On the way to the Arena

‘What are you going to see?’ The taxi driver asks as we set off.

‘Strictly Come Dancing Live’, I reply, as nonchalantly as possible given that I have about a million butterflies, and need wine.

He groans, ‘I think shows like that should be banned. You wouldn’t pay that to see professional dancers, so why pay it to see people who can’t dance’.

‘Well, it’s much better than X Factor, anyway!’

‘The only shows I like are the auditions’. I say nothing, as those are the shows I dislike most. ‘I think such shows should be banned from the BBC, they should show something educational’. The BBC reality tv snob in me stays silent.

'Come on, argue back, I like a good rant before I go off for the evening?'

Why, oh why, do people say this? This isn't what my evening is about.'I can't be bothered' I reply.

‘Are you going on your own?’ Somehow, in his head, I feel this would make me look sadder than I already am. As I do not want to be patronised by a Newcastle cabbie, I invent an imaginary friend who I’m meeting.

We arrive at the Arena.

‘Well, enjoy it, anyway’.
‘Thank you, I’m sure I shall’, and I, and my sparkly ‘Strictly’ shoes, get out of the cab, and mount the steps into the Arena.

And I do.