An evening of Strauss and Mozart

A chilly breeze ruffled through our hair as we walked down to King's Cross, more dressed up than usual, boots included. There was laughter already, and we knew it was going to be a good night. That was despite the tube's moodiness; it decided to stop for a break and jerk for about 20 minutes. We hurried on from Waterloo station, a bit lost, with no time to admire the gorgeous sapphire-ness of the London Eye that night. The Hall soon came into view, and we raced up the steps, fifteen minutes late. Panted at the ticket desk, only to be sent to opposite ends to sit amongst strangers. Which isn't so bad when you're really there to be captivated by the show. I felt a bit like a defaulter, forced to stand outside during Don Juan, with a few others including a young couple that seemed shy yet happy, probably on a first date. The doors then opened themselves to me, plush red carpet and all. Rows and rows of seats, in front of the stage, behind the stage, a balcony, and boxes up high for those who could afford them. Black lace and tailcoats. Violins and cellos and drums and cymbals and flutes and clarinets and horns and trombones. A soprano and her silver skirt melting to the floor. The dance of the violin bows. The orchestrated coughs every time the music stopped. A bouquet of red roses and one for the first violinist. A girl and a boy leaning contentedly against each other, entranced. Music in my veins. Applause. Applause. Applause.

Some meetings with friends. Some wandering under aisles of trees adorned with blue lights. And a big blue Christmas bauble.

It was a magical evening.