I was desperate to the attend the sell-out concert at the drill hall. Without a ticket, I hatched a plan to gatecrash the event.
Just before the concert start time, I walked boldly into the reception area of the hall. I greeted the audience members waiting to go into the auditorium, then peered through the glass door to the right.
In the main hall, I could see that the AGM of the Choral Society was well underway. A smart-looking woman spotted me through the glass. She stood up and quietly left her seat in the hall. Once in the reception area, she greeted me in her capacity as a member of the concert organising committee.
I didn’t admit that I was looking for a free ticket to the concert. Instead, I told the woman that I was a reporter who would generate publicity for the event by blogging about it on my popular web site, provided that she would give me a free ticket.
My plot worked, and she told me to return at 18:30 for the hour of choral singing. She even made me a badge to wear, although she labelled me with my sister S’s name rather than my own. This was because she used the name on my borrowed ruck sack as her reference source.
I popped home for an hour before the start of the concert. Here I found my nephew in the kitchen frying prawns in an enormous wok. Meanwhile TPR was lying on the bedroom floor in his running gear with his mouth taped shut with white Elastoplast. He managed to communicate to me that this was his way of protesting against my family’s invasion of his living space.
Dreamaticus 