When I decide to get moving on a Friday evening ...
I can finish work at 5.45pm. Feeling a bit frazzled.
Jump out of the bath by 6pm. Feeling a bit better.
Run out of the front door by 6.10pm. (Ladies, you can achieve this once you embrace the sad truth that no amount of titivation makes any difference at all.)
And by 7pm you're in the bar at the Opera House with a cup of coffee and tarte tatin getting your breath back.
With a ticket up in the gods for Carlos Acosta's exuberant new production of Don Quixote, although sadly he wasn't dancing last night.
I suppose I could have stayed in with a pizza.