Six minutes before my show is due to start and I'm jogging down a deserted street trying to find the way into this damn building.
I must have come a funny way because I've been here before, and yet nothing looks even slightly familiar.
Where are the rolling Teletubby style hills? Where are the multicoloured windows?
This looks like way to a sweat factory, not one of the most renowned dance schools in the country.
I'm back at Trinity Laban, you see. Catching a show in their Studio theatre this time around.
And hasn't it been a long time coming?
The people at Laban don't seem to use their studio all that much.
At least not for public performances.
There was one over the summer, but I had to miss it because it coincided with my moving down to Hammersmith. I thought all was lost. But just in the nick of time, they have programmed an alumni choreography showcase. Which means that I am now running down a wall of builders' hoarding, trying to find a way to get in.
I'll give Laban this, they know how to torture a girl.
I check the time.
Five minutes.
Oh gawd.
I can't miss another studio show. Not after all the effort I went through to get in to this one.
It was not a matter of simply booking, oh no. I had to email the alumni department to request a ticket. I was a little worried about getting turned down. Not being an alum, or even in the industry, myself.
But there was nothing in the copy to say it wasn't open to the public, so I took a shot.
And sure enough, a few hours later, I was emailed back with the affirmative, I could absolutely go.
I round a corner. A sign points out the main entrance. Through a gate. And there it is. In all it's children's TV show glory.
No time to admire it though. Hefting my bag over my shoulder I sprint my way down the path, slowing down as I near so that the security on the door doesn't worry about what the strange woman puffing away in a (fake) fur coat is doing in this bastion of dance.
A couple of dancey looking people are leaning on the box office chatting to the woman behind the counter, but I don't stop. The email said to go right through to the studio.
A small sign on a stand points to way. "Bite Size Pieces," it says, with an arrow.
I follow it's direction. Down the corridor. Past the entrance to the main theatre.
There's another sign waiting for me at the end.
"Bite Size Pieces. Studio Theatre. Second Floor."
I keep on going.
There's a staircase down here. A rather dramatic spiral of a staircase, that looks like it was hewn by Morlocks many millennia ago.
Up the stairs.
One floor.
Then two.
I find myself in another corridor, lined with pink lockers against azure blue walls.
A small group are waiting on a bench.
I dither, not sure who's in charge, until I spot the one holding the clipboard, and go over to her.
"Do I need to give my name or...?" I say.
As reply, she hands me a freesheet.
"Do you know anyone involved tonight?" she asks.
It's not an unfriendly question, but it fills me with dread. I've been asked this question so many times on this marathon, and every time I hate it just a tiny bit more. While for the asker it's probably little more than a conversation starter, but for the askee it is something else entirely. A demand to justify their presence. An explanation of why they are there. I hate it. I really really hate it.
"Err, not really," I say. "More of an interested party."
Yeah, I funked out. I don't want to take about my marathon. Not tonight.
"Have you come far?"
"Finchley," I say with an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah. Really far. Bit exhausted. I've just run around the entire building. It's been ages since I was here last, and couldn't remember how to get it."
As soon as I say it, I realise it was a mistake.
"Did you study here?" she asks.
Shit.
"No..." I admit. "But I know lots of people who did."
That's almost true. I know one person who did.
She nods, expecting more.
Double shit. Time to pull out the big guns.
"I used to work at Sadler's, so..."
I let that sentence hang in the air. It's true enough. I did work at Sadler's. Only left a few weeks ago. That fact that I was in the marketing department and not programming is neither here nor there.
The woman with the clipboard realises that she's not going to get anything else out of me, and leaves me to it.
More people have arrived. Students by the looks of it. No wonder clipboard lady was so interested in me.
Down the corridor, the grass green door to the theatre is opened.
Two people take up positions either side, holding stacks of freesheets.
We all go over and line up.
"Do you want a...?" asks one of the people on the door, holding out a freesheet.
"I have one..." I start at the same time as she recognises me and says: "Oh! You have one don't you?"
Inside we go.
It's large.
Much larger than the words 'studio theatre' would suggest.
The stage is floor level. The walls lined with blackout curtains, no doubt hiding those massive multi-coloured windows.
I walk around the bank of seating, and gravitate automatically towards the end of the third row.
The seats are hard plastic. I don't think I've seen the like on my marathon so far. Usually, theatres at least pretend that they are providing at least a minimal level of comfort for their audiences, but this arrangement is so spartan it could only have been dreamt up by someone who spends more time dancing around than sitting down.
I have a look at the freesheet. Four pieces tonight. With a ten minute pause in the middle. Not an interval, you may note. But a pause.
I take a moment to ponder on the difference between the two. A pause tends to suggest a set change. A gap between performances lasting three to five minutes. I don't think I've come across a ten minuter before.
I guess in this context, terming it as a pause is probably due to the lack of bar.
The woman who tried to give me a freesheet steps out onto the stage and introduces herself. She's Lucy and she works in alumni relations.
"I made a mistake on the freesheet," she says holding it up. "Laure and Liwia are actually the other way around. That's the third and fourth piece. And after the show, there will be a drinks reception. That's a chance to talk to the artists and ask them any questions about their work. That will be taking place in Studio 3, which is the one just opposite the theatre." She points over our heads, in the direction of the studio.
And then it's time to start.
Everyone quickly glances at their freesheets before the lights dim and the first piece starts. Antigone Gyra appears in the midst of a huge spotlight, leaping about so energentically her headscarf falls away and her long hair streams out behind her as she dances. It's a short piece. Fifteen minutes or so, but she packs in a lot.
As the applause fades, the next dancer readies himself. We all gasp as Panayiotis Tofi presents us with the startling image of an upside down and headless man. As he moves around, his body appears animalistic, bestial almost. The music is dark and grinding, making my heart thump alarmingly in time with it.
As we applaud again, I grab the freesheet. The score is by Eric Holm. I wouldn't want to meant him on a black night.
Lucy comes back out to explain the reason for the pause. The first two artists are off receiving feedback on their work.
I go back to the freesheet.
Reversing running order, the next piece should be by Liwia Bargiel. It's about the physicological impact memories have on the body, which sounds very impressive. "The dancer interacts with the audience to illuminate new perspectives on individual bodily experiences."
Oh dear.
Oh dear, oh dear.
I'm not sure I'm quite up for that. I had more than enough interaction last night to keep me going for the rest of the marathon. I'm really not sure I can cope with more right now. Especially dance interaction. Dance interaction at a showcase. A showcase where the artists are receiving feedback. I don't want to do the wrong thing and ruin it somehow.
I try to slink down in my seat, but the plastic is really unforgiving.
I tell myself that she won't pick on me. Not in an audience of students. She'll reach out to someone she knows.
Still, as the lights go down, I find myself sitting very still, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible so as not to draw attention.
But when it comes to it, the interaction is nothing more than her sitting on a chair, and breathing some scientific theories into a microphone.
Last up, Laure Fauser, who is very much not keen on ever trapping herself in an office. She tears around the stage and falls to the ground in despair at the thought of being strapped into a skirt suit every day.
I can't blame her.
Serving the great god of capitalism is no way to live.
One last round of applause and it's time to leave.
Oh, yeah. I'm not staying for the drinks reception. Let the young people pick the brains of these talented folks.
"If you'd like to join us for drinks in Studio 3, you're welcome to stay," Lucy reminds us.
I walk quickly off to the other door, and scurry down the stairs anyone spots me.
Back through the empty corridors, and past the lone security guard. I just hope I don't get lost in the rolling hills outside.