"Madam! Madam! The entrance is this way, the first left. Phoenix Street," comes the familiar call of the Big Issue seller on Charing Cross Road.
I don't know how long he's been directing audiences to the correct entrance of the Phoenix Theatre, but he's there, keeping the crowds in check, almost every night I've been in the West End on this marathon.
I tweeted sometime back that the Phoenix should put him on the payroll, and I stand by that. He's already doing the work. Might as well make it official.
I am not in need of his assistance tonight though. I know where I'm going. Yes, onto Phoenix Street. But not to the Phoenix Theatre. I've already made my trip to the rock, and there's no time for a return trip before the marathon is over and I draw a thick Sharpie line under my theatre-going for the rest of my life.
I'm actually off to the theatre neighbour. The Pheonix Artist Club, which you might have rightly surmised, is not actually a theatre. But a club. For artists.
But as part of that remit, they have a programme of events. Cabaret. Music. Not marathon-qualifying stuff. Except tonight there's a scratch night. So off I go.
I've never been before. It's been on my list for years, but I never quite got round to it. And by that, I mean, I never managed to work out if I'm allowed in. I've heard from various people that you need to work in the arts to get access. But what that entails seems to differ depending on who you ask for. Some say it's members only. Others that you only need a business card proving you work in the industry to get through the door.
Oh well. No such restrictions exist for attending this show, so it looks like I'm finally getting my chance.
I tuck myself under the canopy and try my best to stay out of the rain as I use my final free minutes to edit a blog post. By the looks of it, this place is underground and I'm not sure what the WiFi situation is going to be down there.
A man comes over and starts singing to the guy next to me. "My old man's a dustman," he belts out, with hand motions to match. "How's your night going?"
The guy mumbles "fine thanks," before moving away.
"Excuse me, ma'am," says the Big Issue seller as he inches his way around me. His leading an entire procession of Come From Awayers. "That's the entrance down there," he tells them, pointing the way.
They thank him and skuttle through the rain towards the long queue where an usher with a strong Scottish voice is keeping everyone in check. "If you're collecting your tickets, it's the last door!"
Blog post vaguely proofread, I figure it's time to go in.
Or at least, try to.
There's someone standing in the doorway. He looks like he can't quite make up his mind about the whole thing.
Perhaps he also got confused about their entry requirements.
"Are you...?" I ask.
"No. Sorry. You go ahead."
So I do.
Inside there's a small podium desk. With a theatre mask stencilled on the front. Gold on blue.
The person ahead of me is trying to pick up their ticket. But by the sounds of it, their name isn't on the list.
Oh dear.
Even though I know I bought myself a ticket, I can feel the anxiety rising. Mainly because I never got a confirmation email. And yes, I checked my spam folder. Nothing. I have nothing to prove that I spent my coin to get in.
I look around in an attempt to distract myself.
There's plenty to look at. The ceiling is painted with a dramatic depiction of a bird. I'm guessing a phoenix, given where we are. Paintings line the stairwell, and there's a general sense of this place having been built into the remains of an antique store, with statues and chandeliers competing for attention.
The person ahead of me and the box officer appear to have reached an impasse.
"Let me just deal with this person," says the box officer and he leans around to beckon me forward.
"Hi, I'm here for the scratch night...?" I say, feeling more unsure about everything with every passing second.
"Yup!" says the box officer.
Well, that's one hurdle cleared at least. There is a show happening. And it's the one I thought it was.
"The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S." I say.
He looks down the list. I shift my weight from foot to foot as he works his way down one page, and then another.
"How is it spelt?" he asks.
I spell it out for him again.
"Ah!" he says, alighting on my name. "Maxine?"
"Yup," I say with relief.
"Got it. Enjoy your evening!"
And with that, I'm off down the staircase and into the basement.
"Hiiii!" says a young man in a red waistcoat that I can only presume is an usher. Bit smart for this kind of joint, but I'm not complaining.
"Hello!" I say back. "Um, where's the best place to go?" I ask as I look around, trying to make sense of what is happening down here.
It looks like a regular old bar. Tables and chairs clutter the space. I can't even tell where the stage area is.
"Anywhere you can find to sit," he says with a wave of his arm. "Sit down."
He makes a fair point. There doesn't look like there are many options going spare. Might as well grab any chair going.
I creep around the edge until I find an empty table against the wall.
There are cast sheets on the table.
Hastily edited cast sheets. Someone as gone over one of the titles with a biro. It's ‘NOT Been Fingered, ’ rather than ‘NEVER Been Fingered.’ Better remember that.
Looks like there are seven of them in all (with the Not Been Fingered acting as our finale). I hope they're short. I was rather hoping for an early night.
Now that I'm settled, I can have a look around.
This place is not somewhere that has ever said no to decoration. Rows of headshots top the bar. Chandeliers and disco balls hang next to each other. The walls are covered with signed show posters. A few even making their way onto the ceiling, finding their way into the small scraps of space that aren't crowded with gilded panels that look like they got knicked sometime during the dissolution of the monasteries.
A group of red waistcoated young people rush into the middle of the room, onto a platform which I can't see, but I presume must be a stage.
They're not ushers at all. They're actors. Playing ushers. Or actors playing ushers while trying to make it as actors. Actors who, incidentally, I won't be naming as they are all acting students this evening. So really, they're... students trying to make it as actors, playing ushers, who are trying to make it as actors. All very meta. Anyway, they are not happy with the audience. Orders to turn off our phones fly in between sneers of disgust at our behaviour and mocking jibes at one another.
A great choice to start the evening. Make sure we're all on our best behaviour.
Between acts, a host comes on to keep the energy up and introduce all the players.
A woman sitting on the table in front turns around. "Can I take?" she asks, indicating one of the spare freesheets on my table.
I slide it over to her.
"Can we…?" This time it's the woman on the table next to me. She wants to bunk up at my table in pursuit of a better view. I slide across the bench, and both she and the guy she's with squidge in next to me. This bench really wasn't meant for three.
After the fifth short of the evening, featuring a woman awaiting her execution, our host returns to the stage. "I think it’s time for a five-minute break," she tells us. "Head to the bar and I'll call you back when we're ready to start."
There's a scamper towards the bar, and the exit, as those who've already seen their friends perform make a bid for escape.
The table next to me frees up and I no longer have to share my bench as the interlopers make their way over in search of better climes.
"Ladies and gentlemen and everything in between," says our host. "We are good to go. Ting! Ting! Ting!" she says, mimicking a theatre bell. Adding: "Shhhh," when that doesn't work.
As we make our way into the final two pieces a man comes over from the bar and gestures towards the space next to me on the bench.
I gesture back, to indicate that he's welcome to it.
After being squished for so long, I'm beginning to feel a little lonely back here all by myself.
We make it through to the end. Seven plays. And not a single dud. That must be a record. Okay, one dud. But out of seven, that’s still very impressive for a night of new writing.
Though, I am a little concerned as to what was wrong with that banana in the last one. At least it had a clear moral though: don't be eating fingered food.
The host brings back all the actors for one mega bow session, which really has to be the way to do it. None of this stop-starting with curtain calls. Save it all for the end.
"Is that what we just watched?" asks my new neighbour. He points over to my cast sheet.
I slide it over to him and he reads it while I get my applause on.
I can't help but sneak glances over to the other end of my table though.
I really hope he doesn't want to keep that cast sheet. I took pictures of it. I'm not an amateur over here. But still. I kinda want to take it home with me. And by kinda, I mean: I will literally be thinking about that lost cast sheet for the next fifteen years if he doesn't give it back.
He does, but whether that's due to his lack of interest in the more papery things in life, or the feeling of my narrowed eyes watching him carefully, I don't care to ask.
I check the time.
Twenty-past nine.
Right then. That's a challenge right there: bed by ten-thirty. Here we go.
Cast sheet in bag. Jacket on. Umbrella out. I'm off.