Snuck into Tate Modern last night just in time to see the Rousseau pictures again before they go back to the Met, the Getty, MOMA, the Musee d'Orsay and all those very lucky private owners. The building stayed open till ten and I was expecting a crush when I got there at eight, but it was shockingly, blissfully quiet.
I walked - that's right, walked - there from the flat, a distance of between four and five miles I think, so by the time I arrived by way of St.Paul's and the wobbly bridge my brain was humming and fizzing with those happy chemicals you get as a present for exercising.
Then I got a big cup of water and a coffee and sat down to take notes on Crusoe before going in to see the paintings.
I'm tempted to put them down here to illustrate quite what the effect is of those nice exercise by-products on a writer puzzling out how to adapt an iconic novel.
Suffice to say, any thought of doing it 'relatively straight' went out onto the museum's 4th floor balcony and swan-dived into the Thames.