My husband’s shedding Tears over ticket fees...
‘How much would you pay to see a band live?” I enquire over morning coffee with faux casualness. “Which band?” asks my husband, genuinely curious (which, believe or not, isn’t always a given at Woods Towers).
“A band you loved when you were young. And fresh and full of hope,” I murmur.
“I’m not sure I remember that far back. Joke. I said JOKE,” he adds hastily. “None of them still exists. The Grateful Dead, Can, Frank Zappa … felled, all felled,” he sighs. I can feel an encomium for Miles Davis coming, so I take evasive action.
“Whevs. I’ve just bought tickets to Tears for Fears. In Hove. They only went online three minutes ago,” I beam. “How great is that?”
“Dear God, no. NO!” he yells. “Not tickets for us,” I retort, snipping. “For me and whoever fun wants to join me. Loads of my friends, probably. Some of yours, too, for that matter. I might accept sealed bids – there’s a cheeky seafront Airbnb in it for them, too. In case there’s post-concert skinnydipping with Roland and the other one. I’m not entirely sure of the form ...”
“So how much did they cost?” he enquires, humouring me out of sheer blessed relief. “I reckon £25. No more, I hope?”
Ah. At this point, I should have channelled Warren Buffet, who sagely observed that price is what you pay, value is what you get. Instead, I get all huffy.
“Such musical snobbery – it’s like you’re still that tribal 16-year-old judging and sneering at anybody who doesn’t share your taste,” I point out witheringly.
“Yes, and? How much? Did you get caught up in an ebay bidding war and end up paying 85 quid?” he guffaws, knowing that “quid” always annoys me.
I stalk out of the kitchen and play Everybody Wants to Rule the World very loudly in the sitting room on my phone. He absolutely loathes the tinny sound.
Within 15 minutes, I have a taker for the ticket and accommodation. Ha! My girlfriend doesn’t even ask about the cost. Which is just as it should be. All the same, at £95 a pop, there better be skinnydipping.