queue

I was at an awards ceremony and I was taller and thinner than I am now, with long red hair. I was so pleased with how I looked that I kept glancing at myself in a nearby mirror, admiring my new locks and figure. I was wearing a long silvery-grey dress and dark-rimmed spectacles. I hunted through my handbag to sort my belongings and transfer what I needed to another bag. Whilst I was doing this, the crowded auditorium was suddenly plunged into darkness and a voice came over the loudspeaker advising everyone to pack their things and go to the next point. I was back in my own body. I didn't properly hear our instructions and was immediately in confusion. I knew I needed to gather my belongings, which I did. It seemed to take me a long time. I then followed the thinning crowd through the darkness, filing through the door and into what looked like an underground terminal. The last of us to leave were lined up in queues before a ticket booth, buying tickets to travel somewhere. I was not sure which line to join and felt that time was running out. I felt relieved when I saw a friend of mine walking toward the queue, and then disappointed as she walked past me, too urgent to reach the front of the line. She pushed in right at the front. I didn't feel I could follow her so I joined the end of the queue. As I neared the front, my dear friend B found me and joined me. I felt so grateful for her company; she would know what was happening. At the desk, I bought a ticket. I had to hand over my large bag and was allowed some carry-on luggage. I was worried that I had lost my phone, but B called it and it rang in my bag. It was there after all.
Time rewound. I was sorting out my belongings again, transfering my things from one bag to another, in the darkness of the auditorium. This time, though little changed, I felt less confused. I wanted to make the bags as light as possible so that I could keep my luggage with me, and I needed to wear as many practical clothes as I could, knowing that we were being moved to somewhere like a prison camp. And this time, I checked that I had my phone with me. My bags felt almost empty. I walked through the auditorium and again lined up in the queue, waiting to buy a ticket. When I reached the front of the queue, the woman told me the cost of the ticket. It seemed to be a lot and I wondered how I was to afford this if I had to buy a ticket repeatedly. I looked in my wallet and found that my bank card was missing. I called to B; surely she had it after we used it to buy the tickets last time. I saw her walking into a toilet cubicle, but this time she did not respond other than tell me to wait. I waited, but I lost my place in the queue.