So the band look after me, and quite right too, like a piece of fragile Dresden china. It's when travelling alone for whatever reason that I find myself in what blues singer Big Joe Turner would call "a whole world of trouble". An example: a recent trip to Somerset to give a lecture (with slides) on the Pre-Raphaelites. Simple enough, but my wife and secretary had unearthed the following complications. I must de-train at Taunton and bus to Bridgewater, where the station was being refurbished. I was warned that my OAP railway card was out of date and ordered to buy a replacement at once. Being deaf, I misheard both.
I thought Diana had told me to ask if they offered a weekend version of the annual OAP card and, if so, to buy it. This idea, though, is absurd; my acceptance of it was due in part to deafness, but largely, to use a more agreeable American expression, to what they call "a senior moment".
Knowing my mental climate, Diana or Shirley wisely stuck one of those yellow reminder slips on my almost minute-by-minute itinerary. It said: "BUY YOUR OAP RAILWAY TICKET." I was careful to fold the itinerary without noticing the Post-it note, and, with dangerous confidence, tucked it in my briefcase. Arriving at the station, I decided I knew what I must do. I have a theory which Wing Commander Diana rejects almost every time I offer it. I believe that whatever goblin takes over as I get in the taxi adds something of his own to help confuse me further. I found myself facing a ticket clerk of almost my own age, who, I believed, was as deaf as I am. First I asked if they sold a weekend OAP card. There was no such thing, he managed to convey. He could, and did, sell me a pretty pink first-class weekend pass. It was quite substantial, and I took it (how the goblin giggled) to cover everything. He probably then asked me if I had a return ticket. I didn't hear that either, and, if I had, believed the pink one was inclusive. I stuffed it in my pocket and strode, as cockily as my stick allowed me, towards a first-class carriage.
After a time came a cheerful and helpful ticket inspector. With almost ducal confidence, I handed him my pink ticket. "You know, sir, this is only one-way. You must buy another for tomorrow." A minor blow, but nothing compared with what was to come." And your rail ticket?" Once I'd realised what he was on about, I turned out, at his suggestion, every pocket. I looked at my itinerary for the first time since leaving Shepherd's Bush. Idiot! Idiot! Surely nothing else could still go wrong for me? Want to bet? I wouldn't! (To be continued.)