Crappy Days Are Here Again

Ah, November.
I had escaped your wrath for nineteen days.
I danced around visiting my dad, visiting London, writing a novel, and decorating my apartment for christmas listening to christmas music.
I refused to realize it was November.
And November is a cursed month.
And so begins the very unfortunate tale of the daughter tickets and aubervilliers.

This story begins when a young and happy au pair bought a ticket to see one of her favourite bands: Daughter. She jumped for joy when the announcement graced her facebook homepage with a swish and she hopped on her laptop and pressed deliver to my address.

Oh, how wrong she was. A few weeks later, before the tickets had been dispatched, she moved across town. Oh, it's okay, she thought, I will just go down to the ticket office and pick them up.

She forgot about the tickets as October came and went, and then an email popped into her inbox, telling her to phone the company which we shall now refer to as... ***thinks of villainous names*** The Evil Vendor of Death.

So phone them she did... or attempted to. See, the girl had no phone, so she called them whenever she had a chance at her new employer's house. But each time she was greeted with the message No one is here to speak to you right now. Please call again later.

So she tried, with no avail, to find an address for The Evil Vendor of Death.

Finally, in a fit of sheer desperation, she tried calling them one last time.

And got through! They instructed her to travel forty five minutes to a cryptic location to retrieve her prized billet. Thinking she wouldn't have time, she begged to leave work early, and was rewarded with the golden YES!!!

Ecstatic, she bounded out the door, across three different metro lines, to the terminus station in the dreaded town of Aubervilliers. It was warehouses, construction sites, and terrifying personages as she wandered the pitch black streets in the pouring rain and blistering winds.

She thought she was on the right track, and followed the map she had drawn so neatly back in the warm apartment.

Now, either The Evil Vendor of Death's offices use black magic to conceal themselves or Aubervilliers is really a haunted place where dreams go to die, but the girl wandered for half an hour until her clock rang out the heartbreaking hour of the offices' closing time.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

1. Never buy tickets from The Evil Vendor of Death
2. Never have tickets mailed to you.
3. If you do, and you move, GO ON A MANHUNT FOR THE VENDOR'S OFFICES EVERY SINGLE DAY. YOU WILL FIND THEM. (Or you will have more luck than an hour before the concert, in the pouring rain and absolute darkness).

And now, dear readers, I retire to my apartment void of Daughter's beautiful voice, watching New Girl, eating chocolate waffles and drinking tea.

But hey.

Shitty things happen sometimes.

At least there are only ten (gasp) more days in the wretched November.

This too shall pass.

Love always,
Coral