Chocolate Teapots?

During my lunch hour yesterday I nipped out into town to pick up some show tickets for when my parents are here next month. I did it in person because I resent paying £3.50 per ticket administration fee over the Internet. (I’ve never understood the economics of that fact: The banks are desperate to get us to use Internet Banking rather than going into a branch because it cuts the cost-per-transaction by about 95% so how can it be cheaper for the theatres to have someone sitting in each box office all day, every day? Maybe it’s like CDs; they charge that much because people are stupid enough to pay it.) Mind you, even without the admin fee; Ouch! A rapid way of spending five-hundred quid is to book good seats for two shows for five people.

Last night’s Chorus rehearsal was fun; a lot of familiar faces back after taking a break last season, the rehearsal spent revising the Bootylicious Medley, which I already know reasonably well. On top of which we got a DVD copy of the Television footage of our performance in Paris in May. My voice is out of practice though, after a month off, so despite a long warm-up I still had bit of a sore throat when it was all over. Came away on my usual high though.

Today was another regular day at work. Played the DVD for my department who all had a good laugh at the choreography but thought the singing was okay.

Had a bit of a bizarre phone call from Owen while on my way home. Apparently he had had a very bad day at work and wanted someone to sound off to. I’m good at that kind of phone call – and it was amusing to hear about the teapots whose handles fall off when you fill them with boiling water! (Although, if I’d bought one, I suspect I would have been less amused.)

There was a bit of disappointment lying on the mat when I opened the door at home this evening. The Advisory Committee to the Lord Chancellor, while they found me ‘personally suitable’, regretted that the number of applicants always exceeds the number of places and so wouldn’t be taking my application to become a Magistrate forward this time. They did however encourage me to apply next year…

I was less disappointed than I thought I would be actually. I had the first hint when I picked up the envelope and only felt one sheet of paper in it – surely if I’d been successful there would have been a second page with further instructions – so I was kind of expecting it. I am uncertain as to whether I will reapply next year; if I wasn’t good enough to make the final cut this year, when there were lots more vacancies than usual because of the reorganisation, would I be any more likely to make the grade in six months’ time? Should the administration of justice, no matter how lowly the level, be left to the also-rans?

Maybe it’s a sign that we really should go off and back pack our way around the world for less than thirty Altairian Dollars a day…