Taste, part one

Last Sunday, I went to see Fiona Shaw's muscular and funny performance of The Waste Land. After I had queued for 20 minutes to collect my tickets (Wilton's Music Hall is splendid in all ways except for this), a lady of a certain age barged in front of me, and said to the receptionist, 'I would like my tickets now, please.'

Now, I shall not transcribe the whole, protracted argument. But I shall say this - the woman simply felt she was entitled to skip the queue. She was meant to be there. She i...