...and so the stress goes on.
In my naivety I had assumed that all the messing around with tickets had finished; that everyone who was going knew they were going; that things were set in stone.
I was, of course, wrong.
This morning at 9am marked the third and allegedly final time that tickets would go on sale, now available only with coach tickets (at an extra £48, no less). Truth be told, I wasn't going to bother. My ticket is safe and so are those of my friends who are able to go. The only exception to the latter being the guy who broke his leg last week. Lord only knows how he is going to hobble around the place but knowing his complete absence of self-restriction I'm sure he'll find a way in the intervening 2 months.
Just before the tickets went on sale this morning, however, I checked my e-mail. There I found an otherwise unrelated message from a friend who remarked, almost as an afterthought, that she hadn't managed to get a ticket. "Aha," I thought. "This is my chance to help."
The site, unsurprisingly, was unavailable. So I kept trying. Then, success! After only 10 minutes I was in and ready to buy.
Of course, life isn't that simple. What I didn't have was her pre-arranged reference number and she wasn't answering her phone. By the time she did get back to me, two hours later, tickets had long gone. Shame. Damn shame.
Just for the sake of irony, I did manage to buy a ticket for another friend - who probably now doesn't want it. As I write this it appears that she won't be able to make it and I will have to give it back to claim a refund because they aren't transferable. Yes, that means I have both a spare ticket and a need for another ticket.
Ah, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…
