It's Saturday morning. And I'm still very, very ill.
Okay, it's past noon and I'm mostly just feeling sorry for myself, but the point still stands.
I'm tired. And I have a cough. And the only show I want to be seeing is the immersive drama: The Duvet. Very conceptual. It involves lying under a duvet. And then being left alone for twelve to fourteen hours. Cups of tea are lovingly placed on the bedside table next to you by a silent and unseen presence. Sadly, I couldn't get the funding. So here we are.
At the Bloomsbury Theatre, for another go at the Bloomsbury Fest.
I'm just gonna pause right now and say that I'm actually super grateful for the Bloomsbury Festival because I was having the absolute worst time trying to find a show in the studio space in the Bloomsbury Theatre to book for. Ten months I've been waiting for something to be programmed that not only qualifies for the marathon, but also, you know, is on a day I can actually attend. And yes, the festival has been booking up churchs and common rooms, adding extra venues to my already overlong list, but it's given me the opportunity to check off this one, so... I can forgive it.
This place is surprisingly big. Lots of glass. It could easily be a fancy office block. Home to hundreds of accountants. If it weren't for the oversized scribble of the Bloomsbury Theatre sign I would never have guessed what was lurking inside.
I go in.
The foyer is almost empty except for the excess amount of wood panelling striping the walls. There's a box office off to one side, sealed behind glass walls.
"I'm collecting for Declan?" I don't know why I felt the need to say the name of the show. Something about this place makes me feel like I need to explain my presence. Perhaps because it's a university theatre. And the knowledge that I wasn't clever enough to go to UCL. And now I'm here. Creeping about their theatres.
"The surname's Smiles," I add hurriedly, just in case she thinks that I'm the Declan I'm collecting for. "S. M. I. L. E. S."
The box officer doesn't seem bothered by my stuttering incompetence. From behind her glass screen she looks at her computer. "Is that Maxine?" she asks.
It is.
A man appears at the counter next to me.
He leans in to talk to the other box officer. "We're performing on Sunday," he tells them. "And I was just wondering whether you could tell us our ticket sales."
I don't get to find our how well my neighbour's show is doing, because my box officer is sliding a ticket under her screen.
"Where is the studio?" I ask at the exact same time as she attempts to give me directions.
"That's just downstairs," she says.
I thank her and go in the direction she's pointing.
Wood panelling competes with dark brick walls as each try to prove that they are the most seventies.
Downstairs, the stripes of pale wood win out, as the dark bricks give way to white walls.
It's busy down here. Turns out it's not just me prepared to wake up early on a Saturday morning to see a one man show in a Bloomsbury basement.
That's a cheering thought.
My biggest fear throughout this entire marathon has been the possibility of finding myself as the only audience member at a show. It hasn't happened yet, and by the looks of it, it won't be happening today. Not even close.
"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser. "If you'd like to fill in from the front without leaving any gaps, that would be very helpful."
There's a gentle stir towards the door.
I follow them, handing my ticket to the ticket checker, who tears off the tab before waving me though into a small lobby.
There's a table and chairs in here. An old show posters on the wall.
Through another door, and we're in the studio.
It's small.
Well, it is a studio.
But even so. It's a small, dark, room. With rows of chairs, and black-out curtains covering the walls. Nothing more.
Everyone ignores the front of houser's instructions to fill in from the front, and start dotting the rows with their presence.
I slip into the third row, remembering too late that, with my cough, I should be sitting on the aisle. Way too late. More people arrive.
"Are you saving these?" a girl asks.
"No, go for it," I find myself saying before I can stop myself, and a second later, I'm blocked in by a group of young people.
I rummage around in my bag and find a cough sweet. Hopefully, that will tide me over.
It's really warm in here. I'm wearing a sweatshirt. It's a nice sweatshirt. With dinosaurs on it. But it's a sweatshirt none-the-less. And I am rapidly overheating.
Still, it's a one-hander, in a basement studio, in a pre-lunch slot on a Saturday. We're not going to be in here long. I can do this.
Our performer is already on stage. Well, on the bit of the room that isn't taken up by chairs. Well, the bit of room that isn't taken up by his chair. He's sat slumped down. Asleep. Shifting around every few minutes to find a more comfortable spot. Can't say I blame him. These chairs aren't great. I wouldn't want to nap in them either.
People twist round in their seats, watching who comes in.
As they arrive, hands dart up, waving and beckoning the newcomers into the fold.
Eventually, the trickling stops, and the door is shut.
We begin.
Our man in the chair wakes up. I usually wouldn’t name him without a freesheet, but fuck it. I remember it from the website. Our man in the chair, Alistair Hall, wakes up.
He has a story to tell us. It seems to be distressing him. He just got bitten. On the bum. And if a bite on the bum wasn't enough, the biter then drank from him.
As updates to the vampire myth go, this one is truly concerning.
I pull my sleeves down over my wrists. It may be sweltering down here in this basement, but I don't think I've ever felt so aware of the veins under my own skin and I don't want to be giving the potential biters in the audience any ideas.
There is more to the tale then bum biting though. Our new friend has to tell us about a boy. Declan. A friend, yes. But also more than that.
Someone sitting a few rows behind whispers something to their friend.
"EXCUSE ME," cuts back the saviour of the audience.
The whispers stop.
The air is so dry in here. So dry, I can feel my throat rebelling.
I cough, hoping to clear it.
It doesn't work.
I cough again. And again. And again. I can't stop. Every attempt to do so has my entire body shaking with the effort. Now my sleeves are all the way down over my hand as I do my best to stifle the noise in this tiny, overheated room. I coil in on myself in embarrassment, praying to all the theatre gods that this cough will just stop.
I need a saviour. Someone to give me a withering "EXCUSE ME."
Or even a vampire. Fuck it, I'll even take a biter right now if he promises to rip my throat right out.
The girl sitting next to me leans forward and picks something off the floor. "Would you like some water?" she asks, offering me a cup.
"Thank you so much," I whisper back, trying not to choke on my own words.
The water helps. The cough subsides.
Not long after, our tale ends. I was right. It was a short one.
"Thank you so much for the water," I say to me hero as we put on our coats and prepare to leave.
She touches my arm. "No problem," she says with a smile, as if to say: us audience members need to look out for each other. There's probably some truth in that. I've given out my fair share of cough sweets to fellow theatre-goers in need over the years.
I pick up the cup and drain the rest of the water, leaving the empty plastic on the table out in the foyer.
I've got another show to go before my theatre-going is done for the day. Let's just hope my throat can handle it.
