Thursday Night I was sent down to South London to review a show. At three in the afternoon I was messaged by the editor asking me to get there by half seven, sine the PR for the show wanted me to see the opening band.

I was ready to leave by Six PM, but for not being able to find my keys. Since that meant I wouldn't be able to get back in, I had to spend twenty minutes turning over my room until I found them under a pile of magazines on my bed.

Just as I was about to leave, I realised that I couldn't find my gloves. No time for another frenzied search, I had to pull on my big leather jacket and run. In the pocket of my jacket was an uncomfortable bulge.

I hate losing my gloves. I hate losing anything, but gloves in particular I get rather attached to, since good ones are so hard to find.

Almost at the station, I realised that the uncomfortable bulge in my jacket pocket was actually my gloves. I'd shoved them in there on the tube, the day before, and not taken them out again.

I got to the venue a shade before half seven... and discovered that my name wasn't on the list.

Strange encouragement came from noticing that other journalists from other magazines were also stranded outside, tapping on the Blackberries and muttering to themselves.

It turned out that the press officer had forgotten a pile of passes, and was on her way from the office with said passes in hand.

She arrived just in time for me to see the last one and a half songs by the opening band. They weren't bad.

Over and out.

-J