The ticket drawer (now a ticket folder due to our downsizing) is considerably lighter these days.  Not because we go to fewer events, but because physical tickets are rapidly becoming anachronistic.  We all book online, and this process means the venue knows who is coming – they don’t really need to give you any proof of your purchase;  these days, being on the guest list is the norm. So at smaller venues we are checked off a list at the door;  some theatres have a lovely recycled ticket scheme: you check in at the box office, are ticked off the list and given a physical ticket, hand that in to the usher when entering the auditorium;  larger venues are happy to scan tickets on phones.

Incidentally, I really dislike print-at-home tickets.  I feel I am doing the work for someone else.  I particularly dislike print-at-home tickets when I have been charged a booking fee… which is basically charging me just to use someone’s on-line system that doesn’t involve anyone’s actual effort or time at the point of purchase.  And the result is an over-sized, often badly designed piece of paper, sometimes with adverts to add insult to injury (why should I have to use my printer ink to print out someone else’s adverts?). It’s ugly and flimsy and feels cheap and undignified.

So I treasure the times when an ‘old-fashioned’ ticket is still an option.  And I will happily pay the extra postage to have tickets sent to me at home – the cost is probably justified by the pleasure of receiving something through the post that is neither junk nor a standardised mailing.  The envelope falls through the letter box with a slight ‘clunk’, a little heavier than a normal envelope.  Then the formality and economy of printed card which sits nicely, satisfyingly in the hand, the specificity of date, event, location, maybe row and seat number;  granting permission to be at this event;  proof that you may attend.

As may be obvious, I love anticipation.  I enjoy looking forward to things.  Even if they don’t come to pass. One Saturday afternoon (after several virtuous hours doing voluntary work… my halo was shining), I picked up my definitely-not-cheap tickets for a much looked-forward-to, completely sold-out play, to discover that I had mistakenly booked matinee tickets and I was already missing the performance.   And while that does linger painfully on my list of regrets, at least I had had the pleasure of the anticipation.

Perhaps I like anticipating because I assume very little about the future.  My dad used to say ‘no promises’ about things in the future, even quite small things – ‘Dad, would you be able to pick me up from the scout disco on Saturday?’ ‘No promises’.  He had every intention of being there – only an emergency, accident or breakdown would prevent him –  but he wouldn’t offer lightly that declaration of assurance, that ‘word of honour, word, assurance, pledge, vow, guarantee, oath, bond, undertaking, agreement, commitment, contract, covenant, compact’   The word ‘promise’ dates back, beyond middle English, through old French straight back into Latin:  promissum, something promised, from promittere, to send (mittere) forward (pro).  A promise reaches forward into the future and commits us to something.  Dad wouldn’t promise because..well, you never know, do you?  None of us know what may happen.  So, with a future which is profoundly uncertain, I say we might as well enjoy the present anticipation.  Gather our rosebuds, enjoy our tickets, while we may.

A ticket is kind of quiet, unassuming and effective.  While all around there may be noise and chaos about things that we want to do   (I am working hard to keep current affairs out of the blog, but read into this what you will), a ticket is evidence of forward thinking, planning, decision-making within the actual options available … it turns desires and dreams into something tangible, pragmatic and possible, it gives them ‘a local habitation and a name’.  A ticket says there is a plan in place … and the plan is hopeful.  The plan is that you can be at this event.  Even if things get messed up nearer the time, for now, this door is open for you.  This is possible.

Another meaning of promise is ‘the indication that something is likely to occur’ and even ‘a cause or ground for hope’.  So, to misapply St Paul’s words, tickets are my ‘substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen’.  Tickets are inviting.  The future reaches out its hand and says ‘when this happens – on this day, at this time, when the audience gathers and draws its collective breath, as the lights go down, the magic starts.. you may be there’.