On the Saturday, I turn up at the Gemeentemuseum for the opening of ‘The Ideal Man’ show, wondering what’s expected of me. That’s it – I just have to be present. So I sip wine, pose for photos, and chat with Dutch and English art types, including a few dandies and male models.
A journalist shakes my hand.
Him: You are now one handshake away from the next president of the United States.
Me: You mean…?
I stop myself from mentioning a name, in case he’s a fan of Mr McCain. It’s not THAT foregone a conclusion, surely.
Him: I interviewed Barack Obama last week, and shook his hand. So you’re now one handshake away from Barack Obama. From now on, anyone who shakes YOUR hand is only TWO handshakes away from Barack Obama.
Me: Right. Good. Okay. Gosh. Blimey. (more Hugh Grant noises)
I once met a UK journalist who liked playing this game, working out that he was six handshakes away from Ghandi, or Adolf Hitler, or Peaches Geldof, or whoever. Cue joke: ‘You’re now one handshake away from Dave The Terminal Leper…’
I find my suit in the exhibition. It’s in the ‘Dandies’ room. The mannequin has been given a bowler hat, for some reason:
And there my suit (plus shirt, tie and hanky) will stay until October.
Other exhibits include a parade of dandy-inspired outfits by Mr Gaultier, a pair of Elvis Presley’s pyjamas (which I wish I could have tried on), a white tuxedo with tails as worn by Marlene Dietrich, and a suit from the late President Mitterand. There’s also lots of catwalk ensembles which are, as you’d expect, more Art than Fashion. I particularly like a pink costume which exposes one leg and has a horse’s head on the shoulder. Like a gay equine Zaphod Beeblebrox:
***
The ferry back is peaceful enough, though as it’s daytime there’s a lot more people on board than the night crossing. Booking a cabin isn’t compulsory, and the fare is cheaper if you don’t do so. But not by much (£13 ish). So I get one, always cherishing a room of one’s own. Or somewhere to escape.
Well, nearly escape. As we dock in Harwich, there’s a knock at my cabin door. I open it to find no one there, but note that the old lady in the cabin opposite has also opened her door. We look about together, baffled, then spy a group of Dutch teenage boys marching quickly away down the corridor, knocking on every door as they go. They’re playing Knock Down Ginger. In Dutch. More universal teens.
One of the boys in the group – a huge, rugby-ready lad – glances back at me and catches my eye. And of course it’s me that feels he has to run away. I quickly duck back inside my cabin, and lock the door.
***
My only mistake is to come back to the UK on a Sunday evening, the day of Engineering Works. At Harwich, those three dreaded words loom into view on a notice board: Rail Replacement Service.
I have to take a ludricous boneshaker of a double-decker round the winding country lanes from Harwich to Manningtree – fearing the thing might topple over at any moment. Then there’s a second coach to Witham, followed by a 30 minutes’ wait for a slow train to London. By the time I arrive at Liverpool St, it’s nearly midnight – I’ve spent nearly four hours travelling in Essex – and I’ve missed the last Tube. I forget Sunday is also the day of Tubes Finishing Earlier.
I’m not the only one to be stranded, either. There’s an undignified scramble for taxis, with people spilling out onto the street to try and grab cabs before they arrive at the taxi rank. One £25 fare later, I’m finally back in Highgate.
