Banged On The Run

I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, with only three days to go to the Triliteral Stageplay Festival, I'm incredibly busy chasing my own tail. The nine casts are almost word perfect, the nine sets are in final stages of completion, the lighting rigs are built, and the wardrobe department is now bulging with nine sets of costumes. So yes, we're nearly ready, and ticket sales are going better than expected - so why the hell am I still having trouble sleeping???

Oh, I must calm down - I'm sure it will be all right on the night. I've always been a bit of a worrier really, a trait (or weakness) which used to infuriate my Great Aunt Dolores to the point of violence. We were once locked together in a toilet on the Orient Express with absolutely no chance of escape, and no chance of our screams being heard either, due to the heavy wooden panelling and the screeching & rattling of the wheels. Why would I worry in such a situation, you may ask? Well, apart from the routine anxiety of being in a confined space with Dolores when she was dangerously off her head on cocaine (that was why we were in the toilet in the first place), I was also concerned that we would miss our connection at Krakow. If we missed the connection at Krakow, then we wouldn't make the steamer departure from Istanbul the following day, and if we missed the steamer then we'd never get to Hopa in time to take the train to Tbilisi. And at Tbilisi, we were meant to be hooking up with the only man in Western Asia who could save us from jail (don't ask me to explain here, but Dolores and I were on the run from the Austrian police at this point - well, it would be more accurate to say that it was Dolores who was on the run, not me, but she never shied away from implicating me in her many criminal activities whenever she had the opportunity).

So, I think I was justified in worrying, to be honest. Dolores, however, showed no signs of concern as we hurtled past the rivers and lakes of Poland towards our destination. Despite being incarcerated in an (admittedly lavish) washroom with no means of escape, Dolores remained calm. She even rolled herself a joint (in those days, you could smoke on trains) and encouraged me to take a toke of it, insisting that it would "decrease my hysteria". I don't think it was hysteria I was in the grip of, but I was certainly concerned about the possibility of being handed over to the police - not least because the railway officials, when they presumably managed to release us, would find it somewhat surprising that a young man in a Magdalen College tie had somehow managed to get himself trapped inside a marijuana-reeking toilet in the first place.The fact that I was trapped with an eccentric looking elderly lady wearing nothing more than a fur coat and a feather-trimmed corset (my great aunt liked to dress for comfort when travelling) would no doubt have amused them further. No matter how many times I had found myself in the most unlikely of scrapes with dear Dolores, I was always fearful that there would always be one time when finally, she wouldn't be able to explain her way out of the situation.

In the end, it didn't come to that. With a physical strength that belied her eighty-plus years (it must have been the cocaine), she wrenched the solid brass toilet-roll holder from the wall and, bracing herself against my back for further leverage, proceeded to use it to smash her way through the wooden panel of the door. Once a suitable hole had been created, she delicately pushed her hand through it and opened the door from the outside. Stepping into the corridor, she threw the brass holder out of the window, dusted her hands, and led me back quietly to our seats.

"There you are, boy," she said. "The old girl saves your worthless bacon again, you snivelling wimp. Those Bundespolizei fellas from Wein will not catch us now. You did remember to pick up my bag of Charlie before you left the toilet, I presume?"

I had, of course. If nothing else, know my place.