I'm lost.
I shouldn't be lost.
I'm in prime theatreland. Within stepping distancing of the Vics, young and old.
And yet I have no idea where I am or where I'm going. All that I do know is that I'm rather embarrassed about the whole thing.
I check the website for tonight's theatre. They have a ‘How to Find Us' page, which I am desperately in need of. I scroll down to the ‘By tube' section.
"3-minute walk (2 minutes if you’re running late!) from Southwark tube station (served by the Jubilee line)." Well, I got out Southwark tube station a good deal more than three minutes ago, and I've been walking in circles ever since.
What else does it say?
"Arch 26, Old Union Arches, 229 Union Street London, SE1 0LR."
Right. Well, that's not at all useful. I already put the postcode into Google Maps. That's what got me into this mess.
I keep on walking, squinting down every alley I pass, but nothing looks right.
A huge iron arch tops one of them.
"Old Union Yard Arches," it says.
The website didn't say anything about Old Union Yard, but if I'm looking for an arch, then this seems like as good a place as any to find it.
I step in. There are indeed lots of arches in here. There's the Africa Centre, the windows filled with bright light and colour. I keep on going. Arch 27. Okay. That seems promising. The next one must be...
There we are. Cervantes Theatre. I've found it.
I push open the door.
Wood mixes with bare brick. There are pot plants dotted around. I see we're visiting the chicer end of the fringe spectrum this evening.
At one end of the foyer, there's a small desk, Dark wood with barley twist legs.
I go over and wait for the girls in front of me to finish up.
Giggling, they disappear up the stairs together.
My turn.
"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"
The box officer frowns. "Sorry, what's the name?"
"Smiles," I say again. Slower this time. My voice is still jacked from that awful cough I had. "S. M. I. L. E. S."
"What a beautiful surname!" she says as she looks through the tickets.
"Thank you." It is rather nice.
"Here's your ticket," she says handing it to me. She leans forward and grabs a booklet from the display at the front of the desk. "And a programme. Doors are in fifteen minutes and there's a fifteen-minute interval. Thank you!"
I blink at the booklet in my hand. A free programme. Yes, an actual programme. Not a shitty freesheet masquerading as a programme. This is a proper booklet. Eight pages. Professionally printed.
I'm mentally upgrading this place from chic-fringe to fucking-fancy-fringe.
Taking the lead of the giggling girls, I go up the stairs.
There's a twisted neon chandelier thing up here. All sharp angles and metal frame. From the tip hangs a small Christmas ornament. A tiny glittery star.
I keep on climbing and find myself in the bar. Housed under the curved roof of the railway arch.
Above our heads, a rail rumbles past.
No one looks up. They're all too chill. Lounging around in curvey armchairs and chatting quietly about the play we're seeing tonight.
House of Spirits. Based on a book apparently. One I haven't read but these people clearly have.
"Only in the English," one woman clarifies humbly.
"Oh, I've read it in the Spanish too," says her friend.
"Yeah... I should do that."
I can't do that. I can't speak Spanish. Not even a little bit. Not that I haven't tried. I took Spanish for a whole year at school, before realising that I couldn't pronounce anything and I should just stick with French. Although, I can't speak French either, so that was a waste of time too.
Oh well. The play tonight is in English at least. I checked. More than once. Because it's also being performed in Spanish, on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Switching to English on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.
Today is Thursday. English day. Suitable for monoglots like me.
I lean against the railing and look down the stairwell as I edit a blog post.
From the corner of my eye I spot something moving. I look down. There's a ledge halfway up the stairs, onto which a trailer is being projected. Fucking hell, that really is fancy.
Behind me, the barman rings the bell.
It's time to go in.
"Shall we go downstairs?" asks the girl who has read The House of Spirits in the original.
"Is that were the theatre is then?"
"Yeah. Downstairs."
Clearly, this girl knows what's she's doing. So I follow them down.
A door, tucked away at the end of the foyer, has now been opened. And a guy is standing there, tearing tickets. The queue moves slowly, as he stops to place each stub down on the edge of the box office table before moving onto the next person.
"There you go," he says to me, handing back my ticket.
In I go. Walking past a set of shelves set into an alcove. They seem to be stacked with props. Great big pots. A crucifix. An electric fan. A lamp.
I don't have time to inspect them all properly. The box officer is in here, checking the newly shorn tickets.
She looks at mine.
"Second or third row here," she says, pointing over at the central block of seats across the way. "Or you can sit here." This time she points to a side block.
I bought a ticket in the standard price range, you see. The front row myst be reserved for premium payers.
I look between the two. This kind of decision making is a bit too much for me on a Thursday night.
"Where ever you like," she prompts.
I panic. Then fall back towards my classic choice. Central block. Third row. Near the end.
I get out the programme and have a look at it. It's in English. Which is great. No Spanish at all. I wonder what they do on Spanish nights. They surely can't have an entirely separate programme for Monday to Wednesday shows. But perhaps they do. This is fucking-fancy-fringe after all.
I mean, just look at these chairs. They're really nice chairs.
Three blocks, set up around a floor level stage. There's a staircase up against the back wall, which has been drapped in the massive sheet of fabric that is serving as our set. It all feels a little bit familiar. With the staircase and all. A bit like the Union theatre, which must be pretty close by now that I think about it.
More people come in. A group. They sit right next to me. Not even leaving an empty seat to serve as buffer between us. Weirdos.
Now, I get that front of housers hate leaving gaps when the show is sold out, but I don't think that's the case tonight.
And as the box officer disappears, closing the curtains over the door behind her, I can see that while it's a healthy house, there's no damn need to be cosying up to people you don't know. And my new neighbour clearly just has problems with being alone. Even when they're with friends. Rather sad really.
The lights go down and we are plunged into a prison cell. A girl is dragged out in chains, and then, right be before our eyes, is tortured, raped, and left for dead.
Dear gawd.
What kind of novel was this?
Turns out, an incredibly brutal one. As we are swept back in time, back to the youth of that poor girl's grandmother, we are taken to a world of hardship, and death, and political upheaval. And a dog puppet. The dog puppet is great. The dog's puppeteer is great. That Gian Carlo Ferrini is doing wonders with the dog. If anything happens to the dog...
Gawd DAMMIT.
And all the while, our girl, Pia Laborde-Noguez's Alba, watches from the corner, sat by the prop shelves, pulling notebook after notebook open, to read over her family's history.
The lights go down once more. A moment of stunned silence, and then the applause starts.
I'm shivering, and I can't tell whether it's the play or the fact it's freezing in here.
The box officer reappears.
"We have now an interval of fifteen minutes," she tells us. "Can I ask you to leave the theatre please."
Once again I climb those stairs up to the bar, my legs feeling a wee bit wobbly and my head still spinning, I reclaim my place on the ledge and listen to the soothing sound of the trains passing overhead and trying to puzzle out all the posters written in Spanish.
I really should have tried harder in school.
Before I can figure out what month of the year "enero" is, the barman is ringing the bell again and it's time to reclaim our seats.
The girl is still there, in the corner, reading her notebooks.
The box officer stands guard by the stage so we don't traipse all over it.
I pull my coat up over my knees. Turns out, it actually is really cold in here.
The box officer leans out the door to check that no one else is coming, then closes the curtain, sealing us in.
And my friend, it does not get better. Sadness layers on sadness, and is squidged between two slices of pain, making up a Big Masochist ending.
Gawd it's good.
Applause done, it's time to get out of here.
As I pull my scarf out of my bag, my glasses ping out and skitter out the seats in front. I crouch down to grab them.
"Are you okay?" asks my neighbour, leaning down to check.
"Yes?" I hurriedly explain I was picking up my glasses, although I'm not sure what else I could possibly be doing down here.
The girls who had read the book stop over by the stage to pet the dog puppet, who seems to have been left behind for that exact purpose. I pause to say my own goodbyes. He's very cute. He deserved better.
I stumble out, into the yard, and head for the tube. As I walk, I realise I recognise this place. I stop, looking over at the arch next to me. It's the Union Theatre.
No wonder those stairs looked familiar. They're all in the same block.
So much for discovery all of London's theatres. I’m still getting lost.
