thank u, next

I'm at the Riverside Studios and I'm not happy about it.

Not a great start to an evening, but I have my reasons, and you get to hear all about it.

Well, some of it. Because, here's the thing: it involves something that hasn’t been announced yet. A super cool theatre thing. Which kicks off tonight.

Problem is, by the time I found out about my inclusion in this super cool thing, I'd already bought my ticket to see Persona at the newly reopened Riverside Studios.

So obviously, first thing I did was to go to the Riverside website to see what their returns policy is.

Scroll-scroll-scroll to the bottom of the page. Click on the Ticketing Policy link. And... nothing. Just a note that content will be coming soon.

Fine. Okay then.

I just needed to send a nice email to the box office and they'd sort me out. It's a new venue. They'll all be on high alert for customer service.

I found my confirmation email, and yup - there was a handy dandy link to a customer service email address. Perfect.

I sent my email, asking for an exchange.

Less than a minute later, I got a reply.

Score!

Except no. It was not a reply. It was a bounceback.

The email address did not exist.

Okay, well. Fine. No matter. Because I was pretty sure I also spotted a link to a box office email.

I clicked on that, copied and pasted the resulting email address. Dug out my request, and forwarded it to the new address.

A few seconds later, up poppped another bounceback.

Well... shit.

Trying not to panic, I went back to the Riverside's website, and clicked through to their contact us page. There were a few options, but the most relevant looked like the generic 'contact' email. So I pinged my email over to that one and held my breath.

And held.

And held.

No bounceback.

Hu-bloody-rah.

The next day, that is, this morning, I realised I hadn't had a reply. Not even an automatic one saying that my email had been received.

I double-checked my inbox just to be sure.

Nope. Nothing.

So obviously I did the sensible thing and took my pleas over to Twitter.

Polite. Charming almost.

When the reply came, it hit straight into my DMs.

When I saw the notification pop up on my phone, I wasn't unduly surprised. I've had a fair number of theatres on this marathon sorting my problems via the old DM. Doing me favours that they wouldn't want getting about. Even an artistic director giving the go-ahead to book me in under a young person offer despite me, well, not being a young person.

But there was nothing like that waiting for me.

"Hi there," it read. "Box office hours are Monday - Friday 12:00 - 20:00."

Followed up by a phone number.

I stared at the messages, unsure what to do.

Eventually I decided to respond. "Okay, but can I contact you *not* on the phone?"

I mean, surely there must be a way? This is 2020. Just having a phone number is like... I don't know... only offering fax as a method of communication. Who even phones people anymore? I certainly don't. And not just because of my crippling social anxiety. It's just so inconvenient. I can't call people from work. What am I going to do? Sit around at my desk waiting and waiting for someone to pick up my call, and then spelling out my surname ten times to the person on the end, and then waiting and waiting for them to sort out my problem.

Excuse my language when I say: fuck that Boomer nonsense.

In all my travels, I have not come across a single theatre that can't handle this sort of thing via email. Even the smallest fringe venues manage to figure out my issues via written missive, accompanied by an instruction to sort any extra finances when I go in to pick up my tickets.

To say I'm shook is an understatement.

A few minutes later, I got my reply.

Again, I was asked to call. But, as a concession, another email address was offered.

With a groan of annoyance, I sent my fourth email to the Riverside Studios.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By mid-afternoon I was beginning to panic.

I could not afford to not use a £12.50 ticket.

Because, no, I didn't put in a press request. I should have done. Maybe then they would have replied to my emails.

The minutes ticked on. I refreshed my emails, just in case I'd missed it.

The clock wound its way towards the time I would need to leave in order to get to my thing on time.

Nothing.

So that was it. I had to go to the Riverside Studios.

And here I bloody am.

Feeling fucking annoyed about the whole thing, if I'm perfectly honest.

And I don't want to be all "don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre," but like: don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre? I link to my damn blog from my Twitter handle.

I told them in my email I was… involved in some theatre… stuff.

I mean, there is something to be said for a venue that treats everyone the same, regardless of whether that person is going to write it up afterwards or no. But like... that only works when everyone is getting the same nice treatment. Not being ignored.

Egalitarianism sucks when everyone is in the same shitty boat.

But anyway, the studios are lined with huge glass windows. presumably looking over the river, but it's 7pm in January, so it's too dark to actually see anything.

Inside the door there's a chalkboard sign saying that dogs are welcome.

"Yeah, but bloggers aren't," I huff to myself as I take a photo.

I go in.

It's massive in here.

The space spreads out into a vast cavern of emptiness. White walls. Concrete floor. Industrial pipes running across the ceiling. Not an aesthetic I'm super into, if I'm honest. I find it hard to get into factory-chic. I spent a good chunk of my childhood in one.

Not in a bad way, you understand. I wasn't forced to sew trainers in some grim sweatshop. I just mean, my parents were very busy, you know. And most nights I was doing my homework in the office, waiting for one of them to finish up and take me home. Sometimes this involved sleeping on the sofa until the early hours of the morning. Most of the time it meant having free rein to practice my rollerblading on the fantastically flat floors after the machines were shut down for the night.

Anyway, what I'm saying is: it's a bit bleak. Even if the walls down the other end have pictures on them.

I make my way across the empty floor towards the box office, a great curving desk.

The staff are all huddled around a single computer, brows furrowed as they try to make sense of a customer's order.

"It says the ticket has been printed, but it hasn't..." one says.

Down the other end, a free box officer smiles at me and I go over to her.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?"

Now it's the turn of this box officer's brow to furrow.

"I have the order number?" I say, turning around my phone screen to show her. I have it all prepared.

"You don't need a ticket..." says the box officer.

"Oh," I say, deflating.

More fool me. I should know better then to trust confirmation emails by now.

Double fool even, as I even read the instructions twice over to make sure I got them right. "Please print out this email and bring it with you," it said. "The QR codes below will be scanned at the venue door and you will be given access."

I'll admit, this did give me pause as the QR code is actually at the top of the email. And I also had no intention of printing it out. But thankfully, there was more: "If you are unable to print this email, please proceed to the Box Office on your arrival, give our staff member your booking reference number and your tickets will be printed for you."

Now, you know how much I love a properly printed ticket.

I'm not taking the lack of one very well.

I'm just a marathoner. Standing in front of a box office. Asking it to print a ticket for her.

"It said to come to box office?" I try, putting on my best pleading eyes.

A sweet young-faced front of houser steps forward. "No, if you have this, they'll just scan you on the door."

"Oh," I say again. "Okay. Thanks."

I have been defeated.

I take myself and my confirmation email away, crossing the great straights towards the bar. There's lots of seating down this end. Long banquettes and trendy-looking orange chairs.

I find myself an empty table and sit down.

A minute later, I'm blocked in.

A cage full of rubbish has been wheeled out and left in front of me as its carer goes off to open the door.

Twenty minutes before a show opens, with bar-service in full swing, seems like an odd time to be taking out the bins, but clearly people at the Riverside are working on a completely different plain of reality to the rest of us.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Studio Three is now open for this evening's performance of Persona, if you'd like to like your seats."

I'm quite comfy where I am now that the rubbish has been removed, so I give it another five minutes.

As the empty cages are wheeled back inside I realise something. I have no idea where Studio Three is.

I look around.

No signs of any... well... signs.

There is a line of people heading towards the door next to the box office though.

I should probably join it.

I wander over and get in line. All around me people flap around handfuls of slim tickets. Real ones. From the box office. I stare at them.

How on earth did they get those?

The front of houser on the door doesn't even look at them. "As I said, it's ninety minutes," she hollers as we file past. "No reentry. And no coming out. If you need to go to the loo, go now. You won't be able to come back in. There's no reentry. Ninety minutes."

Probably now is not a good time to ask about the existence of programmes...

Her rapped-out words follow me down the corridor and through the door into the auditorium.

Inside, the sweet face of youth is checking tickets.

Without a scanner. Or programmes.

I get out my phone again.

"K4? Back row." They pause, as a thought occurs. "K4... That's on the left. Be careful with your head, some parts are lower."

With my eyes keeping a careful watch on the ceiling, I climb the stairs and head to the back of the auditorium.

It's a simple black box space. The stage a mere slither across the front.

But above our heads, wires have been cast out like fishing lines, radiating out from a heavy object in the corner.

I squint at it.

It's no good. I need to get out my glasses.

Earth Harp. That's what it says across the front.

I look between this golden trunk and the strings above our heads.

They've turned this theatre into a musical instrument. That's pretty cool.

More people come in.

Not quite enough to fill the theatre.

As the lights dim, the row in front of me is still completely empty.

Sadly this isn't enough to compensate for the terrible rake.

The cast takes their place on set. One actor lays down on a bed and immediately disappears below the horizon of heads.

Oh well.

I let my attention drift over to the earth harp.

The musician stands before it, the wires cast out either side of him, his gloved hands resting on them as he waits for his cue.

As the deep vibrating noise drawn straight from a horror film fills the auditorium, I look up and watch the wires shiver over our heads.

The sound fades and is taken over by text.

I try to concentrate on the story, but I'm having trouble keeping up.

My eye is drawn back again to the earth harp.

The words become nothing more than a gentle background hum. Like a radio left playing in the next room.

I'm mesmerised.

Is it ninety minutes yet? We must be near the end. Surely.

Someone sitting near the front gets up. I stare at him. There's no way out. The door is on the side of the stage. We're all trapped in here together.

But he has no intention of leaving.

With a pint glass in each hand, he turns around and walks back, up the stairs, towards the empty row.

He crosses in front of me, and takes a seat right in the corner.

Okay then.

Again I try to focus on the play, but again, the man gets up, crossing over to the other side of the row, where he once again plonks himself down in the last seat.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. If it weren't for those two drinks I might think he works on the production. Checking out the sightlines from the back and all that. A worthy purpose.

If only he had a hand free to take notes.

At last, we reach the end.

Bows.

Applause.

The cast disappear and it's time for us to go.

The central aisle clogs as audience members tip back their heads to examine the harp strings.

Someone reaches up to touch them.

No sound is made.

Disappointed, they move on.

And so do I.

Back down the corridor and out into the foyer.

I look over at the box office, hoping for a sniff of a chance if getting a programme. There's no one there, but perhaps they left some freesheets lying around.

I go over.

On the counter there are stacks of illustrated squares, all pile-up.

I pick one up off the nearest stack.

It's a beer mat. With a drawing of a face.

I turn it over.

According to the info on the back, it's Vanessa Redgrave. And part of a series of twelve.

I look at the others. Meera Syal, David Bowie, Yoko Ono, and Benjamin Zephaniah.

These are rather nifty. I like them.

Are they free?

I look around. There's no front of houser to ask.

Oh well.

I take one of each and slip them into my pocket as I make a break for the exit.

Safely outside, I pause to check my emails.

Still nothing.

I wonder if I'll ever get a response...

Not that it matters anymore. I doubt I'll be back. There are over three hundred theatres in this city. I don't need this one in my life.

Next!

The monster in the attic

Okay, break over. I'm back on the road, pounding the pavement, running my marathon, ticking off those theatres.

And while we're here, I have to admit, it's not my first outing of the year.

I started things off with a re-visit. A trip to the Coliseum. For the ballet. But it was a rehearsal, and I was there as a guest, so I'm not sure that even counts.

Still, it wasn't easy. Tears were shed. After 17 days without live performance in my life, the vividness of the thing had me crying by the second piece. To be fair, it was an Akram Khan. 

And I have very intense feelings about Akram Khan.

But still.

At least my eyeliner stayed put.

That would have been embarrassing.

Anyway, tonight is going to make it all better, because I am off to The Old Operating Theatre.

Which is a place where actual operations took place. And is now host to actual theatre.

The website tells me that it is situated in the attic of a church, which seems weird to me. What's an operating theatre doing in the attic of a church? Although, given the limitations on medical science back then, perhaps they thought the proximity to g_d would offer more help than the doctors were capable of giving.

They tell me to head to the same street that the Shard lives on and to "search for a red brick church with white dressed stone on the corners," which I do. And sure enough. There it is. A red brick church, with the corners picked out with white stone. A sign hangs off the side of the bell tower. "The Old Operating Theatre." I'm in the right place.

The door is wide and open, leading into a square foyer. The floor is stone. The walls painted a dark grey.

Opposite there's a huge set of imposing double doors. But these are locked with a padlock. 

An illustrated hand points the way. "Museum Entrance This Way," says the sign. "Through the Spiral Staircase (52 Steps)."

Sure enough, the hand is pointing towards another door. Smaller this time. Much smaller.

And inside is a spiral staircase.

A very narrow spiral staircase.

With very narrow spiralling steps.

So narrow that my size three feet can barely fit on them.

I cling onto the brick wall on one side, and a length of rope on the other, and haul myself up, pausing every so often to take a photo and have a bit of a breather.

I'm really not in a fit state to be climbing anything right now. Not to be too, well, TMI, but I am cramping up like a mo-fo, and really want nothing more than to be at home weeping into a bowl of ice-cream.

Just as I'm about to give up hope of ever having a sure-footing again, an encouraging sign informs me that there are only eighteen steps left.

I power my way to the top.

The stairs continue, but they are roped off.

My only option is a door. There's another sign. "Museum Entrance."

I've made it.

The door is super heavy and I need to give it a great old push to open. A second later, I find myself staggering into a well-lit, cheerful-looking, museum shop. The walls are bright yellow, and covered with shelves displaying anatomy books, and glass jars of badges, and pots of blood-filled syringes which I think are actually pens. A faceless mannequin is wearing an apron illustrated with the innards I really hope the mannequin doesn't actually possess.

There's someone at the counter. He's buying a ticket for tonight's performance.

"Is there a loo...?" he asks, handing over the cash.

"Yess..." replies the box officer, before pointing him back towards the door. "Do you want to go to the loo now?"

He does.

She grabs a radio and calls to someone at the other end. "A gentlemen's just coming down the stairs. Can you show him to the loo?"

He nods his thanks and disappears out the door and back down those narrow stairs.

I really hope he doesn't bump into someone coming up the other way.

My turn.

The box officer is wearing the most fabulous red lipstick and I'm finding it hard not to stare.

"Hello. The surname's Smiles?"

There's a very neat print out of the attendees on the counter, and I spot my name near the bottom of the list. "There I am," I say. "Second from the end."

She ticks the box and looks up. "Do you want to go to the loo?"

"Gawd no," I tell her, thinking about all those stairs.

"Because it's quite a way..."

Yeah. No.

"Now." She claps her hands. "Would you like a glass of wine. They're four pounds fifty."

"No thanks."

Again. Those stairs. They were tricky enough sober. I'm not risking them with a glass of wine inside of me.

"You can go straight through then," she says, pointing to the door behind me. "There's quite a lot to see. So use the opportunity to look around the museum."

Well, I love a little poke around a museum. Especially one that is built right into the rafters.

Bunches of dried herbs nestle against empty glass bottles with alarming labels and bits of human set in heavy resin blocks.

Small groups gather in dark corners to whisper about the exhibits.

"They did your surgery, and then you just died of sepsis! Why do you think they bothered?"

"Is formaldehyde liquid? I thought it was a gas."

At the back, is a bar. A long wooden cabinet covered in a large cranberry coloured cloth of crushed velvet.

"Excuse me, folks," says the barman, stepping out from behind his demonic altar. "We're going to be going in about seven. So, if anyone needs the loo..." He looks around. "Does anyone need the loo? No? Well, there's one downstairs. You're not allowed to take your drinks into the operating theatre, so..."

I creep around the edges, peering into the display cases and steering well clear of the obstetric tools.

"Can I get a glass of wine please?" asks a man approaching the bar.

"Do you have a token?"

He pauses. "Do I need a token?"

"Yes, just ask at the desk..."

As he toddles back towards the shop to get himself a token, I take myself on a flyby of the bar.

There's a sign down at the end. "Non-alcoholic drinks are complimentary," it says. "Please help yourself."

There's a row of bottles behind it. Fancy looking bottles. No cartons of concentrate up here.

I move on. The threat of the downstairs loo is still weighing on me. Besides, it seems altogether too close to the shelves full of poison bottles to be sanitary. Even if they do look well-scrubbed.

The barman's emerged from behind his altar again. "Okay, we're going to be going in in a minute. So this is your last chance to go to the loo if you want to go to the loo."

I'm beginning to feel like we're about to go on a school trip.

I continue walking around, reading all the little cards about alembics and red clove and snailwater.

There seem to be surprise skulls everywhere. Lurking behind other exhibits, stuffed into shelves, peering at me from the shadows.

I think I want to move in,

A man huffs his way up to his girlfriend. By the sounds of it, he's just braved the loos.

"Yeah, it's just by the door before you come up," he says, breathing loudly.

His girlfriend sensibly decides that she's staying safely upstairs.

The woman from the box office appears. "Okay everyone! Welcome! Welcome!" she says and we all gather around. "You can't take drinks in, so you'll need to down them," she laughs. A few people follow her instructions. "It's very cold in there, so I advise you to leave your coats on.” She calls to the barman. “Did you put the cushions down?"

"Err," says the barman from behind the bar. "No... Please take a cushion from the pile as you go in!"

The box office lady beckons us. "Come through, come through."

She opens the door, calling in to whoever is inside that she's bringing the audience in.

We're in a small antechamber.

There's a skeleton in here.

I nod to him as we make a sharp turn towards a steep and narrow staircase.

This one doesn't twist or turn. Straight up and we're in the back of the auditorium. And yup... it's an old operating theatre. Exactly like the sort you'd see in period dramas and the young medical students faints on his first day and has to be hauled up by the plucky young woman who managed to get in despite the professor's better judgement.

Tiers circle around a small stage in an elongated horse-shoe shape.

There are leaning bars at each row, but no one's paying any attention to them. Thank the gods, because I really don't want to be standing for the evening. My stomach is doing it's very best to turn itself inside out right now and I really need to sit down.

I slip into one of the rows and settle on the floor, the leaning bar far above my head.

Knees up. I set my elbows in place and curl up.

My stomach, finally, relaxs.

Perfect.

Realising I've forgotten to pick up one of those promised pillows, I shrug off my coat and use the squashy fur as a cushion. It ain't that cold in here.

The box officer comes in, taking a space in the middle of the stage. Right where the body would have been. Um, I mean the patient.

She casts a look over all of us. "You might have to move around," she says doubtfully. "I think most of you are here, but there may be one more person. If we can just leave a gap for that one person..."

We shuffle around.

"In the unlikely event of an emergency," she tells us. "There is actually another set of stairs."

We all giggle nervously at the thought of fleeing a fire down those corkscrew steps. She points out a side door at the back of the stage. "There is a door off to the left. But please do not use it unless there is an actual emergency. Because it will take you right into the London Transport Police."

The giggles grow even more nervous.

She leaves us to it and we are left in the operating theatre by ourselves.

Two candle bulbs flicker away above our heads.

I follow the iron pole holding them up to the ceiling. It's glass. But outside is completely black.

I have to say, sepsis wouldn't be my first worry if I ended up in this place back in the day. I certainly wouldn't want a surgeon digging away at my insides with only a scrap of British sunlit and two candles to guide him.

On the stage area, there is only a table. Set up with a macbook at the ready. And what looks like, though I can't be sure, a copy of Frankenstein.

I lean in trying to get a look.

Is that the Penguin Classic edition? Hard to tell from this distance.

Still, any edition of Frankenstein is a good edition to a play.

I love Frankenstein.

I stan Mary Shelley so hard.

She's out goths all the other goths. Did you know that she learnt to read by tracing he lettering on her mother's grave? And that dome years later, she had sex with her future husband on that self-same grave? Which is rather dramatic parental-introduction, but there you go. As if that wasn't enough, when her husband died, she burnt his body on the beach, removed his charred heart, and toted it around in a silken bag for the rest of her life.

Like I said: goth as fuck.

So when some black-drenched twatter tells you that goth is all about the music... well, you tell them from me the literature came first and they did it darker than The Cure ever could.

I'm grmuinrly quite excited now.

I mean, I was excited to be seeing a show in this place, but, and I'm going to be real here, I didn't do my research into what I was actually seeing.

The Two Body Problem? A play? Great. Book.

By the looks of it, I'm about to find out what this thing is though, as an actor has just appeared.

We seem to be in a lecture. And our speaker is studying the properties of galvanisation. And while her focus is not on the reanimation of corpses, the spectre of Shelley's novel hangs over us

There are no freesheets, so I cannot name-check our actor, but she's very good. She thumbs through her copy of Frankenstein, her voice quivering in full force and stuttering to a stop as she tries to tell us her strange tale.

As recounts her trip across the water to Antarctica, I shiver.

I pluck at my coat, and wriggle myself into it. It's suddenly very very cold in here.

But I don't stop shaking.

Our actors eyes fix on something in the distance.

I feel a looming shadow cross behind me.

I find myself looking around. But there's no one there. Only my fellow audience members.

Black out.

It's over.

I breath out a long held breath.

And then clap.

Hard.

That was good. Really good.

One problem. I now have 52 steps to go down. And I can't feel my legs.

I make my way back through the museum, then the shop. I pull open the heavy door, and look with anxious eyes at the stairs spiralling down beneath me.

A queue forms behind me.

There's no room for dithering.

Down I go.

This time my phone stays firmly in my pocket. The descent is far too precarious to risk a phone.

I keep one hand firmly planted on the brick wall. and the other one gripping tight to the wooden support that threads its way through the centre of the staircase, send up a silent prayer to the theatre gods, and keep moving, all the way until the bottom, where I jump the last step in my desperation to feel the solid flagstones under my boots.

I made it.

I can't help but look behind me through.

The thunder of my fellow audience members descending the stairs echoes around me.

At least, I hope it's my fellow audience members.

I don't stick around to find out.

The final curtain

And so here it is. My final theatre trip of the year.

It wasn't meant to be this way. I had it all planned out. My last theatre.

It was going to be the Lyceum. I was going to dayseat for Lion King tickets on New Year's Eve. Add a little jeopardy to the whole thing. Hand my fate up to the theatre gods. Will she make it? Or will she be left begging before the box office, just to be allowed to buy some overpriced ticket at the back of the balcony?

But here's the thing: I'm not going to make it. I know that. You know that. I still have nine theatres left to go.

And I can't get them checked off before the clock runs out. They just don't have any shows. They are dark.

Which means the marathon is too.

So I'm rolling the whole thing over to next year. I'll be having a few mop-up months. Catch those last theatres. Write those last posts. But take my time. I want to sleep first. And eat dinner occasionally. Maybe even do my laundry.

Chances are, you're not even going to get to read this before January. Because this marathoner is taking a break.

But one thing is still left to be done.

The Royal Albert Hall.

For Nutcracker.

Because no Christmas is complete without The Nutcracker.

Even for an anti-Christmas bitch like me.

The streets are packed.

I have to fight my way past the Natural History Museum, as the queue of people lining up to wobble their way around the ice rink stretches all the way down Exhibition Road.

I clutch my fur coat close to me and try hard to pretend that I don't hate humanity right now.

"Oh," says a woman, leading a brood of little girls onto Kensington Gore. "There it is. That's where we're going. You can't see it properly. That's a shame."

I look over.

The Albert Hall is covered in scaffolding. The round stone walls wrapped in white plastic, like an unwanted orange cream melting at the bottom of the Quality Street tin.

I follow the metal columns around until I find the entrance to the box office.

Or at least, the entrance to the foyer that will take me to the box office.

I've got to get through security first, and there are two tables set up for bag checks.

"Please have your bags ready for inspection," one of the bag checkers calls out over the queue.

I head towards the nearest desk and join the line.

"For the ballet?" asks the bag checker as I make it to the front.

I nod. I am here for the ballet.

"How are you?" he goes on, peeking inside my bag.

"Great!" I say with a touch too much enthusiasm. He's probably not used to meeting people at the end of a year packed with over three hundred trips to the theatre. I'm feeling a little bit drunk.

"That's good," he says, taken aback. He clicks his torch off and waves me through.

Through the doors and I’m stuck in a mass of people. It takes nearly a full minute for me to realise that the queue I have found myself in, is not actually the one that will take me to the ticket desk, but is instead leading people off to their seats.

I sidestep my way out and find my way over to the real queue. Handely located on the other side of a labyrinth of Albert Hall merch.

I do like a theatre shop. They are almost as good as museum shops.

This one is still laden down with piles of baubles. Not marked down, I notice. Despite Christmas being officially over now. A touch unsporting of them, I think.

One of the box officers smiles to indicate that it's my turn, and I hurry over to the counter.

"The surname's Smiles," I tell her, and she goes off to the wooden pigeon holes on the back wall to pull out my ticket.

"Have you got some form of ID?" she asks over her shoulder. She holds up her hand in a claw shape to mime the act of holding an ID card.

"Yeah," I say, pulling my driver's license. My provisional one. Just to be clear. This bitch doesn't drive. She just needs to prove who she is to get ballet tickets.

"Lovely," she says checking it, handing it back alongside my ticket. "You're in the Rausing Circle. So that's on the third floor."

I don't know what a Rausing Circle is, but it sounds fun. The type of fun that accompanies overspilling tankards. The type of fun that doesn't belong in the Royal Albert Hall. Except when accompanied by Union Jack wavers.

I struggle back the way I came, past the towers of baubles.

And spot my favourite type of usher.

A programme seller.

Turns out programmes are a tenner, which is steep, but eh... Birmingham Royal Ballet got to pull in that coin where they can find it. I doubt the Albert Hall comes cheap.

Right. My ticket says I need to head to Door 8.

I'm currently at Door 12.

I make for the exit.

I stop in the doorway.

I'd forgotten about the bag checks.

Shit. I don't fancy going through all that again.

I turn around, and join the original queue. I have no idea if I can even get to Door 8 from here. The signs certainly make no mention of it. Oh well. That's what you get for laying down extra money in pursuit of an actual paper ticket instead of swanning in with a barcode on a smartphone.

"Am I going the right way?" I ask the ticket checker as he checks my ticket.

"You can go any way you like," he replies, unhelpfully. I must have given him a look, because he glances down at the ticket again. "You need to walk around to Door 8, then take the stairs up to floor three."

And then he proceeds to not move. I have to squeeze myself in between him and the barrier in order to get past.

Looks like I'm not the only one who has absolutely had their fill of theatre this year.

Free of the foyer, I start walking around the long corridor which circles the auditorium.

The walls are covered with massive fuck off Hallmark ads, which doesn't seem in keeping with the green and cream paint job behind them. But eh. That corporate sponsorship must taste pretty sweet right now.

I find the door, go through, and end up in a wide stairwell.

And up I go.

At the top, I find a counter. And someone selling programme.

"No cast sheets?" asks a bloke, as he flicks through one of the stack of booklets.

"You'll have to go back downstairs. They might have some down there."

"All the way...?"

"Yeah, downstairs."

Dear gawd.

I'm so out of practice going to the ballet I'd forgotten that cast sheets were even a thing. And now I'm three floors away from them.

I dither at the top of the stairs.

I really don't want to go back down, round the corridor, and then go hunting for a single sheet of paper that's been run off a photocopier.

And they might not even be there.

Not when I could print out my own.

Oh yeah. I'm not so out of it that I don't remember that BRB put their cast sheets online, free for anyone to download.

Okay. I can do that.

My knees have already gone through enough today. I'm not sending them into spasms by forcing all those stairs on them again.

Through the door, and I find the entrance to the auditorium.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker.

"U," she says, reading it. Then before I know what's happening, she turns around and jogs up a short flight of stairs, pausing to look over her shoulder at me.

I follow on behind.

"Just through here," she says, pointing up an aisle. "Up the stairs to row 6, and the seat numbers are in the back."

"Okay, thanks," I say, starting off, but she stops me.

"Just to remind you, this is ballet. So no photographs or filming."

I laugh to show I know how the ballet works and she smiles in recognition of it.

Although, considering I just forgot cast sheets existed, maybe she was right to remind me.

I might end up doing any number of inappropriate things.

As I walk up the last steps I try to remind myself of the rules of ballet, and find myself not able to remember a single one. Do you clap in the pauses? Or wait until the end of the act? I'm fairly confident it's a pause-based clapping system, but then you are not supposed to clap during the sad bits. Are there sad bits in The Nutcracker? Nah, it's a kids' ballet. I should be fine. Wait for the pauses. Then clap. Easy.

I find row 6. It's near the back. Tickets aren't cheap.

But the view is better than I expected. This seat was sold as restricted view, but unless the person sitting in front of me tops seven-foot, I think I'll be okay. I have a clear view of the stage from here.

A very distant one.

But clear.

Comfy too.

I mean, the legroom isn't great, but the seatbacks are really high, which makes me feel like I'm sat in a throne. And that's worth a little knee cramp.

The seat next to me is empty, save for a flyer stuck to the back. I squint at it. It's for Swan Lake. But English National Ballet's version.

I wonder how BRB feel about that.

I get out my phone and start taking photos.

High above the stage, huge mushrooms bloom against the ceiling.

I vaguely recall that they have something to do with the sound quality in this place, but that doesn't stop them from looking super weird. Like we all wandered into Wonderland by accident.

Not helping the surrealness of the ceiling, are the giant baubles lurking in between the mushroom growths.

Much more impressive than the ones down in the shop. These ones could crush half the audience if they did a Phantom of the Opera style drop.

A family settles down next to me.

"Do you remember the story?" asks the dad. "I'm relying on you to tell me what's going on."

"Rember," interprets the mum. "No talking during."

"In half time though," insists the dad.

The little girl in between them huffs. "But you'll see!"

She's right. There isn't much of a narrative to The Nutcracker. And it's all quite clear on stage.

A voice comes over the sound system. An injury notice. I instantly forget the names.

Not that it matters. I don't have a cast sheet anyway.

The lights are dimming.

And another voice starts up.

A narrator.

I sigh and sink down in my chair.

Turns out Birmingham Royal Ballet don't trust their dancers to tell what little story there is in this ballet.

I really hate dance performances being narrated. Even worse when it's recorded and piped in.

Grim.

But eventually, it stops, and Christmas in the Stahlbaum home gets underway. The girls play with dolls. The boys get tin soldiers. And our Clara gets a giant Nutcracker. For some reason.

Night closes in.

But Clara can't sleep.

She's probably worried about what the fuck she's supposed to write in her thank you notes.

No matter, soon the Christmas tree starts to grow which distracts her.

It distracts me too. I was wondering how they were going to do this. Making a Christmas tree grow is a tricky business. Adding a touring production and a short run to the mix and it becomes almost impossible unless you use...

Ah. Yeah. They're using projections.

I mean. Okay. Fine.

Except, even for a projection this looks a bit... dare I say it... shit.

And now there's someone walking out of the wings. He has a microphone.

Oh dear.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, as the music comes to an inelegant halt. "We're going to have to pause this performance. If you can stay in your seats, I'll let you know when we can continue."

Gosh.

A rumble of confused murmurs follows him off stage.

I get my phone out. Show stops take a few minutes at the best of times. Might as well check my emails or, you know, take a forbiddon photo.

"That's live performance, things go wrong," says the mum in my row.

"I like live shows," says the little girl. "Because you can have a snack in the middle."

She looks at both her parents in turn, to see if her hint has landed.

"Isn't that right, mummy?" she says when neither of them respond.

"What's that?"

"You get an ice cream in the middle," she says.

"That's right."

There's a pause as the little girl waits for this to sink in.

Nothing.

"So are we getting an ice cream then?" she adds, subtly going out the window now that ice creams are failing to materialise.

"It's not the interval. It's just a little break while they fix something," explains mum.

The little girl sighs. She's not impressed by this supposed difference. If there's a break, there should be ice cream.

And I for one am in entire agreement with her.

The man with the microphone reappears. He thanks us for our patience.

"You may have noticed a problem with the lighting," he says. "Which has now been fixed."

"Ah!" says the mum knowingly from down the row.

The dancers return to the stage. The music plays. The Christmas tree grows.

And the house lights stay on just a touch too long.

Soon enough, the Snowflakes are finishing off their waltz and it's time for the interval.

The little girl takes her family off for ice cream.

I stay behind.

I can't move.

Not even for ice cream.

My last show of the year.

Theatre number 296. Show number 306.

Or 307 if you count the double bill at The Bunker as two, which I definitely think you should.

That's more theatre than most people see in the entirety of their lives.

That's crazy to think, isn't it? A lifetime's worth of theatre smashed down and condensed into a single year.

I certainly feel like I've lived a lifetime within the past twelve months.

Can you see it?

The change in me, I mean.

Perhaps it doesn't come across in my words, but I have people telling me all the time how different I am to the Max they knew at the start of the year.

I'm more confident. Less anxious. More sure of myself.

I'm more accepting of the unknown. More open to adventure.

Well... maybe. Small adventures. That will have me home by 11.

What else?

I'm more selfish. That's for sure.

I think that's a good thing.

I'm less tolerant of bullshit.

That's not a good thing.

I work in an industry fuelled by bullshit.

Still, all in all, I'm feeling rather positive.

Which I don't mind telling you, is a humongously huge step.

2018 was a terrible year for me. The culmination of all the shit of 2018 was the reason I started this damn project. I had to do something, anything, to change my life. And this quirky idea, that's been sitting at the back of my brain since 2014, felt like the only way out. Something that could be mine. And whether I succeeded, or failed, would be entirely dependent on my own actions, and no one else's.

And, well, you already know I failed.

But somehow, that doesn't matter.

Because I got through it.

Someday I might tell you about the nervous breakdown I had over the summer. It wasn't fun. You may have sensed the lack of funness in my posts, even though I made a choice not to tell you about it specifically.

It was a long time coming though. And it forced me to make some hard decisions in my life.

And now... well.

I feel like maybe, there's a small chance, 2020 might turn out to be not entirely terrible.

Apart from, you know: Brexit, a Tory majority, and the world being on fire.

But other than those small matters...

Anyway, enough about all that. I'm sure, once my brain has stopped fizzing, I'll be able to cobble together some thoughts. What theatre was like in this city of ours, in the year of someone-or-other's lord, 2019.

Just need to get a couple of dinners in me first.

Far down below, in front of the stage, two girls are playing catch with one of the snowballs which rolled off the stage during act one.

Their feet skitter through the fake snow as they race after the ball.

The ushers standing guard at the stairs, stopping any wandering audience members from climbing up onto the stage, watch them with indulgent side-eyes.

The family are back now.

The little girl has her ice cream.

Act two is starting, and the narrator is whispering his story-updates through the speakers.

We get through the rest of the show without further incident, and we all clap heartily at the end. Rounds and rounds of applause for every cast member, in the grand production that is the ballet curtain call.

The family stand in order to layer themselves up with sweaters and cardigans and jackets and coats and scarfs.

The mum spots me waiting and nudges the little girl to one side so the "nice lady" can get past.

Down the stairs I go.

At the bottom, the usher on the door wishes us all a good night.

I smile back at him.

I think it might be a good night after all.

I'm free.

Finally.

I can do whatever the hell I want this evening.

I’m going to make myself dinner.

It's behind you!

We're in the dregs of the year now.

Christmas is over, and we've all turned into walking zombies as we wait for the year to run out.

Me too, by the way. I managed to get out of London for a few days, and coming back has felt like being plunged into cloudy ditch water.

At least I know where I'm going. A return visit to Harrow, to get into the main bit of the Harrow Arts Centre after visiting the studio space in June. This time I don't make the mistake of walking through the gardens, instead nipping past the Morrisons and aiming myself to where I remember the front door to be.

I must be going in the right direction because there's a huge banner for the show I'm seeing strung up next to the road.

Aladdin.

It looks very... ummm.

I mean, it's not just me, is it? Like, I know I'm a lefty liberal and all that. But this isn't just me being all PC is it?

And it's not like we're in, I don't know, rural Oxfordshire or something.

We're in Harrow.

Last time I was here I was literally the only white person in the audience.

And now they've gone and cast a white Aladdin.

That doesn't seem right to me.

I hurry over the crossing and make my way past the huge sundial.

With the light dimming fast, the tall stone walls of the main building look very dramatic. The sort of building where you can expect to find a first wife tearing up the attic.

I step through the arched doorway and make my way into the foyer, ignoring the sign for the box office. I know it's a tricksy sign which only points towards a locked door. I keep on going until I reach the corridor. An usher is talking to a family. He's wearing a Santa hat.

Christmas still be going strong in Harrow.

Round the corner, I find the actual box office. A room which looks for all the world like I should be making a dentist appointment at the counter.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say to the lady behind the counter, trying hard not to worry about the last time I flossed.

She dives for the ticket box and starts flicking through the letter tabs.

"Sorry," she says when her search reaches the embarrassing 2.3 second mark.

"There are a lot of Ss... Ah! There you are!" She stares at the ticket. "Do you have the reference number? It doesn't have your postcode."

That's strange. I booked online. I would have thought that the postcode was attached to my order, but never mind. I pull out my phone and find the confirmation email. It doesn't take long. I only booked this morning.

"Is it the order number?" I ask, spotting the string of numbers and letters up near the top.

She says that it is, so I read it out to her. All of it.

"Yup," she says, as I finish up. She hands me the ticket.

Back in the corridor, a father waits patiently as his little girl examines the rack of flyers for this afternoon's performance of Aladdin.

"That's not Jasmine!" she announces suddenly, flapping the flyer in front of her father's face. "Jasmine has black hair!"

Now, while I would usually roll my eyes at this Disneyfication of faerie-tales, she's Princess Badroulbadour in the 'original' story, she's right. Jasmine or Badroulbadour should probably have black hair.

The little girl dips her own black-haired head and stares at the blonde princess, the one panto heroine who should probably look, well, just like the little girl holding the flyer.

I keep on going.

There's a gallery just off the foyer that I'd like to have a look at.

It's filled with portraits.

And the vestiges of pantos past. Broken flashy toys nestle up to discarded flyers on the ledges. A memory of the earlier matinee.

I go outside.

Families make their way over in dribs and drabs. The children bouncing around in excitement.

Behind me, I hear a strange tearing sound. Like fabric ripping.

A family stops, hovering near the entrance as they wait for the way to clear.

Someone is bending over, applying tape to the ground. Twenty minutes before a performance starts. Primetime for people wanting to enter the building.

Building Services people never rest. Even when they probably should.

Floor thoroughly stuck, and way clear, I go back in. There's no use putting it off any more. I've got to see this damn panto.

I follow the signs for seats numbered 13 to 23.

Down a corridor, and towards the door.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," comes a voice over the sound system. "Welcome to the Harrow Arts Centre. Please take your seats, because the performance will start in just under fifteen minutes. Enjoy the show!"

Yeah, yeah. I'm going. I'm going.

I'm not going. I'm standing in the corridor. Dithering.

It may be my last panto of the year, but I'm not feeling the joy. Even with Slade banging out of the speakers.

But it's no use being a grim-faced arse with kids around. You just go to grit your teeth, and pretend to enjoy the damn panto.

The ticket checker looks happy. It's her last panto too. The last performance of the run. And she's grinning.

"Row S!" she says, looking at my ticket. "You're just there, darling." She points up the side aisle and I go in.

And this is it. Elliot Hall.

Quite the place.

High windows are blocked off by thick curtains. Wood panelling surrounds us and carved arches are almost hidden behind the heavy lighting rig.

Over the other side is a dark portrait. I can't make it out. But it seems to be of a rather stern looking man.

I climb up the stairs towards my row. Near the back. Because this is panto after all.

I count down the chairs until I reach mine. Or at least, the one that should be mine. As there appears to be someone sitting in it right now.

"Hi?" I say, to the person who is in what I am fairly confident is meant to be my seat. "Are you S14?"

He pulls out a pile of tickets and paws through them. "No. I'm S11 to S13," he says, before turning around to see the number written on the back of his seat.

"I'm in the wrong seat," he announces cheerfully.

Yes he is.

He gets up and plonks himself down in the free seat next to him. "No I'm not!"

His wife looks over and laughs. "Are you in the wrong seat?” she giggles.

"Not anymore!"

Glad we got that sorted. It would have been awful if I couldn't get a seat in the final show of this run and had to go home...

A small child is coming through, clutching a booster seat against his chest which is almost as big as him.

I struggle to my feet to let him past.

"You have to say excuse me!" says his seat-stealing dad.

"Ex'coos me," whispers the small child, scooting past to return his booster to the usher by the door.

He may be small, but he's too much of a big boy for such props.

It's then I realise I'm missing my own prop.

The usher on the door may have a stack of booster seats to hand out, but she seems to be lacking on the programme-front. In fact, I don't remember seeing programmes for sale anywhere. And looking around this audience, no one else has either.

That's the second panto of the run that hasn't offered me my quota of papery goodness. And the second of the larger outer-London affairs that I've been to.

That must surely not be a coincidence.

On either side of the auditorium, the doors close. I check my phone. It's 4.27pm.

They don't believe in latecomers at the Harrow Arts Centre.

"What time does it startttt?!" cries the small boy now returned from his booster seat adventure.

Dad checks the time. "4.30," he says. "Now."

But we have a few more minutes to wait before the house lights come down and the villain comes out.

Here we go.

My last panto of the marathon. Last panto of the year. And if I have anything to say about it, the last panto of my life.

"What's up crew?" calls out Wishy Washy, who is apparently a real character in this story.

"What's up Wishy?" we call back, exactly as instructed.

But it's not enough.

It's never enough.

We have to do it again. Louder.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?"

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?"

Still not good enough. Someone is not playing along, and Wishy Washy is determined to find them out. He splits the room in half, with a hand drawing a zig-zagging line down the middle of the auditorium.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?" screams Wishy.

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?" scream the other side of the room.

Wishy bounces over to my side."WHAT'S UP CREW?" screams Wishy.

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?"

He's found he problem. It's in the first three rows.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?"

"WHAT'S UP WISHY!?"

He's found the culprit now. It's a man in the front row.

He's called Rob.

Rob has to stand up. Turn around. And when Wishy Washy does the call, Rob has to reply all by himself.

He does well. But it doesn't end there for him.,

The Dame has got her hands on that name and she's not afraid to use it. Every flirtatious joke is directed towards Rob in the front row, with the shrugged message that if you sit in the front row at a panto, you're asking for it.

In all fairness to them, this lot are taking the brunt of the jokes. Taking the piss out of their own lines with an exhausted roll of the eyes every time the audience fails to react to a terrible joke.

A Super Soaker chase and Haribo-throw later, it's the interval.

Kids skitter around, pushing themselves through the rows in a reenactment of Aladdin's run around the auditorium that took place minutes before.

The children next to me return with some new found friends, who they proudly introduce to their parents.

One pair return bearing ice cream.

A single, solitary, tub.

"We got ice cream for you and grandad," they announce to their mother. "To share. So maybe you should sit next to each other?"

Mum laughs. "Did you? Maybe grandad should eat half and then pass it over?"

But the pair aren't having it, and seats are rearranged so that mum and grandad can sit next to each other and share the ice cream.

The visiting kids return to their seats, and soon it's time for act two.

Now I've been to so many damn pantos, I'm finding myself a connoisseur of all the classic elements.

Harrow's update of the Ghost Bench scene has us shouting "Behind you," about a bandage-wrapped Egyptian mummy on the rampage. That works well.

The choice of Jingle Bells as the singalong works slightly less well.

Especially when it the repetitions start to resemble a hearing test for the cast, with the room split in half once again.

Even poor Rob is picked on to sing, but it was just a joke. "Your face!" laugh the cast as Rob, no-doubt, wills murder on them all.

Finally, finally, we get to the end. The ensemble rushes off stage to fetch bouquets for the main cast members, leading to much confusion in the ranks as they pass them around.

Something tells me those flowers aren't going to make it home.

This cast is straight off to the pub, and won't be coming out until they the memories of panto are far behind them.

A Beastly Panto

"Just to warn you," I type out slowly on my phone, careful not to make any typos. "I'm a little bit drunk."

In truth, I'm a lot bit drunk.

I'm still at my work Christmas lunch and people keep on bringing me drinks. A Brandy Alexander has just landed next to my plate. It's disgustingly sweet.

I want another one.

It's a good thing I have to leave early. Only six hours after the drinking started.

I can still walk though. Which is good. And type. I think.

Pretty sure I can get to my next theatre in one piece too.

On the train a woman leans over to me.

"Does this train go to Catford?" she asks.

I blink at her. "Yes?" I say. I hope it's going to Catford. Because that's where I need to be.

I get out my phone, hoping she doesn't have a follow-up question for me.

There's a message from Rosie.

"I'm very much here. I'm a queue."

I read that again.

Did she just say she was a queue?

"Sorry I'm in a queue.

"I'm not A queue."

Oh good.

I was beginning to think those Brandy Alexanders had gone to my head.

I type back. "Im on the train. About ten minutes out. Wanna pick up the tickets?"

I stare at it. I can't remember how to do apostrophes.

Fuck it. I hit ‘send.’

"Yes! Under 'Smiles?'"

"That's the one!"

I keep my head bowed, trying very hard not to make eye contact with the Catford-bound lady.

"Got em!"

Thank goodness. I was worrying that I might have to slur my postcode over some poor box officer.

Now, I know what you're thinking. That if I do insist on getting drunk and going to the theatre, then I should by rights be slurring over box officers, if for no other reason than to tell you about it.

But here's the thing, I'm going to the Broadway Theatre, and I've already done the box office thing the last time I was here, so I know they are housed off in their own little room down the road. And I know it looks like it's the set of a touring version of one of Agatha Christie's lesser-known Poirot novels. I don't need to repeat the experience. Much to the relief of box officers everywhere, who no doubt have already had too many lushs breathing alcohol fumes over their counters this panto season.

On the short walk from the station I suck in as much cold air as my lungs can stand, but all that means is that by the time I spot Rosie standing outside the entrance to the Gothic horror castle that is the Broadway, my head is feeling more than a touch woozy.

"I'm just going to take a photo," I tell her, diving across the road towards the slim island in the middle of two streaming rows of traffic.

This is not going to go well for me.

From my position on the island, I can see all the children cramming themselves through the doors for a night of pre-Christmas fun.

I really need to get my act together.

A couple of photos.

A couple of deep breaths.

Back into the breach I go.

"Sorry," I apologise to Rosie. "I'm feeling a bit out of it at the moment."

I get the feeling I'm going to have to do a lot of apologising tonight.

We go in.

The foyer is packed.

Rosie goes off to find the loos and I turn around, trying to make sense of this chaos.

A little girl in wellington boots is bouncing up and down, treading an avalanche of spilt popcorn into the carpet.

Behind me, the bar as been turned into a sweet shop. The shelves that you'd expect to be laden with bottles of spirits, are now playing host to a tower of plastic tubs, filled with pastel clouds of candyfloss.

The queue is long.

But down the other end, is a large water dispenser, and two stacks of cups.

I head towards it.

A small boy is struggling with the tap and the dispenser wobbles dangerously. His dad jumps in to help, holding the dispenser steady as the boy stands on tiptoe to fill up his cup.

Cup filled, I grab one for myself. One of those big pint size ones that lairy men wave about at festivals.

I fill it to the brim, then manage to drain half of it by the time Rosie comes back.

"Want some?" I say, lifting the cup to show her.

"Straight gin, is it?"

I probably shouldn't tell her I was on the gin at noon. And that was after the morning mimosas.

We go upstairs.

Usually, when I'm taking someone to a show, I do try and get good seats. Down in the stalls, if I can afford it. Even for bloody panto.

But the stalls were all sold out, so off into the circle we go.

Shame.

"Christ," I say, sitting down. "Look at this shit legroom."

I point at my legs, which do not even slightly fit in this row.

I try twisting to one side, and manage to get myself in, but that will only work as long as no one sits next to me.

Rosie twists in the opposite direction, towards the aisle.

"Did you get a programme?" asks Rosie as we pivot away from one another.

"Shit," I say, the horror stopping me while I'm still fighting off my coat.

I had totally forgotten about programmes.

I am a lot drunker than I thought.

I wriggle out of my sleeve and dump my coat down next to me.

Although we are technically in the circle, we're not in a balcony. There's a clear line of seats going down all the way to the stage. The only differentiation, a long tech desk cutting across the auditorium.

So from our perch at the back, I have a clear view of the audience.

Little kids wave around light-up roses, for Beauty and the Beast rie-in value, and miscellaneous flashing knickknacks that don't have any apparent connection to the show. But no one has a programme.

"No one has programmes?"

"Maybe they don't have any?" says Rosie. "What kinda of panto doesn't have programmes?"

Even the amateur panto I saw last night managed to pull together a programme. Even the tiny Portobello Panto had a programme.

If the light-up rose sales figures are anything to go by, shifting a few thousand programmes shouldn't be too hard in this joint.

The lack of programmes is not a good sign.

Rosie senses my distress and asks about the other pantos I've seen.

I give a run down, finishing with a sigh. "I hate panto." I mean, I did kind of enjoy last night’s, but even so, the sentiment runs deep and can’t be dammed by a single positive example of the genre.

"Why? I love panto!"

Oh dear.

I give her my theory: if performers have to work so hard to get a response from the crowd, then maybe it's their show that needs more work, and not the audience.

"Welcome to the Broadway Theatre and to our 2019 panto," comes a voice over the sound system. Down by the tech desk I can see a woman speaking into the microphone. She gives a few of the standard rules, but then follows them up with: "to the front row, do not leave your seats in the middle of the show, due to pyrotechnics."

Ooo.

Well!

Things are looking up.

Who needs programmes when you've got fireworks!

And on that happy thought: we're off.

Silly Billy doesn't take his time teaching us his whole call and response deal.

I shrug at Rosie, but do my best to join in.

Rosie leans down and pulls something out of her bag and offers it to me.

I blink at it, trying to make out what it is in the darkness.

"What are they?" I ask, giving up.

"Macarons!"

Ooo!

I take one.

"Way too sophisticated for this show," I say, waving vaguely at the stage and spraying crumbs everywhere.

But even that doesn't manage to lower the tone.

I watch, stony-faced. Even by panto standards, this seems terrible.

As three cast members finish their barrel through a low-rent version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, involving the chucking of five bog-rolls into the audience on multiple occasions, I turn to Rosie.

"Did that actually happen?" I ask. I'm still fairly drunk. It could well have been just my imagination.

She looks at me in confusion.

"Hasn't that happened at your other pantos?"

"No!?"

"The Twelve Days with toilet roll has happened at every panto I've ever been too!" she counters.

Blimey.

Clearly, I'm sat amongst hundreds of other panto connoisseurs, because the second the Dame and Silly Billy come out with Super Soakers, people are reaching for their coats and hiding under them, ready for the liquid onslaught.

"Kinda glad we're not sitting in the front row now," says Rosie.

I nod in agreement.

December is not the month I want to be walking home in damp clothes.

An usher walks through the aisle carrying a tray of ice cream and sets herself up in the corner.

It must be the interval soon.

Thank gawd.

I'm not sure my sodden brain or tortured knees can take much more of this.

One scene stretches out after the other. So long that I fear for the ice cream that must surely be melting away in this overheated space.

But eventually, it comes. The interval.

"Being drunk does not help," I say.

To my surprise, Rosie agrees: this is not a good panto.

"Because we're in Catford, I really thought they'd be more jokes about cats."

I snort. That is by far the best joke of the night.

"It's just all impressions!" Rosie goes on.

This is true. Silly Billy is too busy showing off his catalogue of celebrities to be the sweet sidekick I'd encountered elsewhere. Instead of being simple but steadfast, Silly Billy is actually a bit of an arsehole.

"Has there at least been a slosh scene in the other pantos you've seen?"

What? "What?"

Rosie looks at me in shock. "Where they throw gunge...?" she says slowly. "It usually happens before the interval, so they have time to clean up."

Oh.

Crikey.

I shake my head sadly. There has been no throwing of gunge at any of the pantos I've seen.

Usually, I would not class myself as, well, pro-gunge, but if ever a show needed a bit of intentional mess, this is it.

Half-way through act two, Rosie perks up, clapping her hands in excitement as the Dame suggests making a cake.

But she is left disappointed as the gunge fails to make an appearance, and instead we get a return visit from the Super Soakers.

Later, it's my turn to perk up when Super Soakers are replaced by swords, wielded by some actors in very tight trousers. Which is the sort of high-quality art that could make me convert to the panto cause. But too soon, it is over, and Silly Billy is back, waving up a pile of kids onto the stage who absolutely do not want to be there.

"This is excruciating," I whisper as Silly Billy asks a small boy whether he likes the look of an equally small girl.

"This is awful," agrees Rosie. "I think I'm broken. I thought I liked panto!"

"I'm so sorry," I say, meaning it.

"You ruined panto for me, Max."

I bristle. It wasn't me! I just bought the tickets.

I had no hand in this... monstrosity of a show. And I will not be held complicit in this nonsense.

I will the curtain to go down, but I fear we are stuck here forever. The show will never end.

Kids rush down the aisle to the front, to dance by the stage.

They don't get long.

The announcer I spotted at the beginning rushes in and shoos them back down the aisle. She crouches at the end, blocking off the front of the stage. The kids carry on dancing as twin foundations of fireworks explode on stage.

And that's the end.

We're free to go.

I pause on the stairs to take a photo.

“Sorry,” I tell Rosie as she waits for me. “I just really like that window.”

“Oh! I thought you were taking a photo of the exit sign!”

Rosie is savage.

"It was long," sighs a yawning child in the foyer.

"Three hours," replies her mum.

I look at the time.

Holy shit, she's right. It's ten o'clock.

I tell Rosie this. "Three hours for panto? That's way too long for a family show. What about the children's bedtimes?" she says, scandalised.

What about my bedtime, more like.

I slump into my seat on the tube home. Not even caring as a full-blown scuffle breaks out in my carriage.

"Don't want to back down? Let's go. Let's go right now!" shouts one guy, standing up.

"Oh, you fucking Tory wanker!" shouts the second, aiming a palm at the first guy's shoulder.

The shoulder-push is returned, with an added collar grab from the first guy. "Get out of the country!"

Those sitting close by shift down a few seats.

The young woman sitting opposite me twists around to place her legs up over her boyfriend's so she can get a better view of what's going on.

"I'm here. We're all right here! Let's go!"

"Can you shut the fuck up mate? You're being very aggressive. Very aggressive. On the tube. Some people are terrified! Absolutely terrified!" he shouts, waving his arm around to indicate the rest of us, watching them sleepily.

Honestly, fighting is so much more entertaining with swords and tight trousers involved.

Bel Panto

We've become close, you and me, over the past year. And during that time, I suspect that you may have noticed that I'm a bit of a worrier.

I worry.

I worry a lot.

I worry about everything.

I worry about being late while walking around a block three times to ensure that I'm not too early. During shows I'm trying to hold myself in a perpetual balance of not crying or laughing or rolling my eyes too much in front of fellow audience members, while also not wanting to be a mannequin for the performers. I get embarrassed telling people about my blog while at the same time knowing it is the one thing that would explain my presence at a small amateur show where I know no one.

It's exhausting.

So you can imagine, when I discovered that to get to the Greenwood Theatre before the year was out I would need to book myself onto an amateur panto, I didn't take it well. If there was a Venn diagram of all my anxieties, this would be the perfect spirograph of overlapping circles, with me sat squarely in the middle.

Can you tell I'm not looking forward to tonight's theatre trip?

Twelve months ago I avoided all panto.

Twelve months ago amateur theatre was something that happened to other people.

Twelve months ago, I didn't even know the Greenwood Theatre existed.

Someone had to tell me about it. And I was super duper happy to add it to the list.

Things didn't get any better when I was booking and I discovered that the most hateful of all theatre questions had made it onto the booking form.

There was a drop-down list. From which I had to admit that no, I don't know anyone connected to this show.

I'm just that weirdo who turns up for rando pantos.

Anyway, here I am. Wandering around the King's College buildings, looking for this place.

Turns out, it's literally around the corner from London Bridge. Which would have been super convenient if I hadn't walked here from Waterloo.

It's much bigger than I expected.

The hoarding over the door reads GREENWOOD THEATRE in fat capital letters.

The doorway is lit up with pink lights, streaming out of a square of bulbs which makes me feel like I'm walking under one of those old Hollywood mirrors as I make my way inside.

Inside there's a tiny little vestibule, with exactly nothing in it except for a dispenser offering up plastic bags to put your umbrella inside of.

I don't want my umbrella getting all mouldy so I ignore that.

Inside, it's packed.

Like, seriously.

There are people everywhere.

Even sitting on the floor.

I find this out a touch too late, as I almost trip over a guy's legs.

But I can't blame him. There's no where else to sit. All the chairs are taken.

Even standing room is limited.

The ceiling is lit up with green lights.

There's a Christmas tree going on somewhere at the back.

What there doesn't seem to be, is a box office.

I scan the walls, looking for a counter, a window. Anything.

Nope.

There is a desk though.

With a laptop.

And a money box.

I go over.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?" I say, still not sure I'm in the right place.

"Sorry?" says one of the ladies sitting behind the desk.

Shit. I'm not in the right place.

"Smiles?" I chance again. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

She types it into the laptop. "Lovely," she says, looking up and beaming at me. "That's great."

Oh. Okay. I think I'm signed in now.

I press into the crowd. I'm feeling a bit weirded out. Although whether that's due to a lack of physical proof of my ticket purchase in my hand, the fact that I've seen over three hundred shows within a year, or that I'm at a panto with an audience entirely composed of grown ups, I can't tell you.

I look around. There are, like, no children here.

And by no children, I mean there are two. But so small they barely count. I only spotted them because I had to dive out of the way as they pelted themselves in my direction.

Somehow, without me making any effort at all, a queue appears to have formed in the exact place where I'm standing. And I seem to be near the front of it.

This won't do at all.

I quickly hurry away.

I don't want to be first in the doors. If I'm in before everyone else, I won't be able to properly judge where the best seats are.

And by 'best seats' I, of course, mean ones that are near the back, but not so far back that the crowd begins to thin. I want to be in the last properly occupied row. Which means, I need to be going in after everyone else has chosen their seats.

"Programmes!"

My ears perk right the fuck up.

"Programmes! Over here!"

I follow the siren call.

"Programmes! Raffle tickets!"

There's a desk. It's covered in programmes and raffle prizes.

The programme seller spots her mark and beckons me over.

"Raffle ticket? Lovely prizes... Bottle of champagne?"

"Can I just get a programme?" I ask.

I may be going to amateur theatre now, but I'm not crossing that final line and buying their raffle tickets. That's a step too far.

"Here you go," she says holding one out. "Raffle tickets!"

I almost step back at that blasting call.

"Sorry…"

"Programmes!"

"Sorry..."

"Raffle tickets! Over here!"

"Sorry, howmucharetheprogrammes?"

She turns back to me.

"Two pounds."

"Great..."

I hand over the cash, grab my programme, and make a run for it.

Behind me, the queue is growing. It's got halfway across the foyer. Which means that some of the seats have been vacated. I find one and sit down.

The programme is pretty nice. Lots of notes from the creatives, which I always enjoy.

But something catches my eye in the one from the company's chair. "There's plenty of audience participation to get involved with so please listen out for direction from Buttons!"

Oh gawd.

A voice comes over the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for this evening's performance of Cinderella."

Right. No time to worry about that. We're going in.

I find the end of the queue right over by the entrance.

I seem to have found some more children. They've got themselves new sunglasses, and they are so enamoured with them they have lost all concept of how queues work.

"Come on boys," sighs their mother. "Look where you're going. You need to concentrate!"

Where we're going is through a very plain corridor, and through into the theatre.

Lights swirl over the red curtains.

On the other side are rows and rows of red seats, split into three banks by two aisles.

I eye them up. The front is pretty packed. People are wanting to be sitting near the stage tonight.

I start climbing until I find a row which is not entirely empty, but still has plenty of buffer seats. I don't want to be cosying up to anyone tonight. I looks like the sort of event where everyone knows everyone, and I don't want to be messing with any friendship dynamics going on.

I dump my coat and my bag.

There's plenty of space, even for my massive fur coat.

They ain't kidding around with the legroom in the Greenwood. I can cross my legs. I can stretch them out. I can sprawl.

I'm in heaven.

"Visitors to the Greenwood Theatre, please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will commence... shortly."

There's a small whoop from the audience.

That announcer knew what he was doing with his dramatic pause.

Someone comes to sit at the end of my row, sealing us in.

Thank the theatre gods, I've got my wall against any roving actors now.

Also, by the looks of it, he's also by himself.

I glance around, and amongst all the chattering friend groups, I manage to spot a fair few unaccompanied adults.

That's nice. I've been the only loner at the panto for far too long.

Friendless-theatre goers unite!... Separately!

The announcer is back on the microphone. "Good evening humble audience..."

The humble audience giggles, and the announcer warns us that we are, in fact, at a panto, and a certain level of enthusiasm is expected from us.

And now, here's the thing. The reason I don't like panto and never will. I kinda feel like, if a performer has to actually tell us they need more from us, like during the endless repeating of call and response to get us to scream louder, the "I can't hear youuuu....." and all that malarkey, then maybe, just maybe, their show is shit and we should all just go home.

Is that just me?

Okay, it's just me. Whatever.

Anyway, announcer-dude is asking as to give it up for the band, and like... okay. Fine. I can get on board with a bit of clapping for the musicians.

But then the curtain’s up, and the cast is singing, and Buttons is telling us how to say hello to him.

"Alright everybody!"

"Alright Buttons!"

Ergh.

Anyway, he's a postman and he has a parcel to deliver. To Becky.

"Where's Becky?"

Becky's friends all point to her while she covers her face and sinks down into her seat.

"It's a child! It's a child!" shouts a woman sitting behind me.

Which is obviously untrue because there are only four children in here and none of them are crying about being the forgotten Becky.

Buttons lobs a bag of Cadbury's Buttons at Becky.

She seems happy with that.

"Well, that was exciting, wasn't it?" announces the announcer. "There'll now be a fifteen-minute interval. See you again soon!"

I ain't going anywhere. I'm very comfy where I am. All this legroom... After spending so many nights in cramped seats, this feels like pure luxury. And while I'm not sure the dents in my shins will ever fill out again, I'm still feeling the benefit.

"It's good, isn't it?" says someone sitting behind me.

"So many children!" says her friend.

She means on stage. There are more little ones playing the role of Cinderella's mice friends then there are watching the show in the audience.

They are super cute though. All scurrying about being as extra as possible. One of them is dancing around so hard her ear-hat keeps on falling off and she has to spend the next two minutes sitting down on stage to put it back on. Only for it to fall off again moments later as she pretends to faint.

It's darling.

"Attention audience! Please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will continue shortly."

At this point, before we get started again, I should probably admit something to you: I am not hating this.

It could be that the singing is rather good, or possibly the constant stream of shoe-puns are doing it for me. Maybe I'm just enjoying the prince being an excellent trouser-role. These are all possibilities. But I suspect thevreal reason is that panto has simply just broken me.

One more and I'll be screaming "he's behind youuuuu!" with the kind of fervour you only find in American megachurches.

The whoop as the curtain rises once more is loud and long and I'm almost tempted to join in.

A young woman sitting in the row in front gets out her phone and starts filming. She knows what's she's doing. The screen is set to dim, the phone held low and aiming between the shoulders of the couple ahead of her.

Her friend spots what she's up to and tries to do the same, but he's got it all wrong. His screen is so bright he's illuminating himself as the prat he is, and he can't get the angle right.

After a few failed attempts to get a photo, he gives up.

Maybe he can get the footage off his friend's phone after.

The four kids in the audience are all screaming and laughing. They must have had a serious sugar fix during the interval, and the ghost roving around the back of the stage is sending them wild.

Unawares, the cast is having a pun-off of ghost-related song titles.

"Ghouls just want to have fun!" one says, swinging her hips and her arms in opposite directions.

"I believe I can floss!" shouts out a childish voice from the audience.

Uproar.

Complete and utter uproar.

Laughter drowns out any attempt from the cast to continue.

I spend the rest of the show giggling, and when Cinderella's wedding dress comes loose during the final number, and Buttons and the evil step-mother both grab on to her bodice to keep it closed, I realise I've actually rather enjoyed myself tonight.

Dear gawd.

What has become of me?

Crossing bridges and trying not to burn them

You can't just walk into the JW3 building.

The entrance is set back from the road and only accessible by crossing over a long bridge. Access to the bridge is through huge metal gate. A gate that is guarded by security.

"Bag check?" I ask the security guard as I approach. Probably best to at least show willing.

"Yes, please!" he says, clicking on his torch as I open my bag for him.

He pokes around inside, picking up a tissue-wrapped parcel.

"What's this, if I may ask?" he asks in a tone that mixes politeness and the promise of significantly less politeness in equal measure.

"Is a gift box," I tell him. "It's empty."

I just bought it at the Tiger down the road. The very nice sales assistant wrapped it in tissue so that it wouldn't get messed up in my bag. And I was too cheap to pay the 50 pee fee for a bag. On reflection, this was a mistake. As packages go, it does look a touch suspicious.

He turns it over, and discovers that it is, indeed, empty.

Convinced that I have no intentions of bombing the Jewish community centre, he steps back and lets me through.

I walk across the bridge.

Far below, a small ice rink has been built, and the last couple of kids skate around, protected by the high walls on all sides.

I pause to take a photo, but I don't want to hang around. I can feel the security guard keeping a close eye. I hurry over to the doors and go in.

There's a huge desk taking up one wall. That's the box office.

Over on the other side there are bookcases and huge floor cushions which a few kids are making full use of.

"Oh sorry," says one of the box officers, suddenly looking up and noticing me waiting.

"Hello! The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S.?"

"Collecting tickets?"

"Yup."

She taps something into her computer. "First name?"

"Maxine. M. A. X. I. N. E." I say. I've got a bit of a cold again. The kind of cold that clogs up my voice. Always best to spell things out.

"That's one ticket," she says, handing it over.

I take it, a touch surprised. Given all the security I thought I might at least have to provide a bit of ID. But perhaps they already ran the background checks on me before I got here.

"Thanks, err, where am I going?"

Yup, I'm ashamed to say I have never been to JW3 before.

"It's in the Hall," says the box officer. "Down the stairs, to the left, and through the restaurant."

"Down. Left. Restaurant," I repeat. "Thanks!"

And off I go, down the stairs, and into the restaurant. And it's a proper restaurant, not a cafe. Bit annoying. I could have been tempted by a slice of cake. But nevermind.

I turn left. Keeping close to the wall as I pass tables heaving with people having their dinner.

Right at the end, there are doors, flanked either side by ushers. That must be the entrance to the Hall.

It's closed.

I'm early.

I look around.

There's nowhere to sit.

I'm in a restaurant.

I turn back, wondering whether I should go back upstairs to make use of those massive squashy floor cushions. But I'm too old to sprawl.

Over on the far side of the room are some doors leading outside to the courtyard.

I go out.

The last skaters are packing up and coming back in.

I'm all alone out here.

Headlights flash.

There's a car by the gate.

It waits, engine running, the lights so bright they make my blink.

The gate creaks open.

The car drives in.

I don't hang around to find out who's driving it. I go back inside.

The doors are open now.

A queue has formed, running all the way down the side of the restaurant.

I join it.

We move quickly.

"Thanks very much," says the ticket checker as he tears off the stub. "Enjoy!"

Inside I find myself walking down the side of a seating bank until I reach the front.

It's busy tonight.

People wearing lanyards scuttle about the front, getting in the way and yet not directing anyone.

I squeeze through them as they hold hurried conversations. They don't even look up.

I start climbing, trying to find a seat.

The back few rows have been cordoned off with a rope, and I slip into one of the last rows.

The seats are a mixture of singles and doubles. I pick a double, and send up a short prayer to the theatre gods that I won't have to share it with anyone.

From here I can see tens of heads wearing kippahs. I can't remember the last time I saw a man wearing a kippah in the theatre, let alone so many at once.

That's not the only thing that's done differently here.

A woman comes in, carrying a takeaway box from the restaurant. By the smell, the contents is warm and savoury. She also has a fork.

Now, I appreciate that being around your own people makes you feel safe enough to wear religious clothing. But hot food? In a theatre? Truly that is an abomination.

She sidles into the row in front of me and she points at an empty chair.

"Can I just reserve this one?" says the man sitting next to the empty seat.

She nods and moves one along.

It's a double-wide.

"Is this for one or two?" she asks.

"There are lots of seats," comes the confused reply of the seat-saver.

"But is this for two? Or can I have it myself...?"

"If you like...?"

She sits, but as the row begins to fill up, she changes her mind.

Coat and bag are swung over the back of the seat into my row. Next comes her umbrella. Then her dinner.

Finally, she climbs over.

As she organises herself, she places her takeaway down on my double-wide. I stare at it, faintly disgusted but also really hungry.

I miss eating dinner.

Eventually, the takeaway box is removed.

But I soon find something else trying to my friends with my knees.

An elbow.

It's draping over the back of the seat in front.

I shift my legs to one side, but it's no good. This girl is doing to full flirt-stretch over her date for the evening. I can tell it's a date because as well as the arm, she's also fluffing up her curls and tipping back her head to laugh.

An action that means that my knees aren't just getting elbowed, they are getting blanketed by hair.

I'm beginning to doubt that these are my people.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to start, if you can take your seats."

A woman appears on stage. She introduces herself. She's the programmer at JW3.

She introduces another woman. Who in turn introduces our performer for the evening. A little excessive on the whole introduction front, but this is an industry that attracts people who like talking, so I suppose we should be supportive of that.

Anyway, the show for the evening is about conspiracy theories. Which sounds fun.

Antisemitic conspiracy theories.

Which sounds less fun.

As the target of Marlon Solomon's exposition narrows to the Labour party... I begin to grow uncomfortable.

I've made it no secret from you that I'm Jewish. Nor that I vote Labour.

And I can tell you now that my family have, in turn, not made a secret of how little they approve of my political affiliations.

I've been called a race traitor. I've been told that I voted for Hitler. I've been told I should be shot for voting Labour.

Shot.

Shot!

Thank gawd for strict gun laws, eh?

So, yeah. I'm feeling a little awkward in this room right now. With these people, who are my people. And yet...

Solomon tells us that he never feels more Jewish than when his Jewishness is under attack.

I get that. I've felt that.

I've never felt less Jewish than in this room.

I've never felt more left wing.

Solomon tells us that he's lost work though his calling out of antisemitism in the Labour party.

I can believe it.

My family likes to say that I'm a lefty liberal because that's what I'm surrounded by in theatre. But the truth is, it's the other way around. I went to work in theatre because I wanted to surround myself with lefty liberals.

That's where I feel comfortable.

But I've heard plenty of suspect shit over the years.

Like an old co-worker, who I won't name because... well, the arts is a small world… anyway, when I told them I had dual nationality with Britain and Israel, they quickly informed me that the reason they were anti-Israel, no, wait, scrap that, the reason they had to be anti-Israel, was that their father was posted there with the army. The British army. A statement I've thought a lot about over the intervening years, and yet it still baffles me as much now as it did then. Both in its content and the need to tell me.

Another co-worker, who I won't name because she's a dear friend and an absolute darling, once gigglingly asked me if I had heard of David Icke. She had been listening to his stuff and thought he was fascinating. Lizard people! Fancy. I told her that she should stop listening to David Icke. Because David Icke is well-known as a antisemite. I don't know if she took my advice. I hope she did.

Then there was Falsetto-gate. Which was never resolved, or explained, or even defended.

Oh, and that thing at the Tricycle theatre. Do you remember that thing at the Tricycle theatre? Back when it was the Tricycle and not the Kiln? They pulled an entire film festival, a Jewish film festival, because it recieved funding by the Israeli embassy.

I mean, of all things to boycott, art seems to me like it should be last on the list.

I was lucky enough to be employed somewhere where a lot of Israeli artists were (and are) invited to bring their work on the regular. But when they came there was also the question "who is funding it?” and then bracing ourselves for protests if the answer wasn't one acceptable to the right-thinking-left. There never were protests. Not while I was there. I'm not sure I could have coped with it if there was.

Perhaps we avoided it because the Israeliness of these artists was always downplayed

I was asked, more than once, to remove a reference to these artists' nationality from marketing copy.

It's a weird thing, being asked to scrub out the name of a country that you hold a passport for. Lest it spark trouble.

I was never required to do that with artists from any other nation.

Time for questions.

"Now there's been the little matter of the general election," says someone in the front row who has seen the show three times now. "And Corbyn will be spending a lot more time on his allotment..."

"Thank gawd," stage whispers the woman sitting next to me.

Thank gawd.

Thank gawd.

I don't hear the rest of the question.

I'm shifting in my seat, desperate to get out of here.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.

The arts is very left. This is true. And like Solomon, this is where I feel my most Jewish. But sitting here in JW3, or having dinner with my family, that's when I'm most socialist.

The questions finish.

People start getting up to put on their coats.

One of the introducers from the beginning comes back on stage and starts doing an outro.

I just want to get out of here.

The couple next to me are taking their time leaving, sorting through all their bags and pockets, clearly with nowhere else to be.

The bloke looks up and sees me waiting.

"Shall we move?" he suggests. "People want to leave."

People do want to leave.

As soon as they pick up their stuff I'm out, speeding down the steps, around the seating block, through the door, down past the restaurant, up the stairs, across the foyer and back across that bridge.

Theatre was supposed to be my safe place, and I have never felt more attacked.

As I hurry down to the bus stop, I feverishly type notes into my phone.

On the bus ride back through Golders Green and back to Finchley, I try to make sense of my feelings.

I don't think they've changed.

I don't regret voting Labour in the last election.

I just really hope that I never have to.

Priscilla, Queen of the Marsh

After two bus journeys, and a dash across a busy road, I am in Edmonton. And I appear to be heading in the right direction because the AA sign is pointing the way to the Millfield Theatre Panto.

I had no idea this was such a landmark on the cultural landscape.

But here I am, ready to enjoy it.

Or at least, attend it. You know I'm not a bag fan of panto. Or even a little fan. Or any kind of fan.

I really don't like panto

But liking a show is not a prerequisite of seeing one on this here marathon, so I grit my teeth and follow the direction of the sign.

Huge iron gates lead off the main road. A sign on the long brick wall indicates that the Millfield Theatre lurks beyond.

I find myself in a car park, wandering down a road with no pavement.

A car comes, and I am forced to choose between standing in a puddle, or getting run over.

I choose the puddle.

I hope I don't come to regret that.

Round the corner, the car park widens out.

It's full.

Grown-up sons help their elderly relatives limp across towards the main building. I duck between the cars and make my own way over, looping around the front to where I find the low green doors of the entrance.

Inside, Christmas has officially landed.

The large island in the middle of the foyer that serves as the box office has been decked out in far more tinsel than could ever be reasonable. A small Christmas tree made of what looks like tennis balls is sat on the counter, and another, larger one has been upturned and stuck up above the box office's roof.

It's a startling image.

I wonder vaguely if it's a reference to the crucifixion of Judas Iscariot, but I decide, on balance, that they probably just liked the upside-down look.

I go over and join the queue.

The man in front of me reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Sorry," he says, abandoning his place to take a call.

"Hi!" I say, bouncing over to the counter. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Have you got the card you paid with?" asks the box office.

"Oh... yes. Probably," I say, rather taken aback. This is some high-level fraud prevention going on in Edmonton here. Clearly the Millfield Panto is more of a thing than I anticipated.

"It's your Visa, please," says the box officer, helpfully.

I get out my Visa and show him.

"Thank you," he says, giving my card a quick glance before handing over my ticket. "You'll need to go upstairs for that seat."

On the counter there's a pile of cast sheets, and I grab one before heading to the staircase that loops its way around the back of the foyer, taking me right up close to the upturned Christmas tree.

I pause on the top step to take a photo.

When I look up, I spot the ticket checker on the door watching me curiously.

"I'm just enjoying the upside-down Christmas Tree," I explain to her.

She looks back at me, unimpressed, and holds out her hand for my ticket.

"Thank you," she says, handing it back without a smile.

Okay then.

I head inside and find myself in an aisle, splitting the seating area in two.

I'm in the back half, of course.

Not that it was cheaper. All seats were the same price. I was just busy procrastinating on buying my ticket. I only committed to coming here last night.

For some reason, I had managed to convince myself that I might be able to get away with not going. But that was never going to happen. Because the only marathon-qualifying event the Millfield does, is the panto. The rest of the year is stuffed full of those strange musical tribute acts that tour around small regional theatres, with the odd kid's production of Shakespeare on a weekday morning. But other than that, it's solid The Eagles and Motown and Led Zeplin.

And panto.

Thank the theatre gods for panto, eh?

For all the AA yellow signage outside, the Millfield Theatre is actually pretty small. Not quite a studio, but still on the diddy side of things.

I find my seat.

Second row from the back and right in the middle.

I'm the only one sitting in my row. 

I picked this row especially because there was only one seat left for sale in it.

And now the fuckers haven't turned up.

I look around.

Grown-ups with huge gaggles of children around them look at me curiously. The weirdo woman by herself at a production of Mother Goose. I can't blame them.

I try and distract myself with the free cast sheet. I do appreciate a free cast sheet.

Especially one that informs me that Priscilla the Goose will be appearing as herself.

I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but I like it.

Now that I'm on my fourth panto of the year, I can start to make compassions. It looks like it's a lot more casual here in Edmonton than it is in Notting Hill. Clothing choices lean more towards the comfy Christmas jumper, with a sensible waterproof over the top. There's not a metallic jacket or drop-waisted smock dress to be seen. I'm very glad I'm in my oversized-sweatshirt Sunday special.

Not that this lot aren't here to party. I spot the ticket checker down in the stalls flick out a ream of tickets so long it pools on the floor at her feet. There must be four generations in that group, cousins included.

At three on the dot, the rest of the audience arrives.

One family takes up the rest of the row on one side of me, another family on the other side.

I'm safe.

"How many times have you been to this theatre?" asks a woman, looking around at her surroundings.

"Twice," comes the immediate reply. "Once for Romeo and Juliet and then for... ummm, oh. I don't remember the name."

Romeo and Juliet? Fucking hell. If I knew there was a Romeo and Juliet on offer, I would never have booked for Mother Goose. Romeo and Juliet isn't my favourite Shakespeare, which is saying something considering I don't even like Shakespeare, but even ridiculous teen tragedy is better than panto.

As the lights dim, I steel myself for the worst.

We're in Puddle Upon the Marsh. Mother Goose can't pay her rent, and Billy Goose is in love with the landlord's daughter. There's also a villain. Not quite sure what her role is, but she's got a slinky blank dress on and I appreciate that. And then there's the faerie. Reasons for her presence also unknown. 

Well, I do know the reason. It's panto. But narratively speaking, I don't think either of them need to be here.

Billy teaches the traditional call and response.

"Hiya folks!"

"Hiya Billy."

Obviously, we have to repeat this, because panto characters are all hard of hearing..

I do my best though.

Which is more than can be said for the teenage boy sitting in front of me. He got his phone out the moment the lights went down and has been scrolling through Snapchat ever since. He hasn't once looked up at the stage. Only putting down his phone long enough to pull his tiny brother up onto his lap when the little boy decided to go for a wander. 

The little brother isn't the only one on the move.

As I ponder how hard it is to shout a name like "Priscilla" in time with three hundred other people, I jump as a childish hand presses into my back.

I turn around and see a tiny face looming over my shoulder.

"Come back," calls the child's mother, tugging on the toddler's sleeve.

"No!" snaps the child.

"Come back! You're annoying the people!"

"Nooooo," roars the child, going into full dinosaur mode.

I stifle a giggle, trying hard to pretend not to notice as the hand returns to my back.

Her mum shouldn't worry. No one under the age of ten has any intention of staying in their seat for the show.

The aisle is a constant thoroughfare of parents and offspring going back and forth to the loos.

When the younger members of the cast appear in order to get us all clapping in time with a song, there's almost a pile up as the two factions clash near the doorway.

Dad's drag their little ones away, and there's a moment I worry they might be leading the wrong ones off. But after a small scuffle, they manage to get it sorted and the costumed ones are left to jump around and grin at an audience that is really not playing along.

I sink down in my seat and let it wash over me. I can't claim to be a great expert on panto, but I've seen a fair few of this year's offerings and this has to be the most curiously basic one yet. Apart from some fence-sitting references to Brexit, and a nod to Katie Price's bankruptcy, cultural references are thin on the ground.

As the interval hits I get out my phone to check who the local MP is.

Kate Osamor.

Labour.

And yet not a single jab at Boris.

My first panto of the year that hasn't even mentioned him.

Odd.

I wonder what pantos are like in Tory strongholds. There's one at the artsdepot. My local theatre in Finchley. For a brief moment, I'm tempted to add an extra theatre trip before January. But I quickly manage to quell the urge. Life is hard enough without adding the sight of Corbyn-the-panto-villain-cockroach to this hellfire of a year.

The ushers close the doors to the auditorium.

I look around.

One of my families hasn't returned.

I'm exposed on my right flank.

Bastards.

But I take it bravely, and we move on.

Back into the village which 2019 forgot, as a reference to Susan Boyle utterly fails to land. I'm not quite sure who that joke was for. Not dirty or political enough for the grown-ups, and far too stale for the children. Even the Snapchatting teenager is too young to remember who she is.

The children don't mind.

They're too busy racing through the aisle, their arms stretched out behind them like wings, ducking under the spotlights.

But the games come to an end as the house lights rise for birthday greetings.

And a few kids make it on stage for a singalong, courtesy of a golden ticket.

Like all children dragged up for these things, none of them want to be there.

We're ordered to our feet to help out with a round of Old Macdonald, but after the Dog goes woof here and there, we all determinedly sit down and cannot be coaxed back for the duck, cow, or goose.

And then, after an announcement that ushers are collecting for Brain Tumour Support, we are released.

I slip out as quickly as I can, racing down the stairs before the children have been wrestled back into their coats.

It's all for nothing though. There's a nine-minute wait for the bus.

"That was brilliant, wasn't it!?" exclaims a woman in a group waitibg at the bus stop with me. "Bet you're going to tell your mum! Guess what? I'm going home to be fabulous, darling!"

I wish I was going home to be fabulous, but as it happens, I've got a pile of laundry waiting for me.

Still better then panto though.

The beautiful people do Panto

I'm on my way to the Tabernacle.

It's been a long time coming. Eleven months I've been trying to find a marathon-qualifying event to book myself onto. Every few weeks I've gone on their website, only to find endless listings for Gong Baths, which I'm still not entirely convinced are a real thing. Things were looking up over the summer when some sand artist was putting on a show. But a few days after purchasing my ticket, I was sent a refund. No explanation. Just that. The refund. 

I figured they must have found me out and decided they didn't want a mediocre theatre blogger in their midst, but a couple of days after that, the Tabernacle's website was updated. The show had been cancelled.

On the plus side, they did have a load of plays programmed in.

In Russian.

I have no problems with seeing theatre in the foreign, but these ones didn't have surtitles.

And I'm already seen my fill of Russian theatre this year. Didn't even get a blog post out of it. It was a repeat visit.

I held out.

And held out.

And held out.

And eventually, the waiting paid off.

The Portobello Panto was in for Christmas. 

Now, I hadn't heard of the Portobello Panto, but after some Googling, I found out the apparently, it's quite the thing. Celebrities have been known to turn up. Sometimes even on stage. But it's not about them. It's made by the locals, for locals. And yadda yadda yadda, it's all super heartwarming.

So obviously I'm got my shoulders set, ready and waiting to cast a withering, cynical gaze over the whole enterprise.

But as I pass through the high iron gates, and find myself in a courtyard, in the shadow of a huge, red brick temple, complete with curved frontage and turrets rising up from the party-hat roof, I realise that I've actually been here before. With Allison.

It was to see a Bush theatre production. About boxing. What was it called? The Royale? Something like that.

Anyway, I'm back.

And as I step through the glass doors and into a bustling marketplace, I manage to hold back my surprise.

Yes, I remember this.

Stalls butt against the entrance as they compete for space. Beaded jewellery spreads out on tables and people hover as they take try and get their Christmas shopping done before the show.

Beyond the tables is the cafe, borded on one side by a well stocked bookcase, and on the other by a row of squashy-looking booths.

I ignore all this and head straight to the box office.

There's a bit of a queue going on. It's a sold out show this afternoon. As is the entire run. And by the looks of it, it's not just families wanting to take their little ones for a bit of festive entertainment. Oh no. This lot are young, and sporting the kind of cool haircuts and interesting earrings that are usually found in the wilds of Dalston.

Each of them Ooos and Ahhs over the programmes, and almost all of them dive into their wallets to hand over the two quid and walk away with one of the handsomely illustrated booklets.

Eventually, it's my turn.

"Yes?" asks the box officer who is clearly having a bit of a day.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles?"

"Yeah." I spell it out for him. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

He looks down at his list. Turns it over. Looks again. Then moves over to the second bit of paper.

I'm not there.

"You bought online?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And it's spelt…?"

"Exactly as you'd think it's spelt. I have the confirmation email if that helps?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Just to see how the name's written. Then I can see it."

I bring up the e-ticket, zoom in on my name, and show him.

"How many was it?" he asks.

"One."

He grabs a wristband from the pile and hands it to me.

"Yes?" he says to the next person in line.

"Umm," I say, interrupting. "Can I get a programme?"

He glances over. "Yeah, one pound or two. Whatever you want..."

I take two pound coins out of my purse and lay them down on the counter before taking one of the programmes from the display.

The box officer is already handing out more wristbands.

I find an empty corner where I can put on the wristband. It's orange. With TABERNACLE printed along it in blocky capitals. These things are tricky, but I just about manage it, and flash it to the staff on the door before heading up the stairs towards the theatre.

I have to step back as young families scuttle out of the theatre entrance for one more trip to the loos before things get started, but after a few aborted starts, I get myself in. The stage has been set up at one end, with the rest of the pit filled with a seating bank. Around the edge is an ornate slim balcony of slip seats.

I climb my way towards the back. I have no idea what to expect from a Notting Hill take on pantomime, but I am pretty sure that I don't want to be near the front.

I slip into the third row from the back.

A very well-dressed family is taking up the middle seats.

"Sorry, is there anyone here?" I ask one of the grown ups who has clearly spent a good deal at the hairdressers to get the shiny blow-out she is sporting.

She doesn't even look around.

"Sorry," I say, trying again. "Is there anyone here?"

This time she glances in my direction. "Noooo," she says in the primest West London accent I have ever heard in my life.

So I take the seat next to her.

Usually I'd leave a buffer, but as we know, this place is sold out, and I doubt there will be any other people here on their lonesome. So Ms Blowout is going to have to content herself with having to sit next to a North London scruff for the next few hours.

The band is already playing from their corner next to the stage and the air is filled with chatter as people lean over the rows to say hello to each other.

A family with young children comes in to take the seats on the other side of me.

A small boy holds down the flip seat for his mother.

Her hands full of coats and bags she makes to sit down.

The boy let goes.

The mum falls heavily to the ground.

All around hands grasp out to help her get back to her feet.

She's okay.

That excitement over, I inspect the set.

A sign marks out the presence of a Polling Station.

Something tells me this panto is going to get political.

A boy runs over to his seat. He's wearing a EU-themed Christmas jumper.

A tech person appears on stage, drink still in hand as he fiddles around with the street lamp.

"Remember to put your phones on silent," whispers a woman sitting behind me.

"It's a panto," comes the laughing reply. "No one will care."

The band finish their jam and the audience claps and whistles in appreciation.

The lights dim.

A man in a waistcoat comes out to introduce the show. A Christmas Carol. Not prime fodder for a panto, I would have thought, but here we are. He gives us a few instructions. Remember to boo the baddies and all that panto-stuff. The children give a quick demonstration of their booing skills, and we're off.

Into the world of fast fashion, where Ms Scrooge, in a floor length taffeta skirt and oversized glasses, presides over a clothing brand which relies on quick turnaround and unpaid labour.

Blowout-lady wriggles out of her coat, giving me a good bash with her elbow as she does so.

We journey to the Cratchett's home, where Tiny Tim sings us out with the plaintive 'Don't look back in hunger' after this family have insisted that 'Scroogey can wait.'

As the interval starts, my chair wobbles. Someone is climbing into my row. I stand up to let them pass.

The chair wobbles again. Someone else is clambering over. I stand to let them pass too.

Of all the things I've been getting annoyed by on this marathon, people insisting on having strangers stand up so that their friends don't have to move is the one that makes my blood boil the most.

I turn around, ready to glare at these lazy layabouts, and find myself staring at a row of tiny babies, resting peacefully in their parents’ arms.

There are three of them. All tiny.

"How old is she?" asks someone stopping next to the row of sleeping tots to admire the preciousness.

"Four months, but she was two months premature."

"So tiny!"

She is tiny. The tiniest baby I have ever seen in a theatre.

One of the mums returns, slipping into my row and leaning over to check on her child.

"Is she wet?" she asks.

"She just made," replies the dad.

I lean away, suddenly considerably less enamoured with these miniature humans.

"Are you okay?" asks the dad bending over the bundle. "Oh dear. A bit of vom."

I scoot forward in my seat. I definitely do not want to be close to that.

I get out the programme and have a look. The cast list is massive. And right at the end, there is the promise of a special guest playing the role of the fashion buyer. That's exciting.

People are starting to come back in. Every time I stand up to let people past the row of chairs leans back alarmingly as the unsecured feet rise up from the floor.

One of the blokes sitting behind puts out his arm to stop it encroaching on the babies.

“Is that mum's jacket?" asks a teenage girl, pointing down at my coat.

"No, that's mine," I tell her.

"Oh. Right," she says, but she keeps an eye on it all the same, until her sister recovers her mother's actual coat from under the seats and pulls it to safety.

"They must be mortified round here," says a woman as she takes her seat near me. "Because the Conservatives got in."

"There was a swing to Tory," agrees her friend.

"They showed a map of London and it was all red except this area."

And Finchley. Don't forget Finchley.

I would rather forget Finchley.

"They hated Corbyn though."

"To think this area is the area of Grenfell. It's just tragic."

It is. I saw Grenfell on my way here. Still there. Still looming. Still devastating.

One if the teenage girls starts inching her way down our row. I stand to let her past but she waves me back into my seat. "It's fine, I'm not going...," she says before plonking herself down in her mother's lap and winding her arms around her neck, messing up that salon-coiffure.

Her mother doesn't seem to mind.

The second act starts.

Things are really getting bad. Cratchett has lost his job. A sweatshop is being built right in Ladbroke Grove. And poor Scroogey is getting all these scary apparitions creeping into her bedroom.

And the special guest turns out to be a young man in a highlight pink suit.

The two men sitting in front of me turn to each other with a look of confusion.

"I think..." starts one...

But the special guest has already read his lines off the back of his folding fan, and has disappeared back off stage.

Soon enough, we are all clapping along to some Christmas song.

The cast are all introduced and each in turn steps forward to get their applause. Everyone has given their time for free and the ticket sales all go to charity.

Our special guest turns out to be called Tom Pomfrey (or possibly Pomfret?) which doesn't help me at all. I suspect I'm not cool enough to know who he is.

"A big cheer for this amazing little thing!" says one of the cast members, pointing down to a tiny toddler who is bouncing around in the front row, having the best time of his life.

The cast member leans down to pick the tiny toddler up, but finding himself on stage, the tiny toddler promptly bursts into tears.

But they don't last for long, and soon half the under-fives in the audience have found their way onto the stage to dance along with the cast.

And we are sent out into the real world with Scrooge's final message: "The real meaning of Christmas... is to change the awful people."

And on that note, I'm off to have dinner with my family.

Not very Hans Christian

Well this is weird. Six weeks to the day since I said goodbye to this joint, I'm walking back through the stage door at Sadler's Wells. It's ten-thirty. I have to remind myself that I'm not actually late for work. I'm early for my show. 

I pass all the carved heads and painted portraits of various dancers that I never paid much attention to when I worked here. I'm not about to start examining them now.

For performances in the studio, a box office is set up at the reception desk, and I head over to join the queue.

I don't know this box officer. I'm rather relieved by that. I get to stay under the radar for a few more seconds.

"I think it'll be under..." I say, giving Martha's surname. Bless her, she sorted all this out for me.

He flicks through the tickets in the box. "Noooo?"

Oh. "Maybe Smiles?" I say, hopefully.

"Ah yes!" he says, immediately perking up. He remembers that one.

He plucks the ticket out and hands it to me.

By this time, the stage door keeper has returned, and there's no getting away from her eagle eyes. "Hello honey," she says and I am suddenly overcome by the need to explain my presence to her.

"I'm seeing Little Match Girl," I say, holding up the ticket to prove that I am, indeed, there to see Little Match Girl.

After a bit of chit-chat I make a break for it. I never returned my staff pass when I left, and I don't want to risk getting found out.

I pass the cafe, turning my head away from all the cakes. They don't push this in the marketing, but Sadler's has really good cakes. Especially the carrot cake which was always my afternoon indulgence on really hard days. The flapjacks are good to, and are the sort of thing you can almost convince yourself is an acceptable breakfast when you have to come in early to meet a print deadline.

Just opposite are the doors to the studio. A row of ushers are standing guard, and amongst them, the front of house manager. I put my fingers to my lips. I don't want her giving me away, because I've just spotted the programming team.

I creep up, and bless them. They pretend to be happy to see me.

But not surprised.

Almost like they knew I was coming.

"Yeah, I wrote your name,” says an ex-co-worker who I won't be naming because I forgot to ask permission.

Oh.

"I thought it would be under Martha's name and I can sneak in."

"No. Nothing escapes me here."

Well.

"Do you want a freesheet? I know you love a freesheet."

I do love a freesheet.

She goes off to fetch me one and after posing with it for a photo, hands it over for me to give it a professional once over. Nice paper stock. Correct logo. No glaring typos. Slight formatting error, but I doubt anyone else would notice it. I'm almost disappointed. I was rather hoping everything had fallen apart after I left.

"They were printed down the road."

Oh? "Oh?"

There's only one reason things are printed down the road. 

"We almost didn't have freesheets for Wednesday but I told them we couldn't not have freesheets."

Definitely not.

I smile as she tells me all the exploits of getting them printed in time for first night and I begin to feel a lot better.

"Let me get you the visual storyline," she says, going off to fetch me more paper.

Ah yes. I didn't mention. I'm here for the relaxed performance. And along with the ear protectors I see laid out on the podium table near the door, and the chill-out room going off the cafe, there's also the visual storyline - a document designed to diminish anxiety by preparing audience members for everything that is going to happen.

"The titles are in italics," I say with a dramatic sigh as she hands it to me. "Gone a month and already the brand is falling apart."

But I'm only kidding. It's great. Especially the bolded line that tells me that while the matches in the show are real, as are their flames, "they are not dangerous if you don't go near them." Further down, a bullet point informs me that the dancers may dance close to me "but they won't touch you," which is very comforting.

Honestly, as someone who gets anxious about something as simple as hailing buses, I think these things should be available for all performances at every theatre. I am very much in favour of visual stories.

There are pictures of the entrance, and the box office and... I just realised something. This is my blog. This is what I'm writing. Except where mine is long and rambling, this is short and snappy and can be read in under a couple of minutes. Turns out you can filter down the entire experience of visiting a theatre in less than two thousand words. Huh. 

Who knew?

Anyway, after a few more hellos and a few more hugs, it's time to go in.

I show my ticket to the front of houser on the door.

"You know where you're going?" she laughs.

"I do!"

The Lilian Baylis Studio, or the LBS to those in the know, is a black box theatre. The stage is wide, as you'd expect for dance, and the seating basic but comfortable. 

I find my seat. It turns out that I'm near the back, and on the end. These people understand me.

Phil King is already in the corner of the stage, standing behind a barricade of instruments.

I dump my coat and my bag. And the very expensive chocolates that I just bought from the very expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage. 

Don't make that face. I know. I shouldn't be spending any money in any form of shop, let alone an expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage, but I had to vote this morning, and I know it will do absolutely no good at all. That's a level of despair that can only be cured by a very small purchase from a very expensive shop. The chocolate will help when the results come in. As will the tenner I put down on a conservative majority at the bookies yesterday. At least a Tory win will be buying my lunch tomorrow.

Enough of that. I have a theatre to concentrate on.

All around the auditorium, children bump into each other as they find their seats.

"I like the smoke!" says a small boy, pointing at the haze wafting over the stage.

"Where shall I sit?" calls out an equally small boy as his group is ordered to wait in the aisle until the grown-ups get themselves organised. "Where shall I sittttt?"

A minute later, he is told where to sit, and he gazes open-mouthed at the large moon hanging over the stage.

I stand up to let someone in my row, immediately apologising as I realise my bag, chocolate, and coat have spilled out to take over half the row.

"Don't worry," he says. "If no one comes, we can spread out."

I sigh. "The joys of thinking you can get away with going to the shops before the theatre." I grab my expensive chocolate and stuff it in my handbag, hoping that the thin layers of pavé don't crack in their box.

One of the learning and engagement team members comes over.

"Guys," she says. "Do you want to sit nearer the front?"

I absolutely do. Now that I know that none of the dancers will be touching me, there's no fear to be found sitting further forward.

We move over and plonk ourselves down in the second row, with the other staff members watching this morning show.

Probably the last thing they wanted, but I'm enjoying the view.

Especially as the lights dim, and the dancers appear.

I have to admit. I've seen the Little Match Girl before. I may not like panto, or even Christmas, but if I have a winter tradition, it's getting all weepy about a small girl shivering in the snow. I've been saving this theatre all year just so I could come and see this show. It was my one big concern about leaving Sadler's - not seeing Little Match.

But I've made it back.

And now I get to sit here, sniffing, for an hour, as the poor little match girl skitters about the stage, struggling in the face of a capitalist society that wants nothing to do with her. 

While all around greedy Tories guzzle on champagne and panettone and shut their doors to the unattractive sight of poverty. I mean. They're Italian. So they're not actual Tories. But still. I'm feeling a bit fragile though and the parallels are right there, for all to see.

It is unsettling though, with their whitened skin and darkened eyes, I feel like I'm seeing myself up there. It doesn't help that I've got a small stash of very expensive chocolates sitting in my bag right now. As the tiny match girl curls up in the show, I feel guilty for every time I kept my head down and pretended not to see a homeless person begging on the tube.

I should probably sign up for some volunteering over Christmas.

It's not like I'll be doing anything else.

The theatres are shut that day.

Thankfully our match girl has one more adventure in store for her before we say goodbye, as her grandmother takes her off to the moon.

Yes. Fine. It's not Hans Christian Anderson going on here. It's Arthur Pita. And you know how much I love Arthur Pita. This is my third Arthur Pita show of the year and they've all be charmingly surreal. So, of course he takes her to the moon. And we get to go with her. As does the musician, joining her on stage with his theremin.

As the little match girl comes forward to blow out her final match, a boy sitting behind us calls out: "Again!"

We all giggle.

And it's time to go.

I hastily press my hands under my lashes to check my mascara hasn't run.

I think I'm safe.

I've got a lunch date, followed by a coffee date, with some old coworkers. It wouldn't do at all to let them know I have a heart lurking under all my black armour now.

Back in the cafe, I make towards the chill-out room to grab a photo, but it's too late. It's been broken down and everything is now being carried out.

Thankfully, someone offers to send me a few of theirs.

Which means I can go guzzle myself sick over lunch and hopefully try not to think about what I'm going to wake up to tomorrow.

Sparkle and whinneeee

"What are you seeing tonight?" asks one of my coworkers.

"Nativity! The Musical," I tell them with a sigh of resignation. I'm not particular looking forward to it.

"Oh, I love that film!" pipes up a voice from the other side of the office.

It's a film? "It's a film?"

"Yeah, I love all of them."

All of them? “All of them?"

"Yeah. There are three!"

"Three?!"

"Yeah. There's a cute dog."

"There's a dog?!"

This changes everything. I get Googling, finding the Nativity! The Musical website and heading straight for the cast list. And yes: there's a dog. Poppy is playing the role of Cracker the Dog. "Starred in her first West End production at just 8 weeks old," I read aloud from her biography. "Wow."

I'm impressed. I love stage-animals. And this one seems like a pro. She even has her own instagram.

I keep on clicking around, fascinated by this cultural phenomenon that has apparently passed me by.

"Featuring the hit songs Sparkle & Shine, and Nazareth?" I say doubtfully.

"Yeah, Sparkle & Shine!"

"You've heard of it?”

"Of course!" 

"Are you joking?" They must be joking.

"Sparkle and shineee..." they sing.

They are definitely joking. That does not sound like a real song.

I guess I'll find out soon enough.

If I can find the venue.

It's a bit embarrassing, but even after living in Hammsersmith for five months, I still don't actually know where the Eventim Apollo is. 

I used to get stopped quite a lot, on the way out of the tube station, by lost tourists, and I would always point them in the direction that I thought it was. That is, the direction of all the restaurants advertising pre-theatre menus. I figured they had to be close by. But according to Google Maps, I spent five months pointing these poor people in entirely the wrong direction, because it's actually just behind the tube station. And I've been walking right past it without even noticing.

Oh dear.

"Wow, that is massive," says a young woman as she races past with her friend.

They are both wearing a lot of sequins and hairspray and are out for a good time tonight.

"Is that it?" asks her friend. "We're here already?"

"That was quick."

Turns out I'm not the only one surprised by this venue's location.

With approximately six thousand other people, I cross the road, pass a parked coach, and find myself in a snaking mass of crowd control barriers.

I know I've complained a lot about long queues outside theatres, but this seems a bit extreme.

Every metal corner is punctuated by a sign telling us to take out our keys and phones and to open our bags ready to be searched. 

Not sure what keys and phones have to do with it. We're not getting on a plane as far as I'm aware. 

The signs also tell us that tickets are one per person and we should have them ready to be scanned.

I do not have my ticket yet. I look around for a sign to point me the way to the box office, but everywhere I turn it's keys and phones and bag inspections.

I stick to the queue I'm in, winding my way around the maze, having paths blocked in front of me as queue controllers move barriers to divert the line into new directions. It's like being caught in the worst game of Snake, where every possible turn will have me bumping into my own tail.

"Got your tickets?" asks a queue controller as I near the front.

"No, I'm collecting," I tell him.

"Box office queue over there?" he says, pointing away from the main doors to a secondary, smaller, queue.

I join it.

But not before a man rolling a suitcase manages to squeeze himself in front of me.

So desperate was he to get ahead that I ended up having to jump over that damned suitcase of his. He must have travelled a very long way to be here tonight.

He calls over a queue controller and says something to him.

"This is the box office queue," says the queue controller.

"No," says suitcase man. "I was told to come here."

I puzzle over his statement. Looks like the queue controller is too, as he tries to explain that regardless of what he was told, this is the queue for the box office.

"No!" insists suitcase man. "I was..."

"Yeah," says the queue controller. "You jumped the queue."

I hold my breath as suitcase man staggers back at this accusation.

"Noooo," he wails, finally recovering himself. "I didn't! They told me to come here."

We're nearing the front now.

There's a massive scanner. The sort you'd find in an airport after placing your belt and bag in a plastic tray.

Perhaps we are actually getting on a plane. I hope we're going somewhere warm.

A queue controller appears. Another one. I didn't think it was possible for so many to exist in the same place. Eventim must have got themselves a job lot on those padded waterproof jackets they're all wearing and felt the need to hire staff to fill them out.

"Two steps to the side!" he calls, waving us closer to the wall. "Bags off shoulders! Leave everything in your bag, Phones. Keys. If you don't have a bag, put them in your pockets."

I don't think this guy has read the signs.

Suitcase guy is next up at the scanner.

I pull my bag off my shoulder.

The queue controller beckons to me, out of the line.

"Bag?"

I open it for him.

He peers inside.

"Through you go, madam." 

I race ahead of suitcase guy, feeling a bit smug about not having to go through the scanner.

Inside, there's a massive window in the wall with "Box Office" signposted above it. Dot matrices indicate what all the different lines are for. I join one called "Sales & Collections."

The suitcase guy arrives. He joins the twin "Sales & Collections" queue next to me.

He looks at his queue.

He looks at mine.

Then he wheels his suitcase over, placing himself right in front of me.

I laugh.

Out loud.

"Mate! Are you serious?" I say, still laughing, his ballsiness knocking the anxiety right out of me for a moment.

Without looking at me, he returns to his old queue.

Wow, that actually worked. 

I make it to the front of my queue without any more queue-jumpers.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?" I tell the box officer.

"Can I see ID?"

"Err... yeah?"

I pull out my purse and see what I have. There's a provisional driving license in there. That'll do.

I slide it under the glass and he takes it, giving it a close look before handing it back.

Blimey. Who could have guessed that Nativity! The Musical had higher security checks that Hamilton? Certainly not me.

This must be one hell of a show.

He hands me an envelope. It has my name hand written on it. I test the flap. It's sealed.

As I walk over to the doors I peel it open wondering if perhaps I've won a prize.

No such luck. It's just a ticket.

I show it to the ticket checker on the door and she beeps the barcode with her scanner.

And I'm in.

I'm in a massive room.

Huge staircases on each end go up to the circle.

There's a long bar. And a merch desk. And a Christmas tree.

It's also very green.

Green lights bath the art deco architecture making the whole space look like it was cursed by an evil, but very stylish, sorceress.

For a moment I wonder if I've perhaps booked by mistake for Wicked. I am not disappointed by this thought. But the programme seller in front of me is selling a massive booklet that is very much not from Wicked.

"How much is a programme?" I ask her.

"Ten pounds."

Oof. Ten pounds.

I get out my purse. "I have a twenty?" I say, pulling out the last note I have in there.

"No worries," she says, as if I wasn't handing over a stonking amount of money to her in exchange for a few pretty biogs.

We trade notes and I pick up a programme from her proffered pile.

I'll give it this, it really is big. I can barely fit it in my bag, and my bag is huge. 

Ushers in what looks like football scarfs hold up lighty-up things that spin around and twinkle. The merch desk is full of hoodies and lunchboxes emblazed with the Nativity! The Musical title treatment. You can even buy a Nativity! The Musical Christmas bauble. For eight pounds.

There's also a t-shirt with "Sparkle & Shine" on it. With great big red stars around it.

I don't think I have ever, in all my travels for this marathon, seen merch for a specific song.

Except for Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. But that's not a song. It's an abomination.

It can't be real. I refuse to believe it's real.

No song so hyped can ever be worth listening to.

I decide to go up.

The stairwell is one of those fancy double-sided ones which definitely deserve some ballgown action on them.

Sadly, they have to settle for my long black witch's skirt.

Upstairs I find a chain of green banquettes surrounding the huge oval oculus that looks down on the foyer below. Stars float across the space. The Eventim Apollo has really invested in Christmas.

My ticket says I need door three. I follow the signs until I find it.

Up some more stairs and I am in the auditorium.

Lights stream over the walls.

I blink, almost blinded by them.

Noticing my dazzled expression, an usher steps forward.

"Err, U51?" I say, showing him my ticket.

"Yup! That's up these stairs and on the right."

I thank him and head over to the aisle he was indicating.

I start climbing.

And climbing.

And climbing.

I'm a long way back.

When I turn around, the stage looks like a puppet theatre in the distance.

"I'm just here," I say to two young women as they make to get up and let me past.

The seats are comfy enough. Plenty of legroom.

But as soon as the family in the row in front sit down, I realise that the price of such luxury is the absence of decent sight-lines.

I decide not to worry about it and set about taking photos, doing the classic blogger pose with the programme in front of the stage.

The programme is so weighty I struggle to hold it up, and when I go to stuff it back in my back, I end up cramping my hand.

Theatre blogging is a young person's game, for real.

"I was thinking," says my neighbour to her friend. "You know those little side bits..." She points out the boxes either side of the stage. "They can't be nice to sit in."

"Fun though," says the friend.

"But you wouldn't be able to see anything!"

As someone who has sat in a box a few times, I can confirm both of these ladies are correct. They are fun. And you can't see anything.

The lights dim and a woman comes out on stage. She introduces herself as the creator of Nativity!. Both the films and the musical. It's a special night, she tells us. The first performance in the London edition of this show.

The audience whoops appreciatively.

There are lots of new children in the show tonight, she tells us. 

This gets another whoop.

"Who knows Sparkle & Shine?" she asks, to yet another round of whoops.

Turns out I am surrounded by people who do know Sparkle & Shine.

We should feel free to sing along if we know the words, she tells us. And if we don't? Well, just listen and we'll pick them up and can join in then.

Holy. Shitballs.

What have I got myself in for?

It starts.

And it's... not good?

Like, really not good?

Like... positively bad?

Scenes drag. Jokes extend too far. Everything takes so damn long.

Just as I'm debating getting my programme out to check the running time, a dog comes out. A cute dog. A cute beige dog with curly fur.

It's Pepper!

The audience "Awwwws" as one.

The young woman sitting next to me gasps and actually covers her mouth she's so excited.

Pepper is very cute.

"That's mum's dog!" cries out the young girl sitting in front of us. "That's mum's dog!"

One of the adults in the party gets out her phone. She finds a photo and shows it to the group. Yup. That's a dog. And it almost looks like Pepper.

The dog is removed, and the story goes on.

At least, I think there's meant to be a story. It's hard to tell.

Now, I've seen bad musicals. A lot of them. Ones without budget for decent costumes or rehearsal time or even talent.

But this has them all beat, for the sheer fact that they have spent a shit load on all these things, and yet still ended up with this trash.

I have never seen a turd polished to such a high shine in my entire life.

"That's Sharon!" whispers my neighbour as a black silhouette appears on stage.

And sure enough, as the spotlit hits, Sharon Osbourne is revealed. 

The audience goes wild.

But that's nothing to the reaction the bloke playing the theatre critic gets as he appears.

I squint, trying to make out his face at such a distance, but nope. I don't recognise him. 

I must be even more out of touch than I thought, because this lot is screaming at the sight of him.

The screaming is replaced by more squees of appreciations when Sharon brings on her puppies. That's better. If this show could just concentrate on small dogs getting cuddled, I feel I could get on board with it.

The woman in front gets out her phone again. I can see the time. It's eight o'clock.

We've been in here a full hour, and yet nothing has happened. Narratively speaking.

How long is this show if it manages to have a full hour of preamble? Good gawd.

With a whimper, we reach the interval.

"This is boring?" says a woman sitting behind me. She sounds doubtful. "I saw the film last night and it wasn't like this?"

I get out the programme to have a look.

Turns out, the person I can't recognise is Ryan Clarke-Neal.

This information doesn't help.

I turn to the biographies.

Apparently he does a lot of reality TV.

I'll admit, I'm a bit behind on the whole reality TV stuff. So that explains it.

I go back to the credits. Pepper is listed with "The Grown Ups." I find this very pleasing.

The puppies are also there. "Holly and Star."

I really hope they weren't named in honour of this show.

The interval draws to a close and people return to their seats.

Apart from the family sitting right in front of me. The lights are going down, and those seats are empty.

Which means I have a fair shot of actually seeing the stage.

It doesn't help.

This show is just the worst.

All around me people creep out of their rows and head for the exits. They're holding their coats. They're not coming back.

On stage, we've managed to limp forward to the actual purpose of Nativity! The Musical. Which is the nativity musical.

Multiple Marys and multiple Jpsephs flood the stage. I expect this is meant to be charming, but I don't have the capacity to care anymore.

And then, there are stars.

This is it. Sparkle & Shine!

The children start to sing.

"Sparkle and Shinnneeeee...."

I can't make out the rest of the words.

The mumbles are lost against the music.

I mean, I get it: diction is hard. Especially with childish voices. But I thought we were meant to be singing along to this?

As the final notes disappear, I realise the only words I know are in the title.

A fresh set of children are brought on. These ones clap their hands above their heads to encourage us to join in, but the audience gives up after a few lines. This is not a clapable song.

The lights go out.

The stage is dark.

Candles are brought on.

"If your phone has a light, point it at the stage!"

The audience obliges, pulling out their phones at holding them aloft.

I look around. Only about thirty percent of the people in the circle have figured out how to turn their torch on. The rest are just bathing in the glow of their own home screens.

As the song builds, everyone starts waving their phones in time with the music.

My heart shrivels.

This is so depressing.

Even the reprise of Sparkle & Shine can't pull me out of this stupor. I still don't know the lyrics.

With the cast still on stage, getting their final round of applause, I grab my coat and head for the edit. I can't take this a second longer.

Up the stairs, through the door to the gents, and then down, down, down until I reach the exit. Cross the road. Into Hammersmith station. Down to the Piccadilly line. I squeeze through the crowds just in time to make it onto the first train heading east, plonking myself down into an empty seat.

And there's a dog sitting in front of me.

A very cute dog.

A very cute beige dog with curly fur.

Is that...?

It can't be...

"Is it alright to take a picture?" asks the girl sitting beside me.

"Of course you can!" says the man holding the dog.

But as she gets her phone out he clutches the dog to his chest and comes over, sinking on his knees in front of me and placing the dog in her lap.

She coos and awws and gets her selfie.

"Oh look!" she says, pointing down to a small carrier on the ground. Inside tiny puppies snuffle at the mesh.

As we reach the next station, a woman walks over and scritches the dog under the chin without even asking.

"That must happen all the time!" says the girl.

The dog handler nods.

"Did you just see the show then?"

They had.

"Did you enjoy it?"

I hold my breath, waiting for their answer. But I needn't have worried. They loved it.

"It funny isn't it?" he says, and they spend the next couple of stations chatting tour schedules and whatnot.

When I leave them at Leicester Square, they're still gabbing away.

Pepper sleeps throughout, her dreams soundtracked by Sparkle & Shine.

A very Brexit Musical

I got chatting with one of the students at my work yesterday. Told her I was seeing Hamilton.

"Be nice to the ushers," she says, lowing her voice and her head as she fixes her eyes on me.

"Tough gig?" I ask.

She sighs and nods. “They have it really hard."

"Is it the audience?"

She hesitates. "Well, it's the security. It's considered a high risk venue. With Buckingham Palace on one side and Victoria station on the other."

"Ah," I say. I've seen the sniffer dogs prowling the aisles pre-show when I've been before (twice... not that I'm showing off about having seen Hamilton twice already, but I'm totally showing off about having seen Hamilton twice already). "They don't get danger pay I take it..."

She laughs. "No. They do not."

Well then.

I decide to walk to the Victoria Palace. I'm not taking any chances on the tube. Not tonight.

As I wait for the traffic lights to change, I pull out my phone and double check the pre-show email. Last time I was here it was chock full of instructions to arrive early, bring photo ID, your mother's birth certificate, and a full family tree stretching back to the Norman Conquest. But things have changed since then. Or least, I hope they have. Because I haven't brought any of that shit with me.

The queue to get in stretches all the way along the front of the theatre, down the road, and to the corner.

"If you're collecting, keep to the left," orders a dog handler. His charge monitors the queue with watchful eyes and ever ready nose.

An old woman pauses on the pavement to stare at the line incredulously. "These people are all queuing to get in the theatre!" she says, sounding absolutely flabbergasted at the idea. "My word!"

I find my way to the end. Within seconds more people fall in behind me.

"Certainly the longest theatre queue I've been in," sniffs the person standing behind me.

We shuffle forward.

"Tickets on the right!" calls out a queue controller. "If you're collecting, follow round to the left."

I stare down at my hands. Which way is left again?

I panic. I can't remember.

"Sorry," I say to the queue controller as I pass him. "Which way if I'm collecting?"

"To the left, madam," he says, helping pointing out which way left actually is.

I head for the left. "Are you collecting, madam?" asks the controller of the junction.

"Yes!" I say, happy that I'm going the right way.

"Perfect!" she says, beaming right back.

We're moving fast now that we've got rid of those people who had their tickets posted to them in advance.

The two men in front of me turn around.

"Do you want to go ahead?" they ask in very American accents.

"Are you sure?" I say, going into full-scale Queen-mode with my British one. 

"Yeah, we're waiting for someone," they say, and step back to let me pass.

I'm near the front now.

"If you could get your bag ready," says the bag checker. He doesn't sound impressed.

I open my bag.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm great!" I say.

"That's the way!" he says, waving me through.

The woman on the door puts out her hand to still me. "If you could stop there, my love," she says, turning to look back into the foyer.

We wait until one of the box officers is free and she lowers her hand. "Right over there, if you don't mind."

I don't mind at all. In I go.

The box officers are running back and forth behind their counter, fetching tickets. My one smiles at me from the end of the line.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles!"

With a nod, he disappears to the back, returning seconds later with my ticket.

"Maxine?"

"Yup!"

"You're in the Grand Circle. Right at the top."

After spending eleven months trying to get a ticket on the Hamilton lottery app, I admitted defeat and bought the cheapest ticket I could find. Thirty-seven quid to sit in the Grand Circle. Right at the top.

It's a quality show. But still.

I turn around and almost bounce against the mass of people heading towards the Stalls. Oof. Okay. I hang back, waiting for a gap, but I soon realise that I'm going to have to make my own.

Elbows out, I step forward, and don't stop until I reach the bottom step of the stair that will take me up to the Grand Circle. I keep on going, not even pausing as I take a photo. I find myself in a bar. There's a pretty light installation falling through the oculus that runs though the ceiling and then the floor.

It's very pretty, but there's not time to hang around. I've just spotted a programme seller lurking over by the door.

"These ones are four fifty," he says, pointing to the smaller of the two options he is clutching in his hands.

I pull out my purse. Not Fred. Fred is dead. This one is black. A gift from my sister-in-law from years and years ago. It's a grown-up purse. Patent leather, and not in the shape of an elephant. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

"Err, do you have change for a tenner?" I ask, as I peer inside the black interior.

"I do! Here's five and fifty pee."

As he hands me the change, someone else comes up and asks to get a programme.

"That's four fifty," says the programme seller, turning away from me.

"Sorry," I say, as the newcomer hands over a five pound note. "Can I get my programme?"

The programme seller jumps. "Oh!" he exclaims. "Sorry!"

He pulls one from his pile and hands it over.

I squeeze myself past him and start the long climb up to the Grand Circle. There are a lot of stairs. Every time I turn a corner I think I'm done, but nope: there's even more.

As I emerge into the auditorium, my head spins at the sight of the stage far below us. It's really high up here.

"It slopes," warns a woman we go in.

No kidding. The steps are very steep. And very tiny. Small enough that even with my size twos, I can't fit my entire foot on one, giving a constant feeling of unbalance. Not the emotion you really want to be having when you are hundreds of feet above the stalls.

I clutch at the balustrades as I make my way down to my row.

A woman stops right ahead of me, and I almost barrel into her. But I manage to regain my footing just before I send her flying into the orchestra pit.

I wait, but she doesn't seem to have any intention of moving.

We stand there, blocking the aisle. Me struggling to stay upright on these tiny steps. Her... doing whatever she's doing.

Just as I consider fainting as a viable way of getting myself out of this situation, she moves on, and I am able to sink into my seat, helpfully placed right on the aisle.

My shins bang against the chair in front.

I don't remember the leg room being this bad down in the Stalls.

Yup, I saw Hamilton from the stalls. Twice. Did I mention that I have already seen Hamilton twice? Well, it's true. I've seen it twice.

As bruises start to form on my legs, I try to distract myself by the cries of anguish from the people still tackling the stairs.

"Oh gawd, these steps!"

"Oh gawd, these are so high!"

"Oh gawd, I hate being so high up!"

The man sitting in front of me arrives, blocking my view of the stage and immediately sets about ramming himself back into his seat, right against my legs.

This is going to be a long night. What's the running time on this musical again?

I look it up. 

Two hours and forty-five minutes.

Holy fuck.

Eventually the stairs clear and the lights dim.

A disembodied voice introduces himself as our king and tells us to turn off our phones before enjoying his show.

A small whoop goes up from the back of the circle, and those familiar beats start. We're off.

And I mean... I fucking love Hamilton.

I know it's cool not to be into it anymore. All the sneering hipsters have moved on to rhapsodising about panto, because that's how the world works nowadays.

Well, fuck them. I think it's great. And if they want to spend their days shouting "it's behind you!" then they are welcome to it.

It does occur to me though, about halfway through the King's first song, that Hamilton is a bit... well, Brexity. I mean, all that stuff about wanting to be independent from a distant ruler across the sea who controls the price of tea...

The thought it making me very uncomfortable.

As the battle-smoke clears and the victory song of Yorktown starts I hold my breath for that famous line.

"Immigrants: we get the job done."

Silence. 

Then a wry titter flows through the audience.

Lafayette and Hamilton barely even pause. They're used to this lack of reaction to the line. A line that stopped the show for a full minute when I was here in 2017, as the audience exploded into applause.

Oh dear.

I wince as the man in front of me rams himself back again, like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a car seat.

The King is back.

"All alone, across the sea," he sings and I cringe. He couldn't be more on the nose if he tried. That Lin-Manuel is a bloody fortune teller. "When your people say they hate you. Don't come crawling back to me."

Christ. We'll on be crawling on our knees to Brussels like medieval pilgrims soon enough.

I clamp my lips shut, struggling to keep down the need to scream out: “VOTE LABOUR!” in this packed theatre. 

We're at Non-Stop now. Thank the theatre gods. It got here just in time. The pre-interval banger in a musical stuffed with bangers.

This is the song I always put on when I need to crash out a two-thousand word blog post in my lunchbreak. 

"How do you write ev’ry second you’re alive?" is a question I ask myself every damn day as I approach the half-million mark on my blog's word count for the year. These fingers are typing like they're running out of time... just twenty-two days left to go.

As soon as the house lights are up, I grab my bag and make a bolt for the bar, unable to spend another second in that seat.

"It is clever, isn't it?" says someone as I pass them. "Who wrote it?"

Mind-boggling I listed as their friend tries to explain who Lin-Manuel Miranda is.

"Is it based on a true story?" 

"... I think so? He was a founding father. I think. Yeah, like, in seventeen...something."

I mean... she's not wrong?

"Five minutes until the start of act two!" shouts the bar man.

"Act two?" asks someone.

The person he's with shakes his head. He doesn't know that term either.

We go back in.

I lean against my chair until the rest of my row arrives. I don't want to be sitting down in that seat a second longer than I need to. As the last person squeezes past me I wriggle my toes and then give my knees a good rub in preparation.

A disembodied voice who is very much not the King warns us that there is three minutes to go and we should probably be turning off our phone now.

The man sitting in front of me bounces against the back of his chair, adding in a few elbow thrusts into his repertoire.

As the lights go down, his elbow connects with my knee.

He half turns his head, but soon realises it's only a woman he hit, and goes back to his bouncing and thrusting and moving his head around.

I follow his movements, tilting my head right and left in the opposite direction to him. But every turn sends shoots of pain down my back as the pressure on my legs makes itself known in the rest of my body.

I'm going to need a gift membership with my local chiropractor for Christmas at this rate.

Hamilton runs about, building his new, independent country.

It may be my imagination, but I can feel the yearning in the audience. These huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

They want the American dream. But in Britain. And with wifi.

The King is back. I'm beginning to feel quite kindly towards him and his tyranny.

As he dismisses us with a sneering "Good Luck" I can't help but think it's going to take a good deal more than luck.

We're nearing the end. The bit that always makes me cry. But it's alright. Three trips is enough for me to be over that. My eyes are dry. I'm safe.

But as Burr tells us that both Eliza and Angelica were at Hamilton's side as he dies, that's it. I'm gone.

Tears are falling. Eyeliner is lost.

And I sob my way through to the end.

We're all fucking done for, aren't we?

I pull my coat tight around me as I race down the stairs and out into the cold December air and dive into the tube station.

The train pulls into Green Park.

Doors open.

Doors close.

We don't move.

A breathless voice comes over the tannoy.

There's a fight in car number five.

Men run down the platform to break it up.

Doors open.

Doors close.

We move on.

And I make my way back to that Tory-rat hole, Finchley. 

I'm all ready to cast my useless vote. Useless because those meglamanical, power-hungry, statistic-twisting Lib Dems have been trying to pretend they have a chance and are determined to split the Labour vote in a marginal seat where they barely scrapped through as the third party in 2017.

Not a day has gone past in the past two weeks were I haven't got their nonsense flyers coming through my letterbox, wanking on about bullshit antisemitism. Yeah, well fuck all that. I may be Jewish but I'm not blinkered. 

Because when all is said and all is done… Corbyn has beliefs; Boris has none.

VOTE LABOUR!

I am the reverse marathoner

"Are you trying to get to the theatre?" asks a young woman squeezing her way between bags of rubbish on one side, and a family on the other, in a very dark alleyway.

Honestly, I know I've told you before about my fringe theatre theory. The one where, if you're ever lost, you should just head for the scariest, narrowest, alleyway, and pray you don't get murdered. But seriously, this is just too on the nose.

We're behind a shopping centre.

In Hounslow.

I don't know what the crime rate is in Hounslow, but I am definitely about to become a statistic.

"Yup we..." says the family's mum.

"You know how to get there?"

The mum nods. They know how to get there.

So do I. Because the Arts Centre Hounslow has a very fulsome set of instructions on their website. They have to. It's not exactly simple. You know when the first thing they do is send you to another website to check the opening hours of a shopping centre to see what directions to give you, things are about to get complicated.

Tonight, the Treaty Shopping Centre closed at 6pm. The show starts at 7pm.

Which means I'm sneaking through a set of iron gates and making my way down a very dark alleyway, complete with the aforementioned rubbish.

There's a sign pointing the way to the entrance.

At least, I think that's what it is.

To be honest, I can't read it.

When I said it was dark down here, I really wasn't kidding.

Well, whatever it says, there's a door here, with a brightly lit stairwell on the other side, which looks promising enough. The family disappears inside and I get out my phone to take a picture.

But someone else has appeared. A man. He stops right in front of the door.

I hang back, waiting for him to move, but he's on the phone. Giving someone directions. Very loudly. He sounds like air traffic control, if planes were being landed by a man standing in the middle of a busy airfield while screaming into a megaphone.

I wait.

"Where are you?" shouts the man. A small pause as the person on the other end gives their answer. "No! That's no right."

He gives the instructions again, even louder this time, but the person on the other end isn't getting it.

Even worse, he's still standing in front of the door, right in the way of my shot.

I start editing a blog post.

A whole 1,000 words proofed later, the man on the phone sighs. "Look, I'm not there. That's the point, isn't it?" and he says goodbye.

Thank fucking gawd for that.

I bring up the camera app, take my photo, and go in.

Then I start climbing up the stairs. They don't look particularly theatre-y, but Nirvana is pumping out from somewhere, and signs for Jack and the Beanstalk have been posted on every level.

At the top, the pistachio walls have been brushed with white paint, and someone has painted "Arts Centre" with an arrow on top.

Found it.

I follow the arrow.

On one side there's an open door. Inside I spy rows and rows of chairs. That must be the theatre.

It's empty.

I turn the other way.

More white paint with more arrows.

I find the one for the box office and follow it.

"I'm so lost and confused!" wails a small boy as he walks past me.

You and me both, kid.

By the looks of it, I appear to have landed in Wonderland.

The walls are covered in painted clapperboard. As it, painted to look like clapperboard. By a cartoonist.

I find the bar. There's a haind painted sign advertising a writing station for letters to the North Pole. I’ll give Hounslow this, they're keeping their artists busy. There's even one on the other side advertising "Twanky & Sons," which I can only presume is leftover from last years' panto.

What it doesn't have however, is a box office.

I turn around and keep on going. 

There's a little room here. Painted trees and painted bricks and painted roof tiles make me feel like I've stepped into a book of faerie tales.

The kids think so too, and they are dashing about pretending to be knights and princesses and whatever else they can conjure up in their cute little heads.

Over the other side, is another door. And passing through the door, is a queue.

I join the end of it, figuring there is probably a box office at the other side.

This queue isn't moving very fast.

In fact, I would go so far as to say, it isn't moving at all.

I look around, trying to work out what the hold up is, and spot a man draped in an official-looking gold chain.

Oh. A Mayor.

I've spotted quite a few of them on my travels. Mayors love amdram. And panto, it seems.

He's chatting up the people in the queue, and they are loving it.

I go back to editing my blog post.

We shuffle forward. Painfully slow.

"I am the reverse Mayor!" the Mayor declares as a small child asks what would happen if he didn't wear his chain.

He's sure making this queue go in reverse.

Many, long, minutes later I make it to the front.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

"Hi!" says the box officer as she sorts through a pile of papers on her counter. I look down. Every single one is a print out of an eventbrite e-ticket. "Do you have an email?" she asks.

"Probably..." I say. I don't know. I get a lot of theatre emails. I stopped reading them months ago. "Is that all I need?"

"Yup," she says. "That's your ticket."

I look pointedly at all the print outs and then leave. I could print my own if I wanted one of those.

You got to admit though, that's one strange mix of being paperless and having a fuck-tonne of paper floating around.

I find myself standing near the large windows overlooking the closed shopping centre before.

The space is filled with sofas and armchairs, placed to enjoy the view.

There are sunflowers in the window and a huge tree made of branches built overhead.

The Mayor makes his way over. The people on the sofas rotate towards him, just like those sunflowers would at dawn if they weren't fake. And looking out over a shopping centre.

A woman starts telling him about how she never talked as a child.

Another asks for a photo.

I think that's my cue to leave.

I go back to the bar.

It's busier now. The two barmen are rushing about serving people. One of them is wearing a slinky Santa hat. I mean thatit's a spring, bouncing around on top of his head. Not that it's all satin and lace and leaving nothing to the imagination. The other barman is very much not wearing a Santa hat. Something for everyone here.

As more people crowd in, I'm pushed further and further into the corner.

"When we go in, you're going to need to sit down in a chair," a mother warns her energetic son.

And then the Mayor arrives.

"You lot going to the panto?" he asks a group of children. "Obviously!" He moves over to another group. "Enjoy the show!"

You know, I'm beginning to think he's following me.

Well, I'm over it. I'm going in.

I slip out of the bar, back down the corridor, and into the theatre.

A slim stage is lined either side with rows of chairs. I'll admit, I don't know much about panto, but I had no idea you could do it in traverse. Hounslow is really pushing the form out here.

I find my seat. Second row from the back. As far away from the action as I could get.

The chairs around me begin to fill up.

There isn't much room between the rows, necessitating plenty of knee-swivelling.

The Mayor comes in. He takes his seat on the opposite side of the stage. Front row centre.

"There's the Mayor," says a lady sitting behind me. "It must be good if the Mayor's here."

"Yeah, I thought that," says her companion.

"He very friendly!"

A very tall man with massive hair comes in.

"Hello! Hello!" waves a group a few rows ahead of me.

"Do you know him?" asks the Mayor-lover. "He's very friendly."

He sure looks it.

A kid wearing hi-vis ear protectors runs in and jumps onto the stage.

The other children are outraged. "Off! Off! Off!" they shout at him.

The kid with the ear protectors doesn't hear them. Can't hear them. 

Obviously. Because of the ear protectors. He takes a circuit of the stage, and then runs off again.

The big man with the bigger hair is trying to get in my row. "Sorry," he booms.

"Sorry," I say, doing the knee-swivel. "Am I in the way?"

"No! I'm in the way."

It's true. He is in the way.

"I thought he was in the show," says the Mayor-lover.

An usher comes over. "Is that your pushchair?" he asks the women sitting in front. He points to a pushchair that has been left in front of the set. "Do you mind if I just pop it behind the curtain?"

"I can't seeee!" whines a small child. The mum goes to talk to the usher, and a seat in the front row is found for them.

"So sorry about this everyone," trills a man as he clambers into my row. "I've got a giant bag."

A family arrive. The daughter is in a wheelchair. The usher rushes over. "Can we move this?" he asks gently. "The barn is going to open you see? If she can just go behind the black line..."

The girl and her wheelchair is duly moved.

By the door, I can see the box officer. Her hands are filled with eventbrite print outs. The usher runs over to give her the thumbs up.

I think we might be ready to start.

At last. I'm exhausted.

I check the time. Ten past seven.

It's going to be a long night.

As the lights dim, I realise that not a single person has checked or even asked to see my ticket this evening.

They're trustworthy here in Hounslow.

"Can you see?" a mother asks her little one.

"I can't seeeeee."

Another mother leans over. "At the back you can kneel upwards." This interjection doesn't seem to help. "My daughter is going on kneel upwards. On the chair. So she can see." She demonstrates this upward kneeling with a meercat motion of her hands.

"Oh, I see. Thank you!"

The cast come out, all bright and shiny with massive grins. It must be the beginning of the run. They won't be looking so chiper at the end of the month.

The Mayor gets out his phone and starts filming.

On stage, the cast gets on with the business of panto. The cow moos and bats her truly astonishing false lashes. The faerie throws around handfuls of glitter. The Dame lobs sweets.

Two crash down by my feet.

I lean forward and grab one, offering it to the girl sitting nearest me. She shakes her head, so I put it on our buffer seat.

"Oh look," says the Mayor-lover, her hand sneaking forward to whip the sweet off the chair. "This landed on the chair."

The Dame looks out into the audience. "Tony!" she says, spotting she Mayor. "Tony the Tiger! Our lovely Mayor, Tony."

A pretty baby sitting in front of me begins to scream. Her mother bounces her around but it's no good. They go outside.

The screaming continues. Pouring into the room. The audience begins to look around. It sounds like the baby is dying. Or, possibly, teething.

Jack's brother Billy tries to teach us a call and response.

"You sound like you've spent a bit too much time at the bar," he groans as we fail to keep our end in time with one another. "Almost as if the show went up late."

After a small joke about Boris being a growling monster, the humour stay local. Richmond is too posh. The highstreet has two Greggs on it. And some other stuff I don't understand but I presume is hilarious if you live around here.

And then the beanstalk grows.

"Can I borrow the coat on the back of your chair?" Jack asks someone in the front row. "I'll give it back!"

After trying, and failing, to cover up the massive stalk with the small pink coat, he does indeed hand it back.

"See you on the other side!" calls Jack as he climbs. "Of the interval, I mean!"

"And now a twenty-minute interval," booms a voice over the sound system. "Go to the toilet and make sure you go to the bar and buy lots of lovely booze."

Thank gawd. I'm not sure I could have taken much more of that.

I lean down the move my coat out of the way and find that other sweet. I slip it into my bag before the Mayor-lover can get her hands on it.

When I look up, the Mayor is on his way over.

He's come to talk to the family of the girl in the wheelchair.

"Where are you from?" he asks them. 

"Hounslow."

They're local-credentials established, he asks how they got in, if there's a lift, and what education options there are.

I keep my head down. After all the Richmond jokes, I'd hate to think what they have to say about Finchley.

The air fills with smoke as haze is pumped in, and the Mayor makes his retreat.

The cast is back. Still bouncing with energy, and if anything, even shinier then they were in the first act. I hope they had a quick glug of something from the bar too.

They power on.

Footsteps boom and the children all look around, expecting to see a giant.

There is no giant.

They flop back down in their chairs.

More booming.

And a massive giant appears.

Fuck! That's good.

Terrifying.

He's not happy. He's hungry. So hungry he's been forced to eat Richmond. Too crunchy by half with all those diamonds.

Our villain, Fleshcreep, sinister in his top hat and tails (he must be from Richmond) offers him Daisy the cow. We all boo. Much to his annoyance. 

A very small toddler climbs up on stage, and his brother is dispatched to fetch him back.

The boy in the ear protectors isn't letting toddlers have all the fun.

He makes a break for it, leaping up on stage.

Fleshcreep guides him back off with a small sneer.

As the plot reaches its crescendo, so does the band, and the cast launch into their version of Bohemian Rhapsody, with Daisy tackling the Scaramouches with a chorus of moos.

Battle won, giant defeated, and Fleshcreep broken, I think we are at the end. 

But there is one more thing.

The sing along.

"I wrote it ten minutes ago," says Billy, as a huge board is brought out with the words to The Proclaimers' hit.

As one, we declare our intention to walk 500 miles, and then 500 more.

Billy isn't impressed.

"Are there four children who can help me?" he asks.

Hands dart up and Billy hauls their owners onto the stage.

Four children.

Then five.

Then six.

"But no more. Once we had seventeen!"

But they keep on coming.

Billy turns anguished eyes onto the audience. "May I remind parents that the car park charges," he says.

He gets a microphone and starts asking who he has with him. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

"I don't know and I don't care," is the reply from a sassy ten year old girl.

Billy goes on, finding a Spiderman wannabe, a future nurse, scientist, and doctor.

Gosh. Perhaps all those funding cuts for the arts are paying off. The kids of Houselow are STEM-crazy.

More children start creeping their way onstage.

Billy orders them to line up, and marching in time, they walk those 500 miles together.

And then... they're going to do one more song. "You didn't think it was going to last so long," says Billy laughing hollowy. "Well... neither did we!

"I'll be back for the finale that should have happened ten minutes ago!"

We have to promise something first though. There are going to be buckets on our way out. And we need to drop whatever change we have into them, so that the Arts Centre can continue to make shows... just... like... this.

And so they sing. One more song. Pulling the Mayor up on stage with them to boogie on down.

A few kids join them.

I, on the other hand, am getting myself out of here.

I don't think I've ever felt so overwhelmed by a performance, and I need some fresh air and the quietness of a dark alley right now.

I bypass the buckets.

The usher is opening the doors.

He leans forward, struggling with the second one. I push it open for him, and hold it until he's got in.

In the stairwell, an arrow points to the car park. Up.

There's no sign to say where down leads.

A family goes up.

I go up too.

And find myself in the car park.

I wander around not sure how to get off this shopping centre roof.

There's the exit for cars. A sign instructs they should drive dead show.

I should probably go back in.

I look around.

There are no cars.

Fuck it.

I head for the ramp, my feet quickening as I decend. One level, then two. I'm running now. I can hear a car somewhere behind me.

Three levels.

I turn another corner.

The ramp is merging into a road. I leap off, across a barrier, and onto the pavement just as a car appears. Thank the theatre gawds it was driving dead slow, or I would have been as dead as a Richmond resident.

Breathing heavily, I push the button for the green man and reach into my bag to find my scarf.

My fingers land on something small. A Maom.

At least panto has some tangible rewards.

The Death of Fred

"You're wearing a fun coat!" says Martha as we hug hello in the middle of KFC. 

She's just got off a delayed train from Birmingham and has rushed all the way from Euston to join me at the Hackney Empire for a touch of panto. Yes, I am quite aware I do not deserve her as a friend. It's okay. I know.

Hopefully I'm making up for it somewhat by feeding her before we go in.

Plus, of course, I am wearing a fun coat.

"I'm very cuddly," I say. That's one of the benefits of wearing a massive fur coat. It's like hugging a teddy bear.

The KFCer drops our food on the counter.

It's been one hell of a journey to get it. Three times in a single transaction she's managed to get distracted and wander off to do something else. Ending with her blinking at me.

"Yes?" she said, sounding more than a bit pissed off to see me still standing in front of her till.

"Err, can I pay?" I asked.

Turns out I could.

Honestly, Martha may have had to contend with delayed trains from Birmingham, but I had my own problems. The Piccadilly line was so damn busy tonight we almost needed those proffesional train pushers from Tokyo to get us all to fit in.

"No eye contact!" ordered the TFLer at Oxford Circus. "No smiling! Come on guys, you know the score. You will be judged!"

But at least we're both here. And have Fillet burgers to make everything just that tiniest touch better.

Plus, I already have the tickets, so all we have to do is finish our dinners and stroll in.

Oh yeah, that's another thing. The Hackney Empire might have those cute little box office windows I love so much, but they're no good if the microphone isn't working.

The box officer had to lean right in to hear me and I still had to repeat myself three times.

As for when she talked, yeah, couldn't hear I damn thing. I was working on guess work. Guesses borne of 284 theatre trips.

"Maxine?" I hazarded as she plucked out a ticket.

Oh well. It did the trick and I now have them, sitting in my pocket. Two tickets. For the stalls. Because I know how to treat a girl.

Burgers polished off, we make the short walk over to the theatre.

There are homeless people everywhere. Commuters peel off to one side in order to move around the man sitting on the pavement, begging for help. A woman is walking up and down, asking for people to buy her a cup of tea.

"The entrance is closed?" says Martha, stopping outside the theatre.

I look over. The steps leading up to the doors are now empty. Even the ticket checker seems to have moved on.

"Where's the entrance to the stalls?" I ask. I vaguely remembered the ticket checker pointing out the way to someone.

"It's there," says Martha. She knows this theatre well. She worked here back in the day. "But the door is closed."

A dreadful thought occurs to me. 

"Did I get the start time wrong?" I ask, pulling the tickets from my pocket. "Oh shit. It's 7pm. I did," I say, bursting into laughter. We're ten minutes late. Almost the exact amount of time we just spent stuffing fried chicken into our faces.

Martha doubles back and heads for the main doors, me following on meekly behind. She takes the tickets and shows them to a front of houser. I stop, presuming that she'll hold us back until some latecomers point, but she just points us towards a side door.

"Sorry," comes a voice from behind us. "Can we search your bags please?"

We stop in our tracks. I don't know about Martha, but having a bag checker order me to stop has me feeling all guilty. I know full well I don't have any contraband in my bag. But suddenly I'm panicking that there might be a rogue protein bar in there.

The bag checker peers in. I spot my newly purchased water bottle lurking in the bottom and I try to remember whether the pre-show email from the theatre said that drinks were banned as well as food.

He lets it pass.

We go through the door, down the corridor, and without a single person stopping us, go through the doors to the theatre.

I let Martha lead the way, down the side aisle and towards the front. Up on stage two glittered-up characters are having a slanging match. I hope they don't spot us.

We make it to our seats, right on the aisle, thank the theatre gods, and we stuff ourselves in, cramming our coats under our chairs and listening to the roar of laughter around us to some off-colour joke.

As we settle down, I suppose I should admit that I'm not a fan of panto.

No. Wait. 

That's not right. Not a fan suggests a passive disinterest with the genre. No. I very actively dislike panto.

I've managed to avoid going to one for a very long time.

I used to cry and beg as a child not to have to go to the panto, which as much passion and snot as I used to get out of piano lessons.

Yeah. A child begging not to have to go to see a show.

That's what we're talking here.

You've known me long enough by this point that you can probably guess the reasons: audience interaction, nonsense storylines, and shouting. So much shouting. I really hate shouting.

But I think I might be okay tonight. The Hackney panto is the granddaddy of them all. I mean, even I know that it's pretty much the gold standard. And besides, I've got Martha here to protect me.

She did manage to put herself in first so that I'm on the aisle though... Hmm...

But for now, I'm safe in this warm fug of laughter.

The crowd roars as the panto dame is rolled out on a trolley.

Martha leans over to me in confusion. "I thought Clive Rowe wasn't doing it this year?" 

I had absolutely no intel on the matter so I just shrug and shake my head.

"Put the lights up!" orders Rowe. "I'm going down."

Oh dear.

As the house lights go up, I slink down in my seat.

Rowe is padding down the steps into the stalls. And he has someone in his sights. Someone very special.

"Come on, come on," he orders, pulling said someone out of their seat.

"Who is it?" whispers Martha.

I shake my head, I don't know.

Turns out, neither does Rowe.

"What's your name then?"

The man mumbles something back.

"What's that?"

The man leans in and mumbles again.

"Bernard?" says Rowe. "Berrrrnarrrdddd."

Bernard nods.

"I thought it was a celebrity!" says Martha.

Me too.

"Who are you here with, Berrnarrrrdddddd?" asks Rowe.

Bernard is here with his family. He points them out and they wave back grinning. They are loving this.

They love it even more with Rowe starts tugging at his zip. Rowe was that jacket off to see what Bernard is offering.

Bernard willingly relinquishes his jacket. He less willingly strikes a strong-man pose. But when Rowe goes for the second layer of clothing, Bernard twists away. That's a bit much.

"That was cruel," I say to Martha as Bernard is allowed back to his seat.

She nods vigorously.

Probably because we are both now in fear of being dragged out of our seats. A fear not allayed even when Rowe starts chucking sweets about.

But both Martha and I make it to the interval still in our seats.

"I need to get a programme," I say, leaping up as soon as the house lights release me.

I look around, and spot something strange at the back of the auditorium.

"I didn't know the bar was in the theatre," I say.

"Oh, yeah," says Martha. "It's cool, right? I really love this theatre."

"It is beautiful."

I squeeze my way through the crowds to the back of the stalls. There's a merch desk back here too, and I can already see the spread of shiny programmes fanned out on the counter.

"Sorry," says a woman, stopping me. "Is it over, or are they on a break?"

It takes me a moment to figure out that we are not having a conversation about the Ross and Rachel saga.

"It's the interval," I tell her. "Don't worry, they'll be back."

She nods. Suspicions confirmed.

Leaving the group to return to their seats, I make it over to the merch desk.

"Can I get a programme please?" I ask, doing my best to ignore all the flashy lights and other items that want me to buy them.

I can, for the very reasonable price of three pounds.

I grab my purse to get the money out. Or try and get the money out, anyway. I can't. The zip running down the back of my elephant shaped purse is broken.

"Sorry," I tell the programme seller, as I jab my finger in the tiny gap and try to wrench the thing open, silently apologising to my poor Fred the elephant as I yank at him. After a long struggle, the zip pulls away, just enough for me to get a couple of fingers in. I feel around, and pull out three pounds coins from amongst the other, inferior, coinage. You see. This is why I like pound coins. They are chunky. Or thicc, as the kids might say. That's what makes them so pleasingly reliable, even when your zip is broken.

Still, my poor Fred.

I place him back in my bag, with the care of a nurse lifting a hospital blanket over a recently deceased patient.

Transaction complete, I turn around to find Martha.

"I can't find the ice cream!" she wails.

"Are they not selling it at the bar?"

"No!"

I look around, spotting a huge mass of people over in the corner, down near the front of the stage. "What about there?"

Martha goes off to investigate, returning a moment later with the news that yes, that's where the ice cream seller is hiding.

"I'm getting a Double Chocolate," she says. "What do you want?"

Well, gosh... Can't turn down a free ice cream now, can I?

I go for a Strawberry, because yes, I am that basic.

We go back to our seats, chatting about the production.

"I loved that ship," I saw, taking about the massive ship that had taken up the entire stage, and split open to show the interior. As sets go, that ranks right up there with the stage rotating upside down in Wild at the Hampstead. Or the white walls turning into Mao-posters when they were washed in Wild Swans at the Young Vic. Something about the word 'wild' brings out the best in set designers. The Hackney panto is certainly a wild ride. Dick Whittington has managed to step off the Windrush without knowing his namesake and immediately accepts his destiny to become mayor of London by leaving the city.

I am enjoying the whole-hearted anti-Brexitness of it all. Including the rat called Boris.

"I know I'm biased," says Martha as she digs into her Double Chocolate. "But I just love this theatre so much."

I look around. It is quite the spectacular venue. Not an inch has gone undecorated. It looks like a Victorian Christmas card. Leaning my head right back, I notice something. "The ceiling is glittery," I say.

Martha sighs. "I love this theatre so much."

"What do the fours mean?" I ask, pointing to the number 4s written over the doors on each side.

"I don't know," says Martha, sounding annoyed at her own ignorance. But she recovers quickly. "It's a Frank Matcham theatre."

But of course.

"Clive Rowe," she goes on. "You know, the mum, is the only person to win an Olivier for a panto. He doesn't do it every year, but when he does, it always sells out."

I laugh. "I love how much trivia you know."

"I ran the social media for nine months..." she says, darkly.

"He's great," I say. "I loved how even the stage hand was grinning away in the wings."

"I saw that!" says Martha, suddenly all excited.

A voice comes over the soundsystem. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the performance will begin in five minutes."

I get up to put my empty ice cream tube into one of the plastic bin bags tied to the railing running around the stalls.

And then we're launched back into the story, joining Dick and pals down under the sea.

There's a mermaid swimming across the stage.

The girls sitting behind us gasp.

A short trip via a desert island (compleate with King Kong) later, we're back in London Town. And the cat wants to teach us how to talk as cool as him.

A board with lyrics descends.

Oh dear.

A short demonstration of moves later, and we're ordered to our feet. As Kat B sings the Cool Cat Chat, we get out paws out, our claws out, shake our tails, clean our ears, and take a cat nap.

With relief I sit back down. That wasn't too bad. Not with Martha here to shake her tail beside me.

But we don't get away that easily. We were rubbish, and need to do it again.

"For fuck's sake," says Martha as she gets back to her feet. "I'm so tired!"

Paws, claws, tails, ears and naps are all shown off and we sink back down into our seats.

"I love panto!" says Martha as the cast crouch down to wave at us from beneath the descending curtain.

"I have seven more to see..." I say, the enthuasism very much lacking from my voice.

"Lucky!"

"Yeah, but would you want to see them alone?"

"Oh, yeah. Not alone! But I'll come to another one."

We start walking towards the exit.

"Well, I'm going to Hounslow tomorrow. And Catford. And, shit, where else... Oh yeah, I've got to go to Harrow!"

A woman walking in front of us turns around. "I don't have to go to Harrow!" she cries out in horror.

Martha and I share a confused glance as we push our way out into the Hackney night.

The Fat Cats of Clapham

For some reason I have decided that taking a two hour walk to tonight's venue is a good idea. I have also managed to convince myself that my new boots, fresh on this morning, would be up for the challenge. Two miles in, I realise that I an wrong on both counts.

But hobbling along, trying not to think of the blister rapidly growing on my right heel, does give me the perfect opportunity to think. Really, I get all my best thinking done when I'm walking. Like: what I want to have for dinner, and: who will be first on my hit list when Boris introduces the Purge.

This evening, I'm thinking about my marathon. Or rather, the themes. At some point with the next few weeks, I'm going to have to come up with some finale blog post. A round up of all my thoughts. And I'm not sure I have any. I mean, I do. But I'm not sure anyone is that interested in my ten thousand word treaty on the benefits of freesheets. Nor my list of ten questions you should never ask a audience member (with number one being: why are you here?). 

I suppose if I really want to talk about things that I've come across again and again, the starting point must surely be Emily Carding. Starting way back at the beginning of my marathon, at theatre twenty, I've seen Carding perform four times. And tonight, in a neat mirror-trick as we are now twenty theatres from the end, I'm going back for a fifth.

It's almost as if I planned it.

I did kinda plan it.

Two Carding-shows in, I made a conscious decision to follow this actor throughout her London dates.

Not that I'm a stalker you understand. I'm just loyal.

That's what I've been telling myself anyway. I'm just very, very loyal. Committed, one might say.

And it's not like she doesn't know. I'm not creeping around theatres, popping up without warning, demanding blog content. Now that would be weird. 

That is not the case at all. Carding is fully aware of my marathon, and my intentions to turn up at any of her performances taking place in a London venue that I haven't been to yet. And she hasn't complained. Which to me sounds like approval.

Umm.

Just as I manage to convince myself that I am definitely not a stalker, I limp my way past Clapham Common and pause outside the Omnibus to take it all in. Yup, I'm back here again. 

And I'm slightly annoyed by it. Not about being at the Omnibus, as it's a very nice space. Nor about seeing the show, because well, we've talked about that. But because I hadn't planned on it.

The Omnibus started out the year as a single-theatre venue. And now they've only gone about opening a studio. In 2019. In the year of my marathon. It's almost like they did it just to pain me. I'll admit I did not take the news well. I may have gone off a little bit at them. And by 'gone off' I mean, I told them to fuck right off to Yorkshire on Twitter.

It was not my finest moment.

I guess I better cross the road and get this exterior photo taken. 

Almost getting run over by a car that does not understand the concept of a pedestrian crossing, I make it to the other side, take my photo, and totter back again, checking the images as I step through the great stone archway and...

Someone is coming out the door, wearing a bright blue leotard.

It's Emily Carding.

In costume.

Umm.

I smile and hope she hasn't noticed me. But as I make my way to the entrance, I find her there, holding the door.

Oh.

"You have a familiar face," she says, fixing her eyes on me. She's wearing white contact lenses. Only the pupils are showing. They're terrifying.

"I hope so!" I say. I mean, after four theatre trips and a tarot reading...

"Yes, you have a familiar human face..." 

I am no good at this kind of thing. Unfortunately, working for a drama school has not improved my improv skills over the last few weeks.

She smiles, taking pity on me and drops the character. The change is instantaneous. The cold exterior falling away as if it never existed. She pats me on the head.

"Those contacts are terrifying," I say honestly.

"They are," she agrees, and we go inside.

Oof.

Okay. That was intense.

I head straight for the box office. A small desk tucked inside the foyer.

"Hello," says the box officer in the exact soothing tone I need right now.

"Hello. The surname's Smiles?"

“For Quintessence?”

“Yes!”

He finds my name on the list and hands me an admission token. "Listen for the bell," he says. "We should ring it just before nine. The bar is just through there."

I follow the direction he's pointing and find myself in a lovely front room, complete with piano. Rustic wooden tables crowd the space, and the bar is decorated with illustrated chalkboard menus. 

It looks like the kind of cafe that should have ‘Kitchen’ in the name, with a herb garden out back and a farm-to-table manifesto scrawled on the windows. Instead, they have Christmas decorations. Which is almost as good.

I find a table and have a look at my admission pass.

It's a ticket.

I mean, it's a ticket for the omnibus.

I mean, it's a ticket for public transport. Of the omnibus variety. 

That's neat. I like that.

As I busy myself taking photos, an alarm starts. A very loud alarm. An alarm far too loud and insistant to possibly be a theatre bell. The type of alarm that should really have us lining up outside and having our names ticketed off by someone with a hi-vis jacket and clipboard.

I look over at the staff behind the bar. They don't look overly concerned about the whole thing.

"Why has that gone off?" one of them asks.

"Somebody smoking probably."

They carry on with bar business and the alarm eventually stops.

For a few minutes.

As it starts up again, one of the bar people sighs with aggravation. "Oh gawd," she groans. "Reminds me of the IRA. They used to go off all the time."

Honestly, that's not something I ever thought I'd have to be worrying about in the idles of Clapham.

At last, it stops. I hold myself very still, not wanting to jump in shock when it starts up again. But as the silence spreads out, my stomach decides it's time to take over.

Well, it is past 8 o'clock and I haven't had my dinner yet.

I go over to the bar to see what the food selection is. There's a selection of cakes, all of which look depressingly vegan and gluten free. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's very important that our vegan and gluten free friends can get a slice of cake when they go to the theatre. But vegan cakes are not visually appetising, and frankly, I like gluten. The more of it the better.

"Can I help?" asks one of the ladies behind the bar.

"I'm just investigating the food situation," I tell her.

"We also have savoury," she tells me.

"Oo!" I say, suddenly excited. "What do you have?"

She looks around, thinking. "We have quiche?" She turns to the other lady there. "Do we have quiche left?"

"We have sausage rolls," says the other bar lady.

"Vegetarian sausage rolls!"

"No, not vegetation."

"Meat."

"I would love a non-vegetarian sausage roll," I say.

"Meat?"

"Yeah... meat..." I agree.

"With salad?"

"... alright." I don't really want salad. But I don't think they get many meat-eating, non-gluten free customers in here. I should probably at least make a small effort. "And a cup of tea?"

"What type?"

"Breakfast?" I say as a question, hoping my choice won't get me banished.

She nods. Phew. "I'll make the tea first. Milk is just over there," she says, pointing to a small tray with milk jug and dishes for spoons and spent teabags.

"The fire brigade is here," she says as she starts making my tea.

"Yes, they have to come when it goes off."

Slightly dazed, I go back to my seat with my tea. I appear to have just paid over nine pounds for a cup of tea and a sausage roll. That's a lot of money. I do hope it's at least a large sausage roll. I'm starving.

A few minutes later, it's brought over.

It is not a large one.

"Bon appetite," says the lady from the bar. "Would you like mustard with that?"

"I'm alright," I tell her, looking sorrowfully at my plate. I admit, I eat a lot. A lot a lot. But even so. Nine pounds for a sausage roll, a bit of salad, and a cup of tea. I had no idea Clapham was so expensive. I would have popped into the Co-op on my way here and bought a sandwich if I'd known.

At least it tastes good.

And there's a cat.

Wait. What?

There's a cat!

Over there.

Under the table.

Am I imagining that?

No. It's a cat.

A very fat cat.

Possibly a pregnant cat.

I lower my hand and flutter my fingers.

The cat looks at me.

I flutter my fingers again.

The cat gets up and waddles in my direction.

I click my tongue, and give an extra flutter, just in case.

She waddles up, and keeps on waddling, right past me, without a second glance.

Dammit.

I knew that extra flutter was overdoing it. I was too keen. Cats and ghosts. They don't like you when you come on too strong.

I need to learn how to play hard to get.

I finish my sausage roll, and settle back with my cup of tea, watching the cat as she scampers around, chasing invisible rabbits and scratching up the table legs.

Out in the foyer, a bell rings.

It's time to go.

I wave at the cat. She looks out me before twisting around, lifting her leg, and turning her attention to cleaning her bottom.

Chairs scrape as we all get up and head for the door.

As we pass the kitchen a man leans in and asks one of the people inside to throw out something for him.

"Blueberry?" he asks, offering out his small plastic tray of berries.

She shakes her head. She doesn't take bribes.

The box officer is at the bottom of the stairs, collecting passes.

I hand him mine and head up.

The door to the theatre is open.

It's very dark in here, but I think I've found myself behind the seating block.

I edge myself around it to the front.

And there's Carding, on stage, her head bowed, eyes closed, and arms poised in a more angular version of ballet's first position.

I creep across the front of the stage and slip up the centre aisle, finding my comfort spot: end of the third row.

It's freezing in here.

All the warmth in this building has been diverted down to the cafe.

I heft my massive coat up over my knees and shiver.

A voice comes over the soundsystem.

It seems the humans have got themselves into a bit of a mess, and the androids have to step in to look after them.

As Carding wakes the story unfolds. Humans have retreated into domes, from where the androids look after our every need. As their manual, they take the ultimate authority on what it is to be human: Shakespeare.

Now, you know I'm not a big fan of Billy Shakespeare.

So, already I'm in a dystopian nightmare here, even before this supposed utopia begins to unravel.

But like... Carding is really good. And, like, she does like Shakespeare, so if anything is going to make all these excerts from his plays watchable, it's her.

There's a bit from Winter's Tale. I know that bit. Mainly because I watched a matinee of it this afternoon. But still. I'm feeling pretty smug all the same.

We also get Hamlet. And Romeo. And Juliet. And Henry Five. And Attenborough. And... Carding shudders. The lights flicker.

The voice is back.

The android is rebooting.

Carding's head lifts, her expression clear. All is well.

Something tells me this isn't going to end well.

But we press on all the same.

The audience grin knowingly to each other as the androids come up against human adolescence for the first time. Their response to it soon has the smiles fading from our lips.

Carding switches from character to android and back again, her face filling with the deepest emotions, before the shutters are brought back down in an instant, and the android takes over.

But such serenity can't last.

The lights switch to red and Carding is leaning forward, arms behind like tortured wings, her face twisted and contorted. She is perfectly still. She is perfectly terrifying.

I freeze. Something tells me I shouldn't blink.

If the Weeping Angels are real, then we have one of them in Clapham right now.

And then it's done, and we are released.

I manage to unfurl myself enough to clap. At least, I think I'm clapping. I can't actually feel my hands.

"You know those angels from Doctor Who?" says someone in the front row as we all start gathering our things and getting ready to leave.

"No," comes the reply. "But I can imagine."

Oh, sweet innocent front rower. You can not imagine. Although, perhaps after that performance...

Carding is on the landing. She has a flock of fans and friends and well-wishers around her.

"Let me just say a proper hello," she says turning to me.

"You were amazing," I say truthfully. I mean, I'm scarred for life. But it was amazing, all the same.

"I don't want to get makeup on you," she says as we hug.

Eh. I wear enough eyeliner for three people and cry a lot. I'm not afraid of getting makeup on me.

I wobble my way back down the stairs. I'm choosing to blame the five-ish miles I walked to get here. And not the fact that I am still shaking in fear.

A Tale Told in Three Programmes

Leicester Square at Christmas is quite the sight. The usual pools of vomit have been replaced by the more glittery sight of Christmas upchuck. Everything is lights and colour and consumerism.

At least the beatboxers are still here. 

Rocking their tunes in the middle of a crowd. A sign displaying their Instagram handle in place of a upturned hat.

"By the way," says the beatboxer, pausing in the middle of his spree. "It's called freestyle. I hope you like it."

The crowd is not unappreciative, but I can't hang around. I have tickets to pick up.

The box office for the Spiegletent is right next to the entrance.

It's in a small wooden cabin that I'm sure it meant to make us think of gingerbread and ski chalets. It's painted red, and the windows are split into four panes, like a child's drawing of a house.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say to one of the box officers.

He types something into his computer and a second later my ticket is printing off.

"There you go," he says, handing it over. And that's it. I'm dismissed.

Easy.

I head for the entrance. A huge sign is proclaiming Christmas at Leicester Square as the home of La Clique. The trees are drenched in lights, and the pathways crowded with more cabins - these ones more of the market stall variety.

First up though, the bag checkers. I pull mine forward, ready to open, but neither of the hi-vis jacketed men on duty pay the slightest bit of interest in me, and I walk past without interruption.

I'm a little bit early, so I find myself hanging out with a row of Christmas trees while I come up with a plan. I could stand here an edit a blog post. That would be the sensible thing to do. But the whole point of my blog is to write about the experience of going to the theatre, so perhaps I should be off experiencing it. Not at all to indulge in Christmas shopping, you understand. This is a purely selfless enterprise. I need to look at what all these cabins are selling for you.

Turns out though, they're all selling a bunch of tat.

Wooden tat. Crystal tat. Tote bag tat.

I keep on going, hoping there's something to help me knock at least one name off my Christmas list, but as I turn the corner and start up the opposite path, I seem to be getting a repeat view: more wood, more crystal, and some Union Jack hats.

The air smells of molten sugar and hot dogs. The food-stalls alternative between carbs and sausages. My two favourite food groups, but the combined fug is turning my stomach. 

People wander around clutching at paper cups and a curious lack of shopping bags.

I finish my rotation and end up at the entrance to the tent.

A pretty girl and her date are arguing about whether to go in.

"What time does it start? It's only half past..." says the most chill dude ever.

His gorgeous girl isn't having it though. She wants to go inside, and he follows on up the steps behind her.

I suppose I should go to.

Up the steps and towards the entrance which is rocking some old school circus vibes.

I hand my ticket over to one of the ticket checkers and she tears off the tab.

"Err, sorry, which way is it?" I ask, looking between the two entrances to the space. One either side of us.

"Either way!" she replies happily.

I chose left, because I like being sinister.

Inside I find myself in the emptiest bar I've ever seen in my life. A vast space punctuated only by a small group leaning over on the bar.

I have no interest in joining them, so I go through.

More ticket checkers await, both wearing the bowler hats so beloved of cabaret performers. Although I'm not quite sure they are usually worn with plaid shirts. But it's a bold satorial choice, and I respect it.

"You're rear stalls," says plaid shirt, glancing at my ticket. "Which is these ones here." He points over to two short rows of high stools, tucked against the wall.

But I'm too busy gawping at the space to inspect them properly. It's quite something in here. Like a proper circus high-top, the circular ceiling is lined with stripey fabric. Huge globes of light float around the frame. And roving spotlights pick up the ruched satin curtains behind the stage. It all has the exact level of seedy glamour that you would hope for when booking a revue show.

In the centre, tucked up close to the stage, are circles of chairs. Then there's a moat-like walkway. After which come the booths. The booths look rather nice. All tucked away and darkly lit. The sort of place you could get very very drunk and not even care. 

Pity that they are all completely empty.

I turn around and head towards the stools at the back, and pick one in the second row. 

There's a programme waiting for me on the seat. They all seem to have one.

I pick it up and have a quick flick through. But I'm left rubbing my palms in disgust. The paper is all wavy. Like someone dropped it in the bath and thought they could get away with drying it on the radiator. 

Looking around to check no one is watching, I switch it with the one on the next seat.

This one isn't wavy. But the cover feels all crusty.

I really don't want to contemplate what with. A cocktail, I tell myself. 

"Is anyone sitting there?" asks the leader in a gang of three young men. He points to the three empty stools next to me.

"Go for it," I say, twisting around in my seat so that he can get past.

But a second later, one of the bowler hatted ticket checkers come over, and they are backing out, disappearing around the walkway.

A few more people go after them.

Something tells me that I missed something quite significant.

The bowler hatted lady returns. "Did you hear what I said?" she asks, looking at me curiously.

I have to admit that I did not.

"We're not sold out tonight, so we're offering a free upgrade."

"Oh!" I say. "Wow. Great."

I slip off my seat, grab my coat, and follow her into the main pit, close to the stage.

"Just one?" she asks.

Yup. Just one.

She leans into a row. "Is this free?" she asks. The row residents all nod. Yes, it's free. "In here," she says, waving me in. 

I appear to have found myself in the third row. That's quite the upgrade.

The girl on the end stands up to let me through. The boy on the other side grabs the programme from the seat and holds it until I sit down. "There you are, this is yours," he says one I've plonked myself down.

This one feels very smooth. It definitely hasn't had a drink spilled on it.

"Sorry, your coat," says the girl as she takes her seat again.

"Sorry," I say, stuffing it out of the way. "It gets everywhere." It's a big coat.

"No, it's your coat. If you don't mind it being on the floor..."

"Eh," I say with a shrug. "It's cheap."

That done, we settle back.

Our host for the evening is Bernie Dieter, dressed in a slinky cat suit with feathers emerging from her shoulders and a black wig sitting on her head, making her look like a bird of prey. The object of her hunt soon becomes obvious.

"Silver Fox," she purrs, narrowing her eyes at one of the men sitting in the front row.

She turns back to us. It's a Monday night, but that's no excuse for a poor show from the audience. She's going to make sure we know what we're doing. 

She starts us off gently. Clapping with just single fingers. Then two. "Then the whole hand," she says with the dirtiest leer I've ever seen.

The bar is at the back, she tells us. The toilets are at the back and on the right. She's in full flight attendant mode now, gesturing with her arms. No flash photography, it's dangerous for the performers. And, she adds with a lowering of the head to show she means business, if she sees our little phones out, she will confiscate them, and stick them down Silver Fox's pants. And she will not be held responsible for any dick pics that might appear on them.

With that dire warning ringing in our ears, we begin.

The acts move quickly. A singer, a juggler, acrobats. None of them stay long enough for us to get bored. All of them beautiful and sultry and not wearing very much.

And then Dieter is back. She hasn't forgotten about Silver Fox, but she's out for fresh blood now.

Her dancing finger lands on a young man in my row. My neighbour's neighbour. And presumably his date for tonight.

"Business!" she names him with a triumphant jab of her finger.

She kicks off her shoes and she's off.

I lean down to move my bag out of her way. But nothing could stop her, she launches herself through the row, clambering up over Business and straddling him. He blinks at her, shocked, but he's taking it well. At the demand to caress her, he strokes her thigh. When she insists that he add another hand to the mix, he clamps onto her bottom, digging his fingers in.

I squirm uncomfortably.

With all the horror stories of audience members getting all groppy in immersive theatre, seeing something so blatant is sending me into paroxysms of worry. But then, I did just go to a play where one of the actors asked if I wanted to slap him, so perhaps I'm being to precious about it. As long as the performers are comfortable with what's happening, I should be too...

"It's Monday," Dieter purrs. "You've worked hard." 

She eyes the woman sitting next to him. "Is this your Mother?" she asks, shocked. "Oh my god, it is! You're doing this in front of your Mother!"

It's time to get someone else involved.

"Lumberjack!" she coos at a man wearing a plaid shirt sitting just behind us. And she beckons him in to the embrace. One hand on her. One on Business. They writhe together.

It's not enough for Dieter.

"Beardie!" she calls.

"Shaven Haven!"

Now in charge of a veritable harem, she has a job for them. To carry her back to the stage.

Business it seems, is not just a smart chap in a suit. Oh no. This guy works out, and he's not afraid to show off. Clapping his hands on Dieter's thighs, he hefts her onto his shoulder and carries her out, with the rest of us scrambling to get out of their way.

Giggling, we all return to our places.

But if anyone thought about relaxing, the ushers coming in with huge plastic sheets soon put a stop to that. They drape them over the front row. Designating them a splash zone, and as Jamie Swan takes a bath on stage he makes sure they get wet. 

The ladies in the front row lift up their portion of sheet, cowering behind it, in fear of their blow-drys.

Slightly damp, we are released for the interval, with the order to go to the bar. I suspect this is more of a warning. If this is act one, alcohol may truly be required for the second part.

Stage hands appear with squeegee mops and start pushing the water off the stage, will one of the ticket checkers in the bowler hats works on mopping up the floor. Mops are replaced by towels, and they crawl around on their hands and knees, working the the stage until it is perfectly dry and it's time to start the show again.

"It's a quality night," says my neighbour as he returns to his seat.

"Yeah, it's funny," agrees Business.

Business' mum nods along. She's loving it.

The band is back on stage. We're ready for act two.

Except nothing could have prepared us for the beautiful David Pereira. Too shocked laughter at his shaving cream antics, he bounces off the stage and asks for help from a man sitting in the front row.

Our front rower is a little wary, but he does his best to help out. Only to find himself with a lap covered in foam.

Dieter comes out with a sympathetic smile, clutching a packet of baby wipes. The shell-shocked front rower takes one, but she presses the entire pack on him. He's going to need it. 

He wipes delicately at his trouser legs. He doesn't seem to have noticed that his jacket is coated too, from where Pereira wound his creamed-up arm around the man's neck.

His programme has slipped out of his hands and onto the floor. It's covered with foam.

I think we're solved the mystery of the crusty programmes.

"You need a drink," Dieter says soothly, and a stage manager runs over, drink in hand.

But there's no time to linger on him. It's time for the next act. Under cover of darkness, Dieter comes back with a towel so that our foamy front rower can get the stuff out of his hair. He seems much more relaxed now that he has a drink in his hands.

"I'm so glad we're not sitting over there," whispers Business to my neighbour, as if he hadn't just been wiggling his bum at at audience that contains his own mother.

When Leah Shelton starts pulling a tiny red handkerchief from increasingly more intimate locations, to the shocked laughter of the audience, I make a mental note not to ever take my mother to see La Clique.

Handkerchief recovered for the final time (and sniffed) we are sent out into the night with a drinking song.

Out in the bar, a pap board has been set up and people are queueing up to have their photo taken with the (now fully clothed) Dieter and Shelton. I keep on walking, stepping out into a fog of sausage fumes.

Wake Me Up When December Ends

I am having such a good day. I just found out that Helen (you know Helen) has passed her master's with a distinction, Ellen (you know her too) has done a mega work-thing, and me... well, just the little matter of me getting name-checked in the December round-up on Exeunt. 

As day's go, this one is proving to be pretty spectacular. I am ridiculously happy. Stupidly happy. Deliciously happy. Okay, maybe not deliciously. That one's weird. But the others: definitely. I can't stop smiling.

"I like your coat darling!" says a rando bloke on the road.

"Thanks!" I say cheerfully. It is an amazing coat. 

"Can I get your number?" he says. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

But my coat and I are already bouncing away. Nothing can touch me today, not even...

A man rolls down the window of his white van to wolf whistle in my direction. 

It's such a cliche I almost laugh in response.

Honestly, this whole smiling thing is dangerous.

Oh well, I make it the rest of the way to Bloomsbury without further incident. 

Signs decorate the railings with messages supporting the university pension strike. Can't say I completely understand the intricacies of it all. Or even the basics. But frankly, I'm too worried about my own lack of pension to care about anyone else's.

Oh well, I'm here now. The Bloomsbury Theatre. My second and last visit. I skip up the steps and head into the bright foyer. More steps and up to the box office.

I set my shoulders. In the reminder email from UCL Event Ticketing, they tried to convince me that I don't need a ticket. That I can just show my confirmation email on the door. Well, I'm not having it. I want a proper physical ticket, and nothing is going to stop me.

"Hello, the surname's Smiles," I say to the box officer behind the counter.

She taps something into her computer. 

I run through my pleading speech on my head as I wait.

There's a sheet of paper stuck up on the window.

There's a QR code on it. "SCAN FOR THE PROGRAMME!" it says.

Oh dear. They are really committed to this no paper thing. Not even a programme! If this is the modern age, I want none of it.

"Maxine?"

"...yes."

She nods, and a second later my ticket is printing and she's sliding it across the counter.

"Oh... thanks!"

Okay then. Umm. Not sure what to do with myself now.

I decamp to the nearest pillar and set about tearing off the receipt and stuffing it into my bag and eyeing up all the QR codes with suspicion.

There's a group of young people hanging around nearby, jumping up like meercats whenever someone comes through the door.

"Oh! You're seeing this!" they cry in unison.

None of them are scanning the QR codes.

In the corner there's a big set of double doors, guarded either side by ticket checkers. 

I watch as a young man with a suitcase rolls over.

The ticket checkers both look at it.

"Umm," says one. "You can leave it in the office?" He grasps the handle and helps the young man move it inside.

I join the queue.

"First door on the right!" says the ticket checker. "Enjoy the show!"

Through the door and I find myself in a secondary foyer. Doors on the right lead off to various parts of the theatre, while on the right is a small concession desk, with a not particularly generous display of snacks. Galaxy bars and Tyrell's crisps are laid out in rows. I suppose it's hard to make a merch desk look good without programmes to baulk them out.

At the back, there's a proper bar, surrounded by old posters. There isn't much of a queue. That's Gen Z for you. All heading to their seats to sit quietly and get ready for the show. They've probably pre-downloaded the programme and are busy memorising the song order in preparation. Bless them.

Music pours out of the auditorium, from a playlist that must surely be called Green Day's Greatest Hits, because, you guessed it, I'm here to see American Idiot. UCL Musical Theatre Society style.

I go through the first door, as directed. It takes me to the front of the stalls in what is a decently sized theatre. There's a circle overhanging the back, but that appears to be closed for tonight. The walls are covered in those slim wooden planks that are so beloved by higher education theatres. LAMDA has them. ArtsEd too.

The stage is raised, and big enough for the dance performances that happen here occasionally.

I go find my seat. The end of the third row. As is my preference. 

Not the best angle. I'm losing a bit of the stage, in the back corner, but I do get a clear view right into the wings, where I can see the cast jumping up and down as they warm up.

A girl pauses at the end of our row, trying to get in.

The bloke blocking her way reaches down to pick up his glass of beer and then proceeds to not move. Not himself. Not the huge puffer coat on the floor. Or the massive rucksack taking up the entire path.

Seeing that he has no intention of moving any further now that he's rescued his beer, she hops over his mountain and stumbles to her seat.

I think we've discovered who the British Idiot in the audience is tonight.

I glare at him on her behalf.

He doesn't notice. He leans forward to place his glass back down in front of the buffer seat that separates us. I contemplate kicking it over, but I don't want to ruin my boots.

The recorded music stops, and the band takes over, as the cast come out racing.

And can we just take a moment to appreciate those boys wearing mass levels of black eyeliner. I mean... that is some quality audience service going on there.

I am not ashamed to admit that boys wearing eyeliner is a teenage weakness of mine that I never grew out of.

Okay, I am slightly ashamed to admit it, but if me telling you this results in the world just being that tiny bit more kohled up, then my embarrassment will not be in vain.

But then I notice something. The boys may be in eyeliner, but the girls are all rocking the plaid shirt and skater skirt look.

I look down at my outfit.

Red plaid shirt and little skater skirt.

Oh shit.

I swear, before all the theatre gods, this was not intentional. Yes, I love theme dressing, but this time it is just a coincidence. I did not turn up to watch American Idiot, by myself, in costume. I just like tartan. And skirts. I would go so far as to say, those both feature in my top ten things to wear.

I slink down in my seat, hoping that no one else has noticed, and try not to worry about the fact that I'm dressed like a teenager from 2009. Was I even a teenager in 2009? Shit. No. I wasn't. I was already a fully-fledged adult. Christ. That's... let's not talk about that anymore.

I try to concentrate on the story.

There doesn't seem to be much of one.

Oh, sure. There's a plot. Rather a lot of it. But no characters. Just mannequins going through the motions without the hinderance of personality.

The songs are good though.

A girl in my row is having a great time, bouncing around her leg in time with the quality tunes.

And then it's the interval.

An usher comes in with a tray full of ice cream, setting up right in front of the speakers, now gone back to pumping out those hits.

If the usher is worried about damaging his hearing, he isn't letting it show. He's drumming his palms against the back of that box, bopping around, and looking like he is seriously enjoying himself, even if he doesn't manage to sell a single ice cream during the entire interval.

It's just not that crowd tonight.

As the lights go down for the second half, there's a massive whoop.

The students are out in force to support their friends. And by the looks of it, a few parents too. I spy a few grey-haired couples amongst the crowd, who don't strike me as massive Green Day fans, but then, I could be wrong. 2009 was a long time ago, after all. Even if I haven't managed to update my wardrobe in the past ten years, doesn't mean the fans weren't busy raising kids and sending them off to university.

They're certainly enthusiastic enough during the applause. It must be something quite mega to see your little darling being up there, on that massive stage, and being all talented and shit. Not something my parents were ever subjected to, a relief on all of our parts, but this lot seem happy about it.

I leap out of my seat and dive into my coat. I need to give some serious consideration to the continued presence of little skater skirts in my wardrobe.

One of the students at my work called me ma'am the other week. He's American, and was holding a door open for me at the time, so I think he thought he was being respectful. But... oof. I can't deny that it really hurt.

I'm going for twin sets and pearls from now on.

At least my coat is cool.

As I trot down the steps and make to push open the glass doors, I pause and look at my reflection.

I bought this coat thinking it would make me look like a Tolstoy heroine, but turns out I giving off more off a Pat Butcher vibe.

Huh.

Still, it's a good day. I guess...

I Am A Revolutionary

"Come on, mate," growls the man standing behind me.

Thankfully, this man's ire is not directed at me, but at the box officer at Stratford Circus, who seems to be having a lot of trouble looking up someone's order.

The woman at the front of the queue gets out her phone to find the confirmation email.

The computer is consulted. Lists are checked. The order is not found.

The queue sighs, stepping from foot to foot as we wait. The tinsel garland stuck across the front of the counter isn't doing much to get us in the Christmas spirit.

At last, some sort of arrangement is made, and the woman walks away with her ticket.

Except, no. She's stopped. She's walking back.

"Do you do food here?" she asks.

"The bar has crisps," offers up the box officer. "Yeah, just snacks."

"What about next door? Never mind," she says, stopping herself with a wave of her hand. "I don't have time. I'll have to settle for crisps. I've only eaten once today, you see."

And with that, she's off.

The queue shuffles forward.

But we're moving quickly now, and soon enough it's my turn.

"Hi! The name's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S."

The box officer looks down a printed list and taps her finger on my name. 

"Maxine?"

The one and only.

"That's two tickets," she says, pulling a pair of laminated admission passes out of a business envelope.

Yup. That's right. Ya gurl actually has someone with her tonight. No single shaming for me.

I reach out to claim the passes, but the box officer isn't letting go.

Another box officer has come over, and the pair of them are deep in discussion about the list. 

"When was it printed?"

"Last night."

"Ah! That explains it."

Yes, yes, yes. I nod along, keeping my gaze fixed on the passes still clutched in her hand.

Eventually, the two box officers conclude that the reason the woman's order couldn't be found was because she had booked on the day.

They do not approve.

At last, the tickets are relinquished into my care, and I can finally have a look around this place.

I've been here before. I already have Circus 1 checked off my list. And now I'm back for Circus 2, which gives me the perfect opportunity to inspect their Christmas decorations.

First ones of the year. Everyone else seems to be holding off until December.

But even with their early start, Stratford isn't doing things by halves. There's not one Christmas tree, but two. Each surrounded by piles of presents. Tinsel loops its way over the bar. There's even a stocking.

I retreat to the windows, where there are tables and chairs and a convenient pillar to lean against.

I'm not sure, but I think those doors right next to me are the entrance to Circus 2. This is based on nothing but the fact that they have an usher posted outside of them.

There's no signage. Not that I can see.

Circus 1 is over the other end of the foyer. And Circus 3 and 4 are upstairs. I can see their numbers all printed on the walls. But there's not a 2 to be found anywhere.

A group of young women wander over.

The front of houser steps in front of them. "Should be open in a few minutes," she tells them.

They retreat a few steps, not wanting to go too far and lose their precious place in the queue. It's unallocated seating tonight. And they have no intention of being stuck in the back.

The woman who hasn't eaten strolls over. She looks a lot more calm now that she has a packet of crisps in hand. She finds a table to munch them. 

The foyer begins to fill up.

I keep close to my pillar and check the time.

It's seven to seven. 

The doors open.

People start to form a line.

I get out the way and check my phone.

There's a message from Sarah. "2 mins!!" it says. Two exclamation marks. She must be stressed.

I'm not overly worried. We won't get the best seats, but we probably shouldn't be taking them. We're here to see Messiah. Based on the true story of that Blank Panther who was killed by the Chicago police, Frederick Hampton. And as we are a pair of white girls, we should probably be finding ourselves at the back.

The audience is going in.

I take up a spot near the doors, looking up from my phone every time someone comes in.

Not her.

Not her.

Still not her.

Neither of them are her.

Okay, now I'm starting to get slightly anxious.

I get my phone out again, but she hasn't even read my last message. The ticks remain resolutely grey. 

Shit.

She's probably dead.

"Maxxxxx," calls out someone wearing a leather jacket and a bike helmet. 

Arms wrap around themselves around me.

I think this must be Sarah.

"Shall we go in?" I say, edging her over to the doors as she tells me about her bike journey. Sounds like a bloody nightmare. This is why I don't cycle. I mean, one of the reasons I don't cycle. Other than the main one which is that I would definitely die if I tried.

I hand the admission passes over to the front of houser and we go in.

There's lots of people in here. Messiah is clearly the show to see tonight.

"Can you fill in from this side for me?" asks a front of houser as I stop to figure out where we should go. 

We do as we're told, heading towards the nearest block of seating. Except, we don't get very far. There's one of those rope barriers blocking off the back couple of rows.

I stare at it. "Ummm," I say.

Everyone else around us stops too. "Ummm."

One of the standers decides to take the initiative and calls over to the usher. "Can we...?"

But the usher is otherwise occupied and doesn't hear her.

Being the hero that we all need, the woman grabs hold of one of the metal polls and shoves it out the way, freeing up one of the rows. I follow her lead, grabbing the other poll and giving it a quick kick for good measure.

Exhausted by my efforts, I slide my way down the row, collapsing at the far end.

Sarah follows me, looking around. In a low voice she makes a comment suggesting that the people in the audience for tonight's performance of Messiah are of a considerably higher calibre, looks-wise, than you might usually find in a theatre.

She's not wrong.

We're an attractive bunch in here tonight.

A young man comes barreling down our row, shoving Sarah out the way before climbing into the seat in front.

Sarah winces. "Thanks mate," she mutters.

We both glare at him.

My appreciation of the audience has gone down a couple of notches.

"I literally just pulled something," says Sarah as she sits down.

Pretty people are such twats.

I look around, scoping out all these attractive arseholes.

But I can't help but notice that there are some amongst our midst who are taking things to another level. They are radiating a kind of energy that you don't tend to find hanging out in an arts centre on a Wednesday night.

I watch them carefully as they move about, very much not sitting down.

And wouldn't you know, they're actors, because of course they are.

I can't tell you much besides that. You know the rules: no freesheet, no crediting. I'm not Googling no one.

But one of them, who I’m guessing is our Fred Hampton, is ordering us all to our feet, arms in the air, in the Black Power salute.

We all look at each other, but Fred isn't having it.

We need to get the hell up.

We do, raising our arms in the demonstrated pose cautiously.

Sarah and I share a glance. I giggle nervously. I'm so glad I'm not here alone and have a fellow white person to share this with, because I'm feeling hella awkward right now.

Fred is now ordering us to repeat him. "I. Am. A Revolutionary," he says.

"I. Am. A Revolutionary," we chorus back to him.

A few people try to drop their arms, but Fred is having none of it.

"Don't put down your arm!" he orders. "I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

"I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

Across the way I spot a girl have trouble with the salute. Her arm is falling forward and talking on a more Nazi-esque angle than I'm sure she intended. Although... I suppose you can never tell with white people.

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

I am not a revolutionary. I mean, I pretend I am. But you and I both know it's all lies. I prefer lie-ins over sit-ins, and while I've gone to a few protests and marches and whatnot in my time, when the going gets tough, the Maxine gets going. As in, away. Far away.

"I want that to be the last thing you say before you go to sleep," he tells us. "I. Am. A Revolutionary."

Someone comes in. A white someone.

You just know he's going to be a police officer.

Fred orders us to sit down.

"Thank gawd," whispers Sarah. "My arm was getting tired."

The door opens and the usher waves in a latecomer, pointing out the reserved seats in the front row.

The police officer looks at him. "Take a seat. Sit down," he orders.

And on the backs of our laughter, we are launched into the story. Or at least, the framing device around the story. We're recreating the events of that night. When the police stormed Hampton's flat and opened fire, killing him in front of his heavily pregnant girlfriend.

The floor has been marked up with white tape, showing off the layout of the apartment. But those white lines, combined with the long stage and high walls, is giving this room serious school-gym vibes that even the blackout curtains cannot compensate for.

But I soon forget about that, as we are flung back in time, to the evening before those awful events happened. With Frederick and Deborah enjoying dinner, dancing together, calling his mum together, and laughing with each other, laughing with the Panther's head of security, William O’Neal. Oh my, they laugh together so much. My heart is melting at the sight of them.

As the lights dim to a final blackout I breath out a long sigh.

"She was so good," I say. "The girlfriend."

"She was realy good," agrees Sarah. "I really enjoyed that, actually."

I'm not sure enjoyed is quite the right word, but I know what she means and I nod to show my agreement.

"Food?" I ask.

"Gawd yes."

"I am starving."

"Me too."

It's a quarter past eight, there is plenty of time to be getting ourselves dinner.

Besides, I need to get all the gossip about my old work from this former colleague of me.

We head outside, and as I wait for Sarah to unlock her bike I get out my phone. There's one thing I need to do before we find somewhere to eat.

I look up the cast. I know, I know. I'm breaking my own rules here. But I need to know the name of the actor who played Deborah.

I find the information on the Stratford Circus webpage for Messiah.

Angelina Chudi.

Fucking brilliant.

My Dangerous Obsession

"Bromley doesn't count, does it?" asks one of my new coworkers when I tell here where it's going tonight.

Well, Bromley does count. So much so that I'm heading back for my fourth, and hopefully, final visit of the marathon. 

The Churchill Theatre looks different in the dark. The tall grey walls are lit up with turquoise lights, but veering off the high street and into the little square that the Churchill calls home I find that the scaffolding is still up.

Not much of a surprise that, I was only here last month.

And there's still an usher on the door. Two of them this time.

Except this time they're not just welcoming people in. Oh no. 

"Hello loves!" says one of them with a wide grin at to a couple of old ladies rocking up ahead of me. "Dangerous Obsession?"

They nod and giggle and confirm that they are indeed there to watch Dangerous Obsession. 

He presses on, still in full cheeky chappy mode. "Would you like a programme?" 

Turns out they don't. But I would.

I go over to the other usher and ask if I can get one.

"Of course! That's three pounds."

I reach into my bag, trying to find my purse. Not overly keen on getting cash out while we are still, effectively, standing in the street, but if that's the way things are played in Bromley, who am I to question it?

"Sorry, big bag," I apologise, as the whereabouts of my purse continues to allude me.

"I love your coat!" says the programme seller, a compliment borne more of a need to fill the awkward silence than genuine admiration, I'm sure. But I appreciate it all the same.

I do rather like this coat. It's massive. And fur. And the sleeves have tiger stripes on them. It makes one hell of a statement, although exactly what it's saying, I'm not too sure. "Don't sit next to this woman," probably. Unless you want to be squashed, of course. I am rather large while I'm wearing it.

"Thanks," I say, humbly. "It's very warm. I almost fainted on the train. Do you have change for a tenner?"

"A ten? Yes. Better to be too warm than cold."

"That's true," I say as I feed a ten-pound note in between her fingers.

She hands me a programme. "It'll be coins," she warns, bringing out her plastic wallet of change.

"That's okay," I say, trying not to show my excitement. "I need coins." Especially in the form of pound coins. I fucking love pound coins.

She counts of the change and pours it into my waiting palm.

"Thanks!"

"Enjoy the show!"

And with that done, I'm inside.

No need to stop at box office. I already have my ticket. They gave it to me the last time I was here. Little bit annoyed by that, to be honest. I don't go asking for tickets to be 'care of box office' just for me to be given one early, which I then have to care for myself, for an entire month, through a damn house move, no less, and then bring it right back to Bromley, when it could have stayed here quite nicely.

Plus, and I'm being really real here, I was kinda hoping for an upgrade. By the looks of things, the circle ain't too sold tonight. The kind of not sold that would usually have a circle closed off and everyone bumped down to the stalls. But hey, sometimes when you play that game, you lose.

I look around for which door I need, and I find it, pressed right up against the box office.

There's no ushers inside by the looks of it, which might go some way to explaining why this place has no qualms with keeping an empty circle open.

There's a bit of a platform right at the back, which I imagine is space dedicated to wheelchair users, but I use the opportunity to survey the auditorium.

It's red. Not the classic theatre red of, say, the Bromley Little Theatre. Or even the glossy expensive red of last night's theatre, the Prince Edward. But a brownish sort of red that I feel could only have been dreamt up in the seventies.

I traipse my way down the steps to the front row. Row AA, as it happens.

Never seen that before in a circle.

Not one with fixed seating anyway.

AAs and BBs and the like tend to be reserved for the slips, or assigned to extra rows when they are added for, I don't know, when the orchestra pit isn't in use.

Perhaps the person charged with labelling the rows up here just got overexcited.

I'll give them this though. The legroom is amazing. Got space for my oversized coat and my oversized bag and my awkward legs. Doesn't look like I'll be needing it though.

The front row looks pretty empty. Just me and a group of three ladies sitting further in.

I decide to make full use of this and spread out, putting my bag on one seat, my coat on another, and me in the middle.

Elbows on armrests, slouch down: bliss.

And from this angle, the railing that should by rights be restricting my view is no problem at all.

I don't think I've ever been so comfy in a theatre this entire marathon.

But before I let myself drift off into a theatre coma, I should probably take some photos. I lean forward to see what's happening down in the stalls. it looks filled enough with people.

Bunch of mugs.

They may have the superior viewpoint, but look at them all crowded together, fighting over who gets the armrest, and with nowhere to put their coat.

The ladies down in my row have slung their jackets up over the railing.

Up here the seats come with built-in coat racks.

Just as I'm about to sink into my own smugness forevermore, the house lights go down, and the huge red velvet curtain rises.

We're in a conservatory.

Angie Smith's Sally Driscoll appears, wearing a rather fetching swimsuit.

The audience stirs. Someone lets out a loud breath which might have been an attempt at a wolf whistle.

As she potters around, I marvel at her ability to wear a towering set of wedges when there is literally no one else around to show off to. If I'm ever wearing heels I make damn sure I have an audience around me. The thought of falling over and embarrassing myself is the only thing that can keep me upright.

But she's not alone for long. Michael Sherwin's John Barnett soon comes knocking, unannounced and unexpected. The pair of them met once at a conference thing. And now he's turned up. For reasons.

Reasons that don't even come to light when Mark Huckett's Mark Driscoll comes home. Nor when the gun is brought out, complete with dumdum bullets, which are apparently, like, super dangerous.

Anyway, despite the run time behind hella short, and the second act following on directly after the first (yes, I read the programme), they manage to put a twenty-minute interval in the middle of it all. A decision I'm not wholly behind, considering I've got to get back to Finchley after all this.

I'm too comfy to move. I stay in my seat for the interval.

Almost everyone else does too.

This is not an audience that is keen to run off to the bar anytime soon.

The twenty minutes count down.

Doom-laden music fills the auditorium, and we are sent back to the conservatory, exactly where we left off.

Somewhere outside, down at stalls level, I can hear voices. They're definitely coming from outside. I can tell, because they sound young, and enthusiastic. Not like anyone in this theatre tonight.

The young people whoop and call out to each other, unhindered by any thought as to who can hear them.

Up on stage the actors press on, and eventually, the young people disappear off to do their young people things, which clearly does not involve hanging around the Churchill Theatre on a Tuesday night.

The walls of this place must be super thin. Last time I was here, down in the studio, I spent my interval listening to what was happening in the main house.

And now I'm getting the reverse.

I think of that lady I got talking to on my last visit, and how she said it wasn't usually like that at the Churchill.

Clearly the shenanigans are kept down in the studio.

All the serious business happens in the main house.

Even if they do give the seat rows weird names.

The audience gasps as we're treated to get another plot twist. They're coming faster every time. Barely giving us the chance to recover before the next one is launched at us. And just before we're twisted out, it's over, and we're applauding.

The house lights are up, and I am back up the stairs before the rest of my circle-dwellers have even got their coats on.

The usher on the front door hurries forward to open it for us quick-footed folks.

"Good night, sir," he says to the eldery gentlemen who just managed to beat me.

I scoot out behind him, clutching my massive coat tight around me hurry through the square, checking train times as I go. It's barely 9.30pm. With any luck, I'll be in bed before eleven.

Dial M for Mary

The queue to get into the Prince Edward theatre is stretching right down the pavement and around the corner.

They shudder close together, everyone looking up suspiciously as the sky begins to drizzle down on them.

With a big sigh, I walk to the end.

Except, is this the end? I can't tell. There seems to be a great old gap going on.

"Sorry," I say to the first person after the jump. "Are you not in the queue?"

"Yeah... we are..." she says, sounding just as dozy as you might imagine someone would who hasn't quite grasped the concept of moving with the line.

With a side-eye of confusion, she shuffles forward, closing the gap. And I fall in behind her group.

The queue moves slowly. Painfully so.

I don't mind. Even though I'm standing in the rain with no room to put up an umbrella. Because there is a sniffer dog on duty tonight and he is so super cute my heart is melting along with my makeup.

"Please have your bags open and ready for inspection!" shouts out the queue controller.

The young woman ahead of me opens her bag, ready for inspection.

"Have you got any food?" asks the bag checker.

"Yes," she says, looking confused.

She probably still believes that bag checks are to protect our 'comfort and security' and not the theatre's bar sales. So sweet. So innocent.

"Sorry," says the bag checker. You can't bring in food or drink."

The dozy woman steps forward. "Can she leave it somewhere?" 

The bag checker looks around. "Let me get a manager."

A manager is called. We all wait for his arrival.

"Sorry, you can't bring food in," says the manager, repeating the party line.

Honestly.

This wouldn't happen at the Shaw Theatre. They were putting people's food shops in the bar fridge for their audience members. You just can't get the service in the West End.

With the ladies now occupied with the manager, the bag checker moves on to me.

He reaches into my bag and grabs my water bottle, giving it a good squeeze. I'm not entirely sure what he was checking for there, but whatever the test was, my bottle passes.

"Got your tickets?" he asks.

"No, I'm collecting."

He points inside. "Just through there," he says and I am waved into a foyer that would very definitely feature as a puzzle room in some megalomaniac's house of death. Curved walls are punctuated by multiple exits that almost certainly lead to torture chambers, and we are crowded in, like sheep in a abattoir, all bleeting as we surge forward towards the bar or box office to be bled dry.

"Anyone collecting tickets, round that way," says the queue controller. Another one. It's all about controlling the queues at the Prince Edward.

I go round. 

And round.

And round.

Until I find the end of the queue.

Halfway up a flight of stairs.

I balance on a step and try not to fall over every time someone squeezes past to get to their seats.

"Very disorganised," a bloke mutters as he elbows me.

"You guys collecting tickets?" asks another before looking with despair at the end of the queue, far behind us.

But we move fast enough, the queue controller directing people to the next free box officer.

"What's your surname?" asks my box officer, just as I'm trying to tell him.

I repeat it. "Smiles. S. M. I. L E. S."

He looks through the ticket box, but the Ss are gone.

He turns around. "S?" he says to one of the other box officers.

"I've got the Ss!"

He turns back to me. "Can you spell your surname again?"

I can. And do. Slowly.

"Maxime?"

Eh. Close enough. 

"And what's the postcode?"

I tell him. He hands over the ticket.

It's well swish. It has the show artwork printed on it. I don't have time to admire it though, I already have someone trying very hard to walk through me.

I escape through the rope barriers and look around. I need the Grand Circle entrance. 

Ah! There it is.

Through one of the doorways that surely has a tank of piranhas waiting underneath a trapdoor on the other side.

"Looking forward to the show?" asks the ticket checker as she tears off the stub.

"Yeah!" I lie.

I'm not really looking forward to the show. I'm here to see Mary Poppins, and, I've got to admit, I really don't like Mary Poppins. Never did. Not even as a kid. So much do I not like it, that the last time it was in the West End, I refused to take my nephew to go see it. I just... could not face it.

And here we are.

Turns out I'm more committed to my marathon than my nephew.

Sorry Alexander!

Eh, he's alright. Started uni this year. I'm sure he's totally over it now.

But no usher needs to know all that. Best to be enthusiastic. Or at least, pretend to be.

"You're in door M!" she says, handing my shorn ticket back. "M for Mary!"

Lucky me.

I manage to evade the piranha tank, and start climbing the stairs. I have to admit, it's rather nice in this stairwell. As theatre stairwells go. The carpet is red. So are the walls. The stain of victims past, I suppose. But with lots of art deco gold details to lift the mood.

"Door M is through the bar!" says an usher, posted in what could be a very confusing crossroads, as signs pointing in every direction attempt to direct us to the correct doors.

Sure enough, I find myself in a bar. There's a glass cabinet filled with show merch. Rather upmarket show merch. The mugs are tall, the blankets fleecy, and the umbrellas have parrot heads on the handle.

Just like Mary's.

I'm almost tempted by one of them.

And the Bert Bear. Complete with chimney-sweeping broom. He's a cutie.

I have to remind myself that I don't actually like this musical.

I back away, keeping my debit card firmly in my bag as I head for door M.

The auditorium is red. Very red. I've seen a few red theatres on my travels, but mostly of the dingy sort. Ones where the walls are bumpy from years of polyfilla repairs. This is an entirely different sort of red. A glossy red. An expensive red.

I'm staring at it so much, I almost bump into the usher.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask automatically, unsure if she's even selling programmes.

Thankfully, she is.

"Of course you can!" she says. "Programmes are four fifty."

I stand aside to let her deal with the next person as I find the cash.

She pulls a programme from her satchel, and hands me the fifty pee of change.

"Err, D10?" I ask.

She leans in to peer at my ticket.

"You're down the stairs on the fourth row," she says, gesturing with her hands. "On the right."

Down the indicated stairs I go, to the fourth row, and find my seat, as promised, on the right. On the aisle as it happens. Well done me.

Coat safely stowed under seat, I twist around to get a good look at this place. It's a lot bigger than I'd imagined. I'd always thought of the Prince Edward as one of those diddy West End venues. Like the Phoenix. But it's bloody massive. The circle is broken up by a warren of split levels and aisles and brass railings. It's a good thing I asked for directions. I was have definitely got myself trapped somewhere if I hadn't, and my wails of anguish would have echoed around this beast of a space until a kindly usher took pity of me and put me out of my misery.

The seats fill up around me.

There are a lot of kids, but not as many as you might think. This isn't a Matilda audience. Lots of young women appear to have dragged along their equally young beaus, and are providing us all with a sneak preview as they do their best to sing the hits from the movie.

A couple of Americans are sitting behind me. They haven't joined in the sing-a-long. They're too busy munching their way through a Milky Way.

"It doesn't have carmel?" one of them exclaims.

“No. They don't over here."

That revelation stuns him into silence for a solid minute before they move onto their weekend plans.

The lights dim.

Whoops go out all over the theatre.

Childlike voices comes over the soundsystem. It's Jane, and Michael, Banks. They have something very important to tell us. And that is that Mary is here, and she has rules. We're to switch off our phones, and unwrap our sweets. Spit spot.

Mary sounds like a right bitch if you ask me.

The curtain rises and I grit my teeth as the children dash about being charmingly nauseating.

And then Mary appears, and is brusk and efficient and magical, I guess.

I mean... even my cold dead heart has to admire the stagecraft. Every minute is packed with a prop whizzing about or appearing suddenly, or disappearing, or turning into something else.

The tech team must be having constant kittens trying to get it to all work on cue.

I'm not the only one who's impressed.

A woman sitting down the front of the circle and she's got her phone out.

She's being pretty sneaky about it, she's turned the screen light right down, and she's holding it low, down close to her lap. She takes a photo. First portrait. Then landscape. Then at an artistically tilted angle.

I think she's done, but nope. She taps around on her screen, brings up Whatsapp, attaches the image to a chat, and then starts typing up a message.

I can't see what she wrote from all the way back here, but I'm willing to put money on it being a rave review of how much she's enjoying herself.

That done, the puts down the phone. But only for a moment, because down on stage the set has just changed and our lady needs to get herself another set of photos to remember it all by. Portrait. Landscape. Titled. Whatsapp. Done.

Interval.

Thank gawd. I don't think I could have handled a second more of those chirpy chimney sweeps.

"Chim chimney chim chimney..." sings a woman as she trots up the stairs to go to the bar.

"Chim chimney, chim chimney, chim chim cheroo..." sings one of the Americans sitting behind me.

"Chim chim cheroo..." whispers the small girl sitting next to me as she digs into her ice cream.

I now know why the walls are red.

This is my hell.

All the audience are all demons sent to torture me, to the tune of this gawd-awful musical.

There's nothing for it, but to surrender to my fate, letting this irritatingly cheerful tunes swarm around me.

Up ahead, the Whatsapp Woman gets her phone out again, but an interval has passed since last she tried and and someone must have complained to the front of house team because the usher is ready and waiting.

She runs down the aisle, and bringing out her torch flashes it right into the Whatsapp Woman's eyes.

Dazzled, the woman quickly puts away her phone.

Ha.

Sadly, the usher can't pull the torch flashing trick on the cast, and I'm forced to sit through this overly long show. How they can turn drag out this lack of narrative for nearly three hours would almost be impressive if it wasn't stuffed full of filler. I amuse myself by playing dramaturge and picking out all the bits I would cut. The vase? Smash that. The shop in the park? Close it down. The statue? Bury it,

I am rudely brought back by the cast encouraging us to clap along with their singing. Which is just mean. Everyone knows I have no rhythm.

I do my best, but my heart isn't in it.

And as soon as the house lights are up, I'm already out of my seat and pulling on my coat, unable even to wait for the orchestra to finish up.

Let's just hope I don't fall in that piranha tank on the way out. This is not the theatre I want to be haunting in the afterlife.