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2,000 hamsters can't be wrong.

23 May 2009

Ush...ers 

Why do we need ushers? Apart from keeping struggling, young actors in employment, of course. The other day, at La Cage again (probably more on that at a later point), I approached one of the said ushers with my ticket, like I normally do. She was being very cheerful and polite, and said 'you're in seat nine, madam, on the third row'. I said thank you and went to find my seat.

OK, so what just happened?

1. I approached the usher. I always do this. I think it's my way of being polite, because I know perfectly well where I'm seated. It's not rocket science. Maybe I feel sorry for them, standing there by the door like wallflowers.
2. I looked confused. WHY? I mean...just WHY? What a ridiculous thing to do. I approach the usher with an apologetic smile, looking like I have just landed on this planet and want my mummy. I show them my ticket, which I have just managed to read about three times within the last minute all on my own, and want some kind of help. Just to be nice. It's like saying 'I'm an idiot and need assistance. See me wee(p) if you don't help RIGHT NOW.'
3. She called me 'madam'. At some point during the first year that I lived over here in the UK, people went from calling me 'miss' to 'madam'. I hadn't done anything differently, I think, but it happened. I want to blame the stress surrounding the move, which after all gave me my first white strands of hair. (Yet at the same time I sometimes still have to show people my ID when buying alcohol.)
4. The usher read my ticket to me. Let me stress that.

She. Just. Read. It. To. Me.

And then I thanked her for stating the obvious. Because, after all, I am a silly customer who has managed to book and pay for the ticket, dress herself, get on the right tube, find the right street and even find the right theatre and entrance, only to fall at the last hurdle, slowly losing sight of the coveted gold medal.

What utter nonsense.

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Comments:
Ushers gotta live too Madam, don't take their pride away ;-) Aug
 
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