Operation Hamlet
With military planning, this morning at 1000 hours exactly, Operation Hamlet began. Three phones on constant redial and a broadband PC logged in to the dedicated server, my mission was simple enough: to purchase four tickets for the production of the greatest Shakespearian tragedy.
"The play's the thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king".
And tragedy was pretty much how one might describe the outcome.
Three hours later, I have managed only to spend vast sums listening to Greensleeves on my mobile phone. Once perfectly hummable light jazz tunes have become so burnt into my synaptic mesh that their cadences now make me shudder. My temper is shot. My hopes of a family-sized dose of culture - dashed.
"What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty!"
Apparently, infinite faculty has brought us to this. Modern technology in the communication age results in thousands of people in homes and offices all over the country, desperately calling and re-calling, trying at the hundredth attempt to get past the engaged tone, hanging on and on and on and on, then - just as a horribly calm voice advises us to have our credit card details handy - getting cut off.
"The rest is silence".
Meanwhile, the internet site mesmerises me with excruciatingly slow progress towards the promise of a ticket booking. Is the machine still working? It is hard to tell as the connection bars appear frozen but I dare not touch it or else I am bound to find myself at the back of the line. Or locked out completely. And then, just as the clicks suggest I might be about to get four partial view seats in the balcony on a Wednesday, an "exceptional error" reveals that the server is overloaded.
"O, woe is me, to have seen what I have seen, see what I see!"
This is not some one off bit of bad luck. I have been here before. Wasted mornings trying to get my son into the family enclosure at the club he supports. Hours of fruitless effort leaving me intensely aggravated but with no-one to moan at. Even the complaints department number is busy.
"Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me".
I find myself shouting at recorded messages. "You are fifth in the queue" a bright voice tells me. Moments later - "you are ninth in the queue". Queue barging on the phone! How is this possible?
"'Tis a fault to Heaven, a fault against the dead, a fault to nature, to reason most absurd".
So long have I been listening to waltzes and hideous orchestral versions of middle-of-the-road pop classics that I have to ring up my mobile phone company on another line to top up my credit. Does anyone have any notion just what slings and arrows this ghastly system forces us to suffer?
"That it should come to this!"
I give up. The internet updates to tell me the production is now sold out.
"Now cracks a noble heart".
I'm 
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