I was feeling edgy, I was #5,399. It was a nightmare. The only thing that kept me going was the wickedly encouraging fact that #5,399 was not the end of the queue. No, I was somewhere at the start of this Kafka-esque fantasy, my name was K, and this could go on for hours. Or days or weeks or months or years.
Fifteen minutes later I was #5,126, which was hell on Earth. I couldn’t do anything else, I couldn’t write one word. I could only watch how slowly the numbers melted away and my chances of success evaporated by the second. I was ready to pay more, to give them all my money, just to get out of this virtual slavery.
Heart was beating faster as I was approaching the nondescript number of 3,675, and in my mind I was praying to God the connection wouldn’t disappear to leave me in the snow. What a waste of human effort that would be. What unfair cruelty.
But then, finally, it happened, and I smashed through the gates of Royal Albert Hall. Beethoven and Stravinsky would not be slipping through my fingers (like Kate Bush did one year ago), they took my money.
Really, buying Proms tickets is a challenge. Online queues and helpless waiting. A boring thriller that in the end provides too much joy and excitement to care whether it was boring or not. A bit like that Edgard Varèse piece so brilliantly performed by National Youth Orchestra in 2012. Two months, which means the thrill of the wait just won't end.