"Look, it's only nine miles to Sidmouth..."

"And we've already done, what, six...

"...kilometres."

Good Friday was indeed a good day. I went round begging for quiz prizes at more places in Exeter, and then Adam called, asking if I wanted to go for a bike ride. It was already noon-ish, and I was skeptical of the likelihood of a successful jaunt, as Adam's and my combined organisational skills could easily have seen us setting off after four o'clock.

First of all, we had the logistical headache of my having relocated to Exeter, and my bike's not having relocated at all. Adam's car is too small to carry two bikes, I don't drive and the trains are inexplicably not running at the moment. For any normal pair of friends, this would be a minor hiccup, but for us it was an obstacle that required lateral thinking of gargantuan proportions.

After much dithering and reluctance to go to any effort, we agreed that Adam should pick me up, drop me off at my home in Exmouth, from where he would drive home to Lympstone to get himself ready, and I would cycle up to meet him.

Then came the decision of where to cycle to. Adam threw up the possibility of Sidmouth, which quite frankly, is bloody miles away. In the end we agreed that we would go as far as Woodbury Salterton, and then make a proper decision. Which is where Adam uttered those immortal words, and I said, "Yeah, alright then."

So a jolly jaunt on the two-wheeled pedal machines turned into a 24-mile round trip including the obligatory pint of ale and a portion of chips and mushy peas at the halfway point (ie, Sidmouth). Then of course, we had to cycle up Peak Hill on full bellies. Well, I say "cycle", but it was more of a stagger really.

The beauty of Peak Hill though was that although it took about twenty minutes to cover the first kilometre and a half of the return leg, it was almost all downhill all the way back. Ingenious.

So, yesterday I was a bit sleepy, and started dropping off in the armchair with a cup of cocoa as England thrashed Northern Ireland in the World Cup qualifiers. Then in the evening, I had volunteered some time ago to help out backstage at the Blackmore Theatre for Blithe Spirit.

So, after the match, I legged it to the bus station to get to Exmouth in time for dinner before the theatre. Then, when I turned up at the theatre, I discovered that the list of helpers had been re-written a few times. At some point, my name had obviously fallen off the edge of the page. So, I got to watch the play for free, in return for getting in the way a bit.

Then we had the after show party (as it was the last night), and then went home and watched Dr Who, which I had taped. And it was bloody marvellous. Silly enough without becoming a too much of a caricature of itself.

We could have done with Dr Who in here yesterday morning, when Anthony was trying to get rid of a bumble bee in the lounge, using a flower pot taped to the end of a three-foot long stick.