I’m a completist. I like to see things through to the end. Once I’ve committed to something, I try to see it through.

I’ve seen some bad movies. I’ve seen some real doozies - Jade, Operation Dumbo Drop, Species to name but a few - but I’ve only ever walked out of one film: Roadhouse.

It was a sticky saturday afternoon in Cochabamba, and I headed for the only air-conditioned cinema in town to take in a double bill - Congo and Roadhouse. During the week and in the evenings, the cinema played porn, though at the weekends, it was family entertainment all the way. I got into the cinema and after twenty minutes of squinting at the slightly out of focus screen, realised that I didn’t want to be there any more.

Why? Well, one, because the cinema was as sticky inside as out, though for different reasons. Two, because the film was out of focus and it gave me a pounding headache. Three, because every man in the theatre was taking it in turns to sit in the row behind me and make moist flubbling noises. Four, and perhaps least influential in my decision, the film was dire.

One December, my sister was working at a box office in Manchester, and managed to swing a pair of free tickets to see Swan Lake at the Palace. My mum and I went along for a laugh - not great fans of ballet, but never keen to turn our noses up at a spot of free kulcha.

After an hour or so of boggling at the heffalumping thuds as the dancers’ stiff toes clomped about on stage, my mum and I turned to each other at the start of the interval and snuck out. Well, we tried to sneak out, but got lost in the labyrinth of corridors and foyers which make up the Palace theatre. At one point, we nearly ended up backstage, which could have been amusing - though mum and I could have been no less noisy than the performers. I thought ballet was supposed to be graceful and silent? Ballet is, I think, one of those things best experienced remotely. We finally made it out into the chilly air, and snuck home feeling terrible. Serves us right for deserting at half time.

Tonight, we had the best seats in the house. We booked the tickets months ago, and we’ve been looking forward to seeing the Necks live for ages. Our seats were front and centre, in prime position for the show. We sat through the first set, and at the interval, snuck out.

I felt bad about leaving half way through, especially with seats so good, so prominent, but I was too wound up to listen to improvised minimalist jazz. I couldn’t switch off my brain. My thoughts were drowning out the music. I couldn’t concentrate. I was too twitchy, too angry, too distracted by other stuff, other things.

We left the concert hall to walk along the Embankment in the November drizzle. By the time we got to County Hall, my face was dripping wet, and I couldn’t tell if I was crying any more.