I began to suspect that Mr. McDonald was a very foolish man indeed, although, judging from the undiminished queue, a wealthy one.
I checked my watch, then picked up my shopper and put on my jerkin. I left the remains of my dinner where it was—
what, after all, is the point of eating out if you have to clear up yourself? You might as well have stayed at home. It was time.
The flaw in my plan, the hamartia, was this: there were no tickets available. The man at the box office actually laughed at me.
“It’s been sold out for a couple of days now, love,” he said.
I explained, patiently and slowly, that I only wanted to watch the first half, the opening act,
and suggested that they’d surely be able to admit one additional person, but it was impossible, apparently—fire regulations.
For the second time in days, I felt tears come. The man laughed again.
“Don’t cry, love,” he said. “Honestly, they’re not even that good.” He leaned over confidentially.
“I helped the singer bring his gear in from his car this afternoon. Bit of an arsehole, to be honest with you.
You shouldn’t let a wee bit of success go to your head, that’s all I’m saying. Nice to be nice, eh?”
I nodded, wondering which singer he was talking about, and moved to the bar area to gather my thoughts.
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