To desecrate such sanctified and hallowed ground with the audacity and irreverence I had the misfortune to witness shocked me, shocked me to my very core.
People (and note the plural, there was not just one person but multiple people) had actually dared to bring into the holy theatrical sanctum that is Covent Garden's Royal Opera House a London Lite. The free tabloid paper thrust into faces and fists each day in the streets. The streets! I tell you. I shall do my utmost to restrain my vitriol in reference to the spelling of 'Lite', and instead direct it very much towards the blasphemy incurred upon the lustrous velvet seats and gloriously plush amphitheatre. The whole thing reeked, positively reeked, of incongruity and insult. It is akin to bringing a burning effigy, accessorised with voodoo dolls and Wicca crystals, into Sunday service, parading it round the font as the altar is set alight and all the sacrificial wine is drunk, then sticking it up the vicar's arse. Such is the sacrilege.
To actually come prepared with such a rag for the interval leaves me speechless.
I blocked my eyes to the latest about Livingstone and Kate Moss's new hairstyle and tried very hard to merely sit and soak up the atmosphere of artistic brilliance, steeped in decades of theatrical mastery, when waiting between acts. Despite being surrounded by the tempting rustling.
I twiddled my thimbs and remained resolute. I am a true follower of the faith. A born-again believer in a 'swish night out to see the Ballet, dahling!'. I will not have it besmirched by London Lite.