Ghost of a performance

One of those weird, wintry interludes occurred yesterday when my family and I took a trip to Arundel for, what turned out to be, a private performance of a one-man adaptation of 'A Christmas Carol', in a crypt of room- the only audience members. I felt like I was an aristocrat being given an intimate viewing of the show before the thronging masses descended upon the place; only, in the back of my mind, I realised there were no such throngs and it was all a little pathetic, really. Things took on an ever more ridiculous aspect as we sat eating our complimentary mince pies in the empty theatre during the interval and then were awarded first, second and third prize in the raffle respectively...

For me, the worst part of all this was- owing perhaps to an excess of paper- the lavatory failed to fulfil its function and flush for me; not what you really want in the absence of others to blame. Usually, as Heidegger advises, I rely on the anonymity of the crowd in such situations (and there have been many). God, I wouldn't wish my bowels on my worst enemy!