I was due for another early morning row today. All this exercise is making me tired and I was reluctant to leave my bed, especially with horrible, crusty, icy snow on the pavements outside. But I got out of bed at 8 am (I can't imagine that anyone in the world would have to get up so early. I am sure I am right about that. Maybe a milkman), and dressed myself in layer upon layer of clothing. I imagined that the treacherous conditions might make my taxi late (and surely if anyone ever does have to get up this early, at least they get a cab and don't have to get to work under their own steam), so I wasn't too concerned when it wasn't there at 8.35 as agreed. In fact I didn't worry too much when it wasn't there by 9. I just sat and read a magazine and the time was flying by. Finally my phone rang and I was surprised to see that it was nearly 9.30. It was a member from the production team, asking me if my taxi hadn't turned up, because everyone was waiting for me. I could tell from her voice that she thought I'd slept in, but I'd been waiting in my lounge and periodically looking out the window, much as I'd love to have still been in bed. She apologised for the non-arrival of my taxi; I wondered if there was anything I could do, maybe go into the street and hail another taxi, but apparently it was too late. They'd be out on the water by now.
Now, you might be wondering why I didn't just go upstairs and wake my French taxi driver lover and get him to drive me to Chiswick. Well, Mr/Ms Clever, a) if you read that entry carefully you will see that he left his cab at the Gare Du Nord (and he isn't insured to drive my car) and b) the taxi driver did not really come back to live with me; he was just a metaphor for the fact that increasing age forces us to be less choosy when finding a partner.
I was kind of annoyed that I'd got up so early (8am, I ask you), for no reason, but also quite pleased that I had a valid reason not to go out rowing in the freezing cold. Most of me actually wished I was there though. I have been enjoying it.
Half an hour later, I finally stirred from the sofa and thought that I might as well go back to bed. But as I was going upstairs another member of the production team phoned me and asked me if I'd mind finding my own taxi as they couldn't go out in a four as there were only three people there. I said that that was fine. It was a shame that I hadn't thought of it half an hour earlier.
We had a good hour on the water and things continue to improve, though I wasn't very good at keeping the boat level whilst the stern pair were rowing. I was in the bow with Emma, and when we came to actually row we did pretty well. Though I did get tired by the end. I don't think my body quite understands what has hit it. 36 years of inactivity and now, bang it's rowing or running all over the shop (although as you know from my M&S experience, I actually feel a bit uneasy about running in the shop).
Controversial, shaven-headed journalist and restaurant critic, Toby Young was one of the stern pair. As we came ashore he started making sarcastic comments about how staggeringly tall I was. He's been reading my website (trying to steal ideas to fill his controversial columns) and had noted that I had claimed to be the second tallest Oxford "celebrity" after Jonathan Aitken. I asserted that this was certainly the case, and yet Young, with an arrogance that would put Simon Streeting to shame, claimed he was taller than me. Toby Young? Taller than me? He's about four foot, eight. I tower over him. If the controversial column work ever dries up, then he could comfortably get seasonal work in dwarf or elf or fairy based panto.
Despite the evidence of all eyes he insisted on being measured against me. I looked down at him, and asked if this was strictly necessary. He was going to brave it out. Well, it was his funeral. And there would be a hearty discount on the coffin.
Emma Kennedy was the umpire in the height contest, and unbelievably, somehow (possibly using some kind of elven magic or evil dwarf necromancy) once our backs were turned, Young grew a foot and became ever so slightly taller.
I said I would apologise for my earlier mistake. And I have done. In a very similar way to Greg Dyke's apology to the government.
And my original point still stands. We are a team of dwarves, coxed by a giant. But luckily one of those dwarves has evil magic powers. So maybe we might get to beat the huge, ultra-fit Cambridge idiots after all.
