Isn’t it awful that I actually know the answer to this?
Many years ago—more than 40!—I was with a group tour in France. We had just boarded a tour bus in Paris, bound for Versailles, when I realized that I oughtn’t to have passed up my last opportunity for a rest stop.
It was a long damned 45 minutes.
When the bus arrived in the village, I jumped out and ran into the nearest restaurant, communicating urgency with no more French than “Ou est la—?” I didn’t even remember the word. The host pointed silently toward the back, and I sprinted. Egad, what a memory.
Eventually I did catch up with my group in the palace, but I’d missed a good bit of the tour.
That might have been the last time I took such rash chances with my powers of control.
One of the many reasons that I would not want to be a celebrity or a public figure or be married to one. Having to open Parliament, sing an hour-long third act, appear on the platform at the presidential inauguration ceremony, ride in a slow parade…how many kinds of torture might that be?