Sometime in the late 1990s, I went to a recital by Alfred Brendel at the Royal Festival Hall in London. My seat was in the choir stalls facing the pianist across the stage. During the slow movement of a Schubert sonata, a mobile phone went off down in the hall. Brendel had heard it all before, of course: he made eye contact with me, rolled his eyes, and simply carried on, with his usual brilliant professionalism.
