Kirsty Bosley: One day my Prince will come, but will I actually get to see him?

There was a funny twitch in my temple, and my eyeballs felt dangerously close to popping straight out of my skull, bouncing across my desk like a pair of grisly ping pong balls.

You see, tickets to see Prince on tour were scheduled to go on sale at 10am, and I'd taken the day off to give myself the best chance of getting them.

One of the greatest living musicians of our lifetime is set to play a few, intimate dates across the UK – including one just up the road from my house – and I can't cope with the pressure involved in the ticket-buying scrabble.

As a music fan, there's nothing worse than the stress of ticket day. I feel like one of those maniacal, screaming girls at a Elvis concert that can't believe they're breathing the same air as the hip-thrusting mega-babe. I think I'll wail at Prince if I get to reserve my seat.

This wild adoration is something which runs in my family. My sister is 10 years my senior, leaving high school five years before I ever stepped foot there. On my first week of 'big school', my tutor enquired, scarily: "Are you Kelli Kendrick's sister?"

Unsure as to what the right answer was in this situation, I decided to go with the best policy – honesty. "Yes I am..." I answered sheepishly. Mr Hawthorne nodded as though he'd known. "She skived a week of school during her A Levels, you know? To go and camp outside the NEC to see Take That..."

It'd come as no shock to me, of course. I'd lived with this girl, and remembered how she'd cried when Robbie Williams left the band. I knew she'd got a coach to Brussels with her mates to see them, because I recall her bringing chocolate back. I wasn't surprised Mr Hawthorne remembered her sleeping rough to see them on every night of their Birmingham stint. I'm sure it took her forever to pay back my Nan, who'd kindly lent her the money on the understanding she'd pay it back with her Saturday girl earnings.

The thought of my sister crammed in a sleeping bag now with her mates, sleeping on the ground and playing Take That songs on repeat through a portable cassette player, cracks me up. She's a 38-year-old mum these days, a proper adult. Such wild adoration is normally reserved for the carelessness of youth.

And for naughty little sisters like me, who have no idea how they're going to pay their rent over Christmas when all that matters is Prince tickets, no matter the cost.

For days before the tickets were set to go on sale, my credit card sat comfortably near my left hand already, desperate to serve. I have already outlined to my colleagues all of the horrible things I would happily do in order to have one single ticket safely in my possession.

It's not the first time I've gone through this wringer.

When Morrissey announced his London arena show just a short while after reports he was being treated for cancer, I was ready to crawl to the arena across broken glass and hot coals to be in his presence. I was on the phone and website at the same time trying to bag a ticket, and my friends were all on a similar, desperate mission to help me get my hands on one.

No sooner had they gone live, my screen showed a sell-out, and my basket was empty. Downhearted, I checked the troops. No tickets, no tickets, no tickets.

I pulled the duvet up over my head, and had a big cry. It was an avalanche of bad feelings. How would I feel on the night of the show when I saw other people talking about what a great time they were having? What if it was his last ever show in the UK? What if something was to happen to him? I'd only seen him twice, and two times was not enough.

Luckily, mid-sob, my friend Paul called to say he'd managed to nab one. I wanted to hold him aloft, like Rafiki clutching Simba, so the whole kingdom could praise his existence.

It's not only music I get like this about.

On the night that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was published, I got a taxi to Asda and queued up to get my hands on a first edition at midnight. I stood with my fingers in my ears the whole way around the snaking queue, so as not to overhear the idiots who had purchased the book before me and turned to the very last page to spoil things for themselves. I grabbed the book and fled like a wizard chasing a Golden Snitch to my bed, where I read until my eyes burned.

My alarm was set for the following morning, so I could get up and continue. For three days, I ate when it was absolutely necessary and did nothing else but chomp my way through the last in JK Rowling's series. At night, when I closed my eyelids, my aforementioned eyeballs continued to flicker back and forth at record pace, desperate to devour more of the boy wizard's story.

If I thought my boss would have let me have the time off work, I would have travelled days ago to sit outside Birmingham's Symphony Hall in a purple sleeping bag, blasting Prince on repeat from my battery powered cassette player until tickets finally went on sale. Even though they're probably exclusively available online these days. Sign o' the Times, I suppose.

Given that a camping trip wasn't possible, I sat there yesterday morning, shaking with anticipation and counting down the minutes. Sweating, palpitating and shaking. Thirty minutes to go . . . 29 . . .

And just like that, the news broke that ticket sales were postponed, with no immediate news on a new date.

He might have been clear on what it sounds like When Doves Cry, but have you ever heard a girl in her jammies wailing over concert tickets?

By Kirsty Bosley