Doors had been advertised as 7; from the Italian restaurant across the road (where the Hawaiian came with olives by default, as though they had deliberately created my perfect pizza) we could see that the queue still hadn't moved by 8. We joined it shortly afterwards, making it into the building at around 8:45.
We were entertained while we waited by goggling at the man in front of us who actually had a Weakerthans lyric tattooed on his arm along with other quotes I didn't recognise - HARDCORE - and watching a dog on a balcony opposite decide whether or not to have a go at climbing the roof (not, thankfully).
It had been an annoying day, commencing at 7:09AM when I was awoken by an inconsiderate friend's text and culminating in my being unable to print out our tickets because the office printer was acting up, but once we were safely in all this was forgotten.
I was so keyed up, having been looking forward to this for some months, that I started crying quite early on at 'Reconstruction Site', which is only, ooh, my fifth or sixth most favourite.
There was an impressive amount of singing along for a band with quite complex lyrics. Such cheerful hatred of Winnipeg can seldom have been mustered from people who had never even been there as for 'One Great City!' (a Refrain From Assuming; not actually titled 'I Hate Winnipeg').
(I'm a terrible singer-alonger; I always worry that someone will round on me and say "I didn't come here to listen to YOU!".)
The high point for me and Bec, and most of the rest of the audience, was 'Plea from a Cat Named Virtute'. The band hushed towards the end and we were treated to the experience of a roomful of people belting out lyrics from the point of view of a cat ("I SWEAR I'm gonna BITE you hard and TASTE your tinny BLOOD").
It's just as well neither 'Virtute the Cat Explains her Departure' or '(Hospital Vespers)' was played, much as I love them, because the entire audience would have been in floods of tears.
They finished with the downbeat 'Night Windows' and we departed. As usual, I fell into the trap of following Holborn rather than King's Cross and getting lost around the Barbican. I may write a song called 'I Hate Islington'.