just as charming by the end.
Sunday was a bike club ride to RAF Manston, along every sort of road from dual carriageway to single muddy track. We refuelled on Merlin Burgers and Hurricane Baps, then Howard and I lingered to look round the museum before returning to the M25 and parting at Clacket Lane services.
Today I am wearing a new T-shirt and a black shirt donated to me by my mother (I think I remember her wearing it in the early '90s), and my colleagues have been commenting on how sharp I look. Oh yeah, baby!