All that glitters is...

Sitting here this afternoon with 'Bring him home' from 'Les Mis' on the radio, sniffing like a big girl and trying not to weep over the keyboard.  This is a track that never fails to reduce me to a quivering heap of bogies and tears, as a trio of good friends can testify.  They know who they are and will cheerfully tell the tale of sharing one tissue between us at a performance: not all of the weepers were women.  One of them was my manful Dad, so I never feel too bad about my penchant for musical-induced lachrymosity.


We do so love a good showtune and/or a bit of glamour and glitz and yesterday was as glamour and glitz filled as one could wish for.  When I phoned the Paperboy from Waterloo, the squealing could be heard clear across the concourse when I told him what I was up to.  Very Big Clever and Important Financial Wizards Inc. have a box at the London Tent and yesterday, the hard-working PA's of VBCIFW Inc. were treated to an afternoon watching botofogos, New Yorks and oversway, performed by a selection of well-known faces of varying skills at Strictly Come Dancing Live.  There was some very nice food and a free bar and an extremely liberal-handed barman, especially in the pouring of Jack Daniels.  I'm not sure if he had Mrs G and I down as either a) very, very important someones or b) hopeless old lushettes, but we seemed to have the only full glasses all day.  The barman appeared at our side at very regular intervals clutching the JD and an ice bucket in one hand, and a bottle of white wine in the other.  Mrs G furnished him, at the end, with a very handsome tip indeed...

It was all shiny, shiny fun, wall to wall glitterballs, very tight trousers, bare chests of varying hues, loud music and a Right Hon thrown bodily around the arena. We cheered a lot and whooped (rather too loudly) when our second favourite won.  The tasty bloke from Hollyoaks was robbed, but we felt that back-flipping country boy was a worthy glitterball hoister.  Afterwards, thrown  post-show from the confines of the box and into the VIP lounge, one of our party of still-drinkers spotted a sleb.  Cue cozy-ing up and leaning in as if we were his best chums E-VER, for the photo op. 

I fell asleep on the train home, had one of those very hot 'post-session' moments, mislaid my ticket and slurred a bit at the train conductor who then addressed (the by then very shiny and sweaty) me as 'Madam' in conciliatory and soothing tones the type of which are normally reserved for the feeble-minded or the very, very drunk.  I think, on balance, I was the former as I could still have walked in a straight line if pressed and I HAD managed to negotiate my way single-handedly across town on the Underground without going West when I should have gone East (or vice versa).  I think I even read the first third of a William Boyd and did a bit of the crossword on the way.  If I didn't, the same person that put my ticket in the wrong pocket must have just got into my bag and messed it up deliberately to annoy me.  I do hate it when that happens...