Wednesday, 12 August 2009

A Rankin good day!

People often ask how I keep dry on the boat? It does seem an odd question to me, but then, to be fair it is probably one I may have asked before getting the bug for boating. It seems to me these days it is only when I leave the boat I get wet.
Take today for example. Lovely day planned, you can just hear the Rugbian doom and gloom already can't you?
I had a full days work in Hammersmith so thought I would jump on the tube afterwards, travel to Brick Lane, one of my favourite places and see the Rankin exhibition. What could be easier.
With all this optimism, how come my life gets so complicated?
So I get off at Aldgate East, a five minute walk away from the Truman Brewery where the exhibition is held. The heavens opened and within, I kid you not, 2 minutes I was completely soaked through.
Not deterred, I squelched round the amazing show leaving a trail of water behind me, like an incontinent snail. The reception staff were helpful to a point, directing me to the toilets where there were a couple of paper towels, although they couldn't quite cope with the quantity of water that had soaked through every item of clothing I was wearing, including about a pint that had collected in my bra.
I also now know there is actually no such thing as waterproof mascara, apart from the time you actually want to remove it and can't seem to.
Anyway, I didn't stay as long as I would have like due to the feeling that pneumonia was setting in and I still had a half hour journey on the tube back to my car and a hour and a half drive back to the boat to face, in my new wet look clothes.
I even got a seat to myself with lots of space around it. Unheard of on the tube at that time of night.
By the time I got to the car, I knew I could not face the drive in the wet clothes, and guess what? The toilets were closed so I could not change into the spares I had in the car.
A less determined person would have given in gracefully to hypothermia at this point. Not this intrepid traveller! I was absolutely certain I could get away with changing in the lift if I kept my finger on the door close button.
With hindsight, had I known there were a group of stag night revellers making an early start, I may have thought of a different plan, still I did manage to change my skirt. The top was done quickly and discretely in the car while the car park attendant's attention was momentarily taken from the security camera by a driver asking if the toilets were open. (I refer to the answer I gave earlier.)
Still could be worse. The great Rankin himself could have been there to snap the, yet again soggy Tillie.

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