"Are there any tickets available for War Horse?" Shelley asked.
The man in the ticket booth was the theatrical type; he wore a black sweater that dissolved into the darkness.
"No," he said, "at this stage, you'd have to sleep with a member of the cast to get into War Horse."
He paused, allowing us time to consider.
"OK," said Shelley, "what about The Mousetrap?"
"Oh. I can get you tickets for that," he said, without looking at his computer.
"Alright, and how much would they be?"
"Cheapest is £14," he said.
"And those seats are OK?"
"They're on the second tier, but it's a tiny theatre anyway."
Sensing now the opportunity to be sold something, Shelley pressed on:
"Oh, it's small, is it? So is there any chance it might sell out soon?"
"Oh no, no—that show never sells out."
"OooooK … so, is it actually any good?"
He took a breath.
"It's not thrilling," he said. "It's pretty much just something people see so they can say they've seen it."
By this stage the money in our pockets was glowing white-hot.
"OK," said Shelley, "so if that's a no-go, is there any other 'hidden gem' in the West End you could recommend?"
He shook his head with grim finality: "No."
Then stopped:
"Except for War Horse, of course … but, as I said ..."
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1 comment:
So he was confident one of you was in with a chance....
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