Why not just sit there and enjoy the show?

Dreary chaos-type day: my original plan was to go off to the sorting office early and pick up Ken’s package, then jet off to Walker and do their stuff, then come back and do the typeface.
But the best-laid plans of mice and men gang aw awry, as dear Rabbie is so fond of saying.
The first thing was that I couldn’t find the card – I knew that I’d put it somewhere safe, but I had no idea where. I looked in all the places where I might have put it down, but to no avail. I tried noodling jazz guitar to see if that helped, but sadly not. Eventually I went off to Walker anyway, buying a Travelcard on the way (memo to self – the woman behind the counter asked if I’d prefer a Bus Pass, and I said no. Might actually be a good idea if Im just going to be using the busses anyway).
The final stage of the Maisie dragged on into the early afternoon. I had originally hoped to be out for late morning, but get home at 3:00. The card turns out to be blu tacked to the wall above the year planner, just inside the front door. The really obvious place I’d left it.
D’oh!
(You can use that in Scrabble now, you know.)
The problem with going to collect packages from Mandela Way is that it’s so far out of the way – I used to have to collect things quite a lot, and it alwys seemed to be winter there. But never Christmas. Just like Narnia.
It’s not winter today, very hot indeed. It’s a bit of a stroll from the bus stop and then a longer one back to the bus stop on the other side of the road.
I resolve to stop by at my father’s house on the way back (he’s away at the moment, and I’m checking up to make sure it’s ok) and borrow back an old camera that I found in a Stirling playground in 1977, handed in to the Police and had given to me six months later (so the System works!). Very basic, but also small enough that I can carry it around in my pocket. Hopefully it will do until I get the digital one.
I go into the Shopping Centre, and manage to prevent myself from going into the CD shop upstairs by only going into Tlön Books and buying Shikasta by Doris Lessing, Virtual Light by William Gibson and Notes From the Underground by Eric Bogosian. Phew, that was a narrow escape. I decide it’s too hot and I’m too tired and grumpy to walk to my father’s house, so I take a bus from outside the shopping centre. This goes halfway to Kennington Tube and then veers off towards Vauxhall. I get off at the next stop, but end up walking at least as far as I would have from the shopping centre.
So one of those kinds of day.
I get back just before 7:00, eat a bowl of pasta and set off for the Royal Festival Hall to see David Gilmour as part of the Meltdown festival.
It was packed. Well, duh. The stage had been stripped back and the choir stalls used for seating (I wonder whether they were cheaper or more expensive – on the one hand they are right next to the stage, on the other, you can only see the back of the performers.
The support are Sparklehorse, which I quite enjoy, anyway. Perhaps a bit narcoleptic, except for two noise-rock numbers. There is the massed sound of taxi-drivers and Floyd-fans’ girlfriends saying "I don’t think much of this", and heading off to the bar.I’ve listened to a couple of their albums and don’t remember them as being quite so sluggish, but perhaps that was the context. They seem to be as surprised that they are there as we are.
The Royal Box is occupied by an older gentleman and his family. I fantasise that it’s Syd, but surely not. It’s the kind of thing that he’d hate.
The Gilmour set starts with him doing Shine On You Crazy Diamond solo on acoustic guitar, using of reverb effects to do the synth drones. He seems quite tentative with the high notes, or indeed some of the middle ones, so I assume he hasn’t sung for a while. Dick Parry strolls on to do the sax solo and then strolls off again (not to be seen again until the sax solo on the second part of Shine on… which finishes the main set). The main surprise of the evening is when they do Comfortably Numb and a gruff voice is coming out of nowhere and we look and it’s Robert Wyatt! He has the words on a piece of paper and seems unsure of the tune or where the words go, and is probably completely terrified, but all the same. Another ambition fulfilled, even if I would prefer to see him doing a show of his own stuff.
The chap sitting next to me is constantly sniffing. I find it difficult to use this as a Pointed Stick, or address it with a properly amused attitude, since I have been so stressed out all day. All the same, though, I suppose it is amusing. As is the gentleman of some sort of Hispanic extraction who is sitting on the steps nearby, who jumps up at every opportunity, screaming and shouting and gesturing to his friends to join him. They all disappear out one of the side doors during one of the less Floyd-y numbers, presumeably to try to sneak into one of the more privileged seating areas. I wonder if they made it. It does seem like a lot of hard work. Why not just sit there and enjoy the show?
Sigh! I am getting old, aren’t I?
Question: How do some people get the idea that if they smile all the time they can do exactly what they want to? And why do they get away with it more often than not?