[This post is reconstructed from semi-coherent posts and tweets on Facebook and Twitter. Social medial experts call it microblogging. I call it leaving a trail to remember I was there. If you want to read about the newspaper account, click here. If you forgot who or what Winston is, click here. If you want to read past installments click here.]
As I stand unsteadily near the bed, it’s quite clear that any leaning, sitting, lying or even showering will be my undoing. If I have any hope of seeing tonight’s show, I need to stay on my feet and active. I don’t have a clue how I will stay awake.
I head to Wyndham’s Theatre for the tickets. Thankfully it is located just outside the Leicester Square station, thus sparing my labored brain any further work. I enter with some trepidation because I lost the ticket reservation number and booking in a computer crash in March. Could I get the tickets?
Winston wakes for the first time in hours, refreshed. He loves his drama.
There is a friendly young girl at the box office. Let’s call her Ms. Friendly. Just out of sight is the theatre manager, let’s call him Mr. Awesome. As far as I’m concerned, I’m speaking coherent correct English in pleasant American.
Ms. F.: May I help you? *stops a bit and stares*
I can’t imagine how I look now: a homeless woman? A drug addict? Lucifer?
Me: Yes, I’m here to pick up my tickets for this evenings performance please. My name is Judiang.
Ms. F.: *thumbs through envelops* I’m sorry, there’s nothing here by that name.
Winston: Ruh roh.
Me: *frets* Are you sure? I lost my reservation number in a computer crash but I have my passport here. *thrusts out passport*
Ms. F.: *rechecks*
Me: *blathering* I’ve been traveling here for since Tuesday, I just got here today, there must be some tickets. I booked them in January.
Ms. F.: Really? What happened?
Me: *tells the whole sordid story*
Mr. Awesome: Wow, that’s amazing.
Ms. F.: I’m sorry, there’s nothing here with your name for tonight.
Me: *decidedly whingy* Oh nooo!
Winston: *sticks head out bag and wags tail*
*We all stare at each other*
Me: *horror dawning* Was there anything for last night?
Mr. A.: *motions to a shelf* Check that parcel there.
Ms. F. checks and places a dead ticket on the counter.
Winston: *wags tail more*
Me: *despairing* And was there anything for Tuesday night?
Ms. F. checks and places another dead ticket on the counter.
Winston: *wags tail harder*
We all stare at the dead tickets
Me: *absolutely whingy knowing the show is sold out* Oh noooo. I’ve taken so long to get here. Don’t you have anything? Behind a pillar?
Mr. A.: It’s just you right?
Mr. A.: *reaches around a corner* Here’s a ticket.
It’s a ticket for the next day’s evening performance.
Winston: *doggy gasp*
Me: *somewhat deliriously* Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you! *might have bounced but refuse to confirm that*
Mr. Awesome and Ms. Friend grin. Enjoy! That’s a very good ticket.
Winston huffs and curls up in the bag.
I stumble out of the lobby on cloud nine. What an incredible thing! Things are looking up. I’m smiling so hard I must look like a loon. A passer-by turns and smiles. Such nice people. Just outside the theatre door I spot a sign. My brain pieces together there will be a lottery for tickets the next morning at 9:30 AM. Oh! I could win my second ticket. I resolve to return first thing. Now I can go back to the room and pass out after all, thank goodness.
I awake sprawled across the bed feeling as if I’d been run over by a lorry. Something lightly sits on my chest drooling and snorting. Winston! My medication schedule is screwed up and I forgot to drug him. Nicely docile, he gets back in the bag with his happy pills. Good boy.
I head to High Street but discover I woke a bit too late; all the restaurants are closing. As I wander up and down the darkening road, I see across the street light streaming from an eaterie, like a mirage. It’s apparently a franchise called the Chicken Spot. Its doors are wide open and the lovely aroma of fried chicken teases me. I need to cross the street to this oasis but my brain tells me I’m on my own. Miraculously I make it across without getting knocked over by a car. I order chicken and chips. It is either delicious or I’m starving to death.
I’m so delight I tweet the following: Why did the tourist cross the road? To get to the chicken- and it was good!
NEXT: Much Ado and David Tennant!