Serendipity

Strange how things that happen in precisely the wrong way can end up being somehow beneficial.

My sister, my old mate Paul and I were headed uptown to Kings Cross for a Mediaeval Baebes gig at St Pancras Church. My sister had bought the tickets, but hadn't researched the location particularly well so, when we set out, all we had to rely upon was a printed Google map of the area, which wasn't exactly detailed.

Nevertheless, my sister knew which way to head and had, for some time, thought that the gig was at another similarly-named church in the opposite direction, the route to which she was familiar with also. So, when we got to St Pancras Church and found in a state of disrepair - scaffolding all over one end - and with signs pointing to a Crypt Gallery, we suspected we had arrived at the wrong church.

A middle-aged couple started looking at the messageboard on the fence and, putting two and two together, my sister asked them if they were looking for the Mediaeval Baebes gig - they seemed the type, after all. When they answered vaguely in the affirmative, and showed her a ticket of sorts, my sister concluded that we must have all arrived at the wrong church, and proceeded to lead us to St Pancras Old Church, back past the station in the opposite direction. Thankfully, we'd left early enough to get there with time to spare.

This couple had come into town from quite a way away - 5 hours travel to Kings Cross - and were here to see their daughter perform. So far, so plausible - the Baebes had run one of their singing workshops during the day, and my sister had told us to expect a performance by the students at the end of the evening. Hell, for all we knew, these two were the parents of one of the Baebes, let alone one of the amateurs from the workshop.

And so, when we arrived and lead them to their daughter - who looked uncannily like a young Katharine Blake (although with darker hair) - the girl was utterly grateful to us, as her parents might never have found the right place had they not happened upon us. We took our leave, found some seats, and prepared ourselves for the evening.

What followed, in short, was not a Mediaeval Baebes gig.

There was group of a cappella singers, male and female, performing a range of folk and gospel songs (including Down To The River To Pray from O Brother, Where Art Thou?), one half of a duet (the other half had called in sick that morning) who had gamely stepped up to perform solo, reading poetry and singing (one song only which, she said, she performed "completely wrong" with 'her friend the harmonium'). She was endearingly quirky in dress and manner, reading from a notebook that kept shedding its loose leaves as she squirmed nervously in front of the audience. "Like all poets," she explained toward the end, "I used to be a waitress... and I wasn't any good at that either..." I honestly kind of wished there was more from her, because she was so damned cute, and clearly terrified of performing alone. She was followed, however, by more from the a cappella group (they had a name, but I'm damned if I can remember it now... despite it being a funny (as in deliberately amusing) name) and three or four songs from a slightly whiny Irish singer, who'd been involved in fixing up the Church (and others like it, he said) for concerts just like this one.

At the halfway point, my sister decided to look for the couple we'd brought with us, to ascertain whether or not we were even in the right place...

...And we were not. There had been a huge misunderstanding over the nature of the gig they were going to and, while the woman suspected we were coming along to the wrong place, she didn't like to question my sister's certainty of purpose.

So off we jolly well trotted, back to St Pancras Church, which still seemed to be derelict and unoccupied... until we turned the next corner, and found loads of stereotypical Baebes fans milling around outside the entrance, smoking during the mid-point break in their set. We dashed in, grabbed some merchandise, then took our seats for the remainder of the evening.

It was a good gig... but not their best. The range of voices wasn't as wide as they used to have, and much of the playfulness and cheeky banter was absent. At one point, I felt something crawling on my neck, and flicked off some small, dark, unknowable thing onto the floor, only to start worrying that it'd just climb up my leg.

A whole host of civilians did, indeed, take to the stage for one of the last songs of the evening which, in many ways, made the experience all the more disappointing.

My sister had been saying since we left the other concert that, should we feel in any way disappointed, she would refund us the £17 for the tickets... by neither my old mate nor I felt hard done by...

...And, for my part, I wondered if perhaps we (I?) should have remained at the other concert after all.