I am on hold. I’ve been on hold for, oh, about 3 betrillion years. I’m listening to nasty rap music on the speaker so I don’t have to clasp the phone to my ear.
I’m on the phone to the London 2012 ticketing service, trying to find out where our Olympic tickets have got to. Not that I’m particularly bothered about going, as we only got in to the women’s volleyball, of much more interest to TL than any of the rest of us, the football, ditto, and, I think, hockey – my least favourite sport at school. And I doubt that much has changed in the 30 years since I last played it. But I suppose the children should all be exposed to the Olympic ideal since it’s here, in our home town, and some events are literally almost on our doorstep, in Greenwich Park, which seems to have sprouted various ugly enclosures out on Blackheath especially for the occasion.
The trouble is that TL bought the tickets with a credit card registered to his address before last, so I’ve been chasing the golden Olympic envelope across various sorting offices, like some sort of deranged relay race. But I’m told, today, that our tickets’ time is up, and they’ve been sent back to Olympic HQ as ‘uncollected’. Harrumph! Well, kind of harrumph, as I wouldn’t mind being let off the whole thing.
And, just as I’m settling into the whole idea of NOT going to the Olympics, and I’m really not terribly sad at all, a live person pops up on the end of my phone, and informs me perkily that we can just pick up our tickets at any old Olympic venue after all. We don’t need the actual paper ticket-thingy at all.
Oh. All right then. Yay.
