As a non-driver, I am totally reliant on transport and if it's not working, I'm stuffed. The Gauguin Exhibition at the Tate Modern has been on since last August and a friend said she'd like us to see it together. Well, August wasn't convenient for her, neither was September, then October came and went and I was getting to the point where I thought, 'Damn it, I'll go on my own,' but it didn't seem fair to her.
A few weeks ago, when I reminded her it was soon to finish, she finally admitted that she had seen it without me. Grrr! Now there are just three days left. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, it poured with rain and I didn't even feel like walking as far as the bus stop, let alone the long walk to the Tate once you've got off the Tube at Southwark.
Yesterday I was set to go but there was a signal failure on the line. Today, same thing. I need to get to Finchley Road and change onto the Jubilee Line, but guess where the signal failure is? Yes, Finchley Road. It seems I am doomed never to get face to face with a real, live Gauguin and inhale its sensuality and vibrancy.
I still have Saturday and Sunday, but an email came from the Tate warning everyone that it would be packed out. In future, I shall make my own arrangements and go by myself. I have a concert ticket for the 29th to see the old folk group, Fairport Convention. Nobody I knew wanted to go so once more I thought, 'Damn it, I'll go on my own'. Once, I had a dream of taking Sandy Denny's place in that band, in the days when I was a wandering minstrel who wouldn't go anywhere without her guitar. Now, it's just the male musicians who will be performing the music. There is just a teensy-weensy little scrap of that dream still fluttering in a corner of my mind like a shred of cloth caught on a thorn. Maybe, if I sing the chorus loudly and tunefully enough from my seat in the front row...