Ms Swift ascended still higher in the adoration stakes by becoming The Only Celebrity Ever To Express Gratitude. Team Taylor modestly added that I might not want to attend the show again, but, if I did, she’d love to say thank you.
This presented the immediate political problem of whom to take with me, the Swift fan base being vast. I was immediately assailed by legions of nippers, twentysomethings, thirtysomethings, men and women of my own vintage, and assorted pensioners all claiming that their lives would be incomplete without the requisite Taylorian blessing.
Despite copious emotional blackmail and offers of first-born sons, I felt obliged to invite my niece Isabella. The week previously I had offered Issy, eight, a theoretical situation in which my drowning overboard the Taylor Swift clipper carrying us to the O2 might lead to a meeting with her idol. She claimed she would rather keep me alive, but there was a discernible shiftiness about the eyes.
Issy and I were utterly relaxed about our forthcoming audience in a way that meant not breathing for several days and executing elaborate jigs. On the momentous eve, I hit the O2 clad in a red RED Taylor T-shirt. Between us, Issy and I now boast two Swift sweaters, six T-shirts, a blanket, and a school bag. I crave one of her varsity tour jackets – all red and white Fifties cool, emblazoned with a “TS”. Maybe, if I’m good, I will receive one for my 43rd birthday.
Alas, disaster ensued. Issy and her mother were stuck in traffic, our fateful encounter ticking ever nearer. Finally, it was now or never, given the small matter of Taylor’s having shortly to perform to 15,000 screaming fans, so I ventured into the RED Tent alone.
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