The season started with The Phantom of the Opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber, not my favourite composer. At first I considered selling my ticket and going to Tosca instead, but it seemed too much trouble, and I wanted to give The Phantom a chance. I shouldn't have.

The first act had its moments. Quite by chance I had read Terry Pratchett's Maskerade in the summer, and I could amuse myself with comparisons. During the intermission I thought a glass of wine (red, to go with my accessories) might improve the music. It didn't. The infantile monotony just went on and on...

The house was nearly full, and the applause was enthusiastic. I couldn't help wondering what goes on in the minds of performers, who are applauded for something they can't possibly respect. I'd be ashamed.

I wish I could say it would have been better in Ankh-Morpork.