I made my mind up several weeks ago that I didn't want to go to either of the 'Domingo Celebration Gala' performances at the Royal Opera House this coming autumn. I knew that demand would well exceed availability. I learnt a long time ago that assuming or expecting something to happen makes the disappointment even greater than if you've psychologically prepared to cope with it.
The past few months have seen some periods of uncertainty in that section of my life we can firmly call The Real World. Fortunately, with good outcomes. I'm sure everyone has life experiences which put the getting or not getting tickets firmly into perspective.
Various bits of 'intelligence' from several sources made me realise that my chances of getting tickets were pretty low. I actually pondered last week whether even to bother trying, because the 'bother' and 'trying' would amplify the disappointment.
I have read somewhere, and damned if I know where, that Plácido will perform Il Postino in Chile next year. I decided that would be my reward for not getting Gala tickets. (Jimmy and I had considered Chile as a destination one Christmas, until we saw the cost of flights - more than South Africa!). Especially since I reluctantly had to return the Tamerlano tickets to Liceu Barcelona. And didn't get a ticket for the Madrid Iphigenie en Tauride.
And yet, simultaneously, I recall last summer, I remember vowing that a ticket for this gala would be my Holy Grail. In the future, other tickets would matter, but I would ensure a sense of perspective remained in my life. I have seen people with all sorts of interests and hobbies - politics, and football, as well as opera, where it takes over their life to such an extreme, nothing else matters.
I even got to the part of rationalising that I wouldn't mind missing the galas if that were to be the case, but what would really irk me would be other people talking/writing about it. Almost like, when you're little and you want the latest trend toy, not because you can envisage the hours of fun to be derived from it, but because every other girl in the class is (allegedly) getting one for Christmas.
I haven't slept well for the last two nights. It's connected to a silly little summer cold I have picked up from Accounts and which is now circulating round Audit. Yet, to my surprise, despite my sleepnessless, I wasn't fretting about tickets. I was totally resigned to not getting any to Plácido's gala. I was primed to make jokes about selling my soul for a ticket. And when I sneakily joined the queue 25 minutes before opening time, there were already nearly 800 people ahead of me, so I did the sums and knew I was screwed.
At quarter to nine I had bought a ticket for each of the performances. I decided to skip the seating plan and just go for 'Best Available'. It now seems a bit churlish to say that the seats aren't great, when they are very good, a few rows back in the Amphi, and better than the seats I had for the Ring Cycle. And, of course, most importantly, inside the Royal Opera House, for Plácido's Galas.
And of course, I want to be there; of course, it isn't just because 'everyone else' will be. I hyperventilated and had to lie down ten minutes afterwards. I didn't even bother booking for the other productions on sale - although I returned this evening to do so. It matters. Matters so much.
It's very dangerous to use absolutes such as 'never' or 'ever', but I have pondered quietly today and vowed that from this day forth, I will never feel hard done by when, on occasions, I don't get tickets that I want but feel I'm entitled to. Because I've got tickets for 27 & 30 October. Though I'll always want more of him.
