Could you Move a Little Faster...?

My Dearest husband thinks he can toy with time. He thinks he can bend and shape it to suit his will. He always believes that he will arrive promptly despite either wittingly or  inadvertantly leaving himself so little time that it becomes a challenge of navigation or yellow box avoidance. Gone are the days where he could make up for lost time by flying at 110 miles per hour down motorways, and we thank the Good Lord for that. Those perilous last minute dashes for the ferry could never be replicated these days. (Sparing a thought for those poor Dover-bound travellers queuing day into night.) Not to mention the trains that he swung on to, Marlborough between his teeth, as the guard blew a whistle, before the advent of automated self-sealing doors buggered that little trick.

So last night, when he appeared from the office where he had been catching up on some files, at 6.30 wondering if there were a chance of a little smackerel of fodder before we set off for the Proms at The Royal Albert Hall, I knew we were on a sticky wicket. The chap had to be fed. Narrow margins call for culinary simplicity: baked beans on toast. What did he expect? Duck a L'orange?

We left the house at 7.05 for an 8.00 performance.  And the Finchley Road was all dug up, as it has been all year, and so we had to change routes. Dearest was on it. He knows London almost as well as a London cabbie, and certainly much better than our local taxi drivers. Remarkably, we were doing quite well, so I decided it was safe to emerge from the meditative trance I'd put myself in, and survey the scene.

We'd reached Kensington Gardens. And so had everyone else. At least they were on their way home and no-one was moving anywhere. There was no option but to abandon ship and set off alone in the direction of the Albert Hall while Dearest grappled with what appeared to be an insurmountable problem. His Nemesis had arrived but it gave me no satisfaction as I briskly walked the mile alone.

I arrived with four minutes to spare. Checked the latecomers policy. He had a window of 15 minutes and that would be it. Judging by what I had seen, his chances were nigh impossible. I was disconsolate. This was his evening. He had really wanted to hear Beethoven's Choral symphony..
Then at 8.04 when the orchestra were still tuning up, a hot, sweaty figure slid into the seat beside me.
"That's why I like an aisle seat," he whispered, before the burgeoning swell of instruments drowned out my response.

Royal Albert Hall