Slow sad tears of frustrated greed

Oh - imagine the anticipation - real life evening events at Royal
Festival Hall! Not just the busy crowded terrace, bar, cafe, gift shop,
exhibitions, libraries, displays and real honest to god mini-favela
built out of brick and leg and fairy
lights...(http://www.southbankcentre.co.uk/find/hayward-gallery-and-visual-arts/visual-arts/tickets/project-morrinho-southbank-centre-favela-1000045
- awesome!)

Surely now, as the sunsets over the river, and thousands of Londoners
flock to play on the decks and terraces, and to dance to the
gutpunchingly wonderful beat of the AfroReggae Experience
(http://www.southbankcentre.co.uk/find/dance-performance/tickets/the-afroreggae-experience-54247),
surely now, they would open up the cabinet and exchange the £2.50 in
loose change hoarded in my hot sticky palm all day for the the
specially commissioned Brazil themed Lime and Cacacha nummy nummy
ice-cream ...

At least that's what I told myself ALL yesterday. The thought sustained
me through weary hours of bookkeeping, tick tock on the clock, fly
buzzing on the dusty window sill at work, "ping - you have mail."

6.30pm, there I am, I'll write for an hour, maybe two, to be sure that
I've earned it.

The hall is rammed, everywhere the "ching, ching" of tills, the bars
serving coffee and wine and cakes and pencils which are also drumsticks,
and hot soup....

And in one neglected corner, an icecream chest, with "Festival Brazil"
sticker, and a listing of wonderful icecreams. Unlit, unloved,
unstocked, just un-, un-, un- icecreamed.

Never mind.

I'll make Summer Pudding tonight, with the currants harvested from the
wilderness behind the stone caravan.