I'm taking you to Applecart Arts tonight. Yeah, I don't know what to expect either. I don't know anything about this place. Other than the name is making me hungry.
It's one of those venues I only found out about mid-marathon. So, I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself that I managed to schedule in a little trip. Even if it does mean that I'm walking down a very long, very dark, street in Upton Park on a Friday Night.
I squeeze through a couple of parked cars and cross the road, stopping to inspect a glass door with a sign saying Applecart on it. It doesn't look like the sort of place you'd watch a play. For a start, it looks closed.
I keep on walking. And sure enough, there's a great big yellow banner on the wall. And a giant hand pointing the way. Two of them, actually. One points to the left. "Main Entrance," it says. Another points the other way, back towards the glass door. That's the stage door apparently.
Okay then.
I go left, through a short iron gate, and I appear to be standing in front of a church.
Honestly, I don't know how I got this far without guessing that. A fringe venue, in outer London, with a cutsie name. Of course it's in an old church.
The door is open and the lights are blazing.
I go up the steps and slip through the wooden door.
Inside it's a cafe. A rather cool looking cafe. All vintage furnishings and tables made out of packing crates.
And in the corner, over the counter, is a sign saying "Box Office." Looks like I'm in the right place.
"Are you here for the show?" asks the guy behind the counter.
I sure am.
I go over, pulling off my gloves. "Yeah, the surname's Smiles?"
"Right... have you bought a ticket already?"
Yup. I don't travel the entire length of the District line without a booking waiting for me at the other end.
"Sorry," he says, clicking at his laptop, "I'm just setting up the box office, What's the name again?"
"Smiles," I repeat. For such a simple name, it proves to be quite tricky. People always think they've heard it wrong. That's why I usually end up spelling it out.
"Ah!" he says, finding me on the list, "There you are. You don't actually need an actual ticket."
But I'm not paying attention, because I'm just spotted a pile of beauties sitting out on the counter.
"Can I get a programme?" I ask.
"Yeah! They're one pound."
Perfect. I pull out my purse and start rummaging around, but all I can find are useless coppers. "I always have loads of pound coins until I actually need one," I laugh, trying to explain why it is taking me so long to purchase a damn programme. Finally, I find two fifty pees, hand them over and am able to retreat in my poundless shame.
There's no one else here. I have the pick of seating choices. And while the leather wingback armchair does look very tempting, I'm heading straight for the petite chaise longue because it's a Friday night and I'm feeling extra.
It is at this point that I begin to wonder if this lonesome state is going to extend throughout the evening. You know that's a big fear of mine, Being in an audience of one, I mean. With me being the one. I really don't think I could cope with that.
So it's with some relief that I spot someone else coming through the doors.
He gives me a nod and goes over to the counter, ordering himself up a toastie and a glass of wine.
And then he asks how things are looking for tonight.
The box officer leans in and gives him the figures.
The good news is that I'm not the only one to have booked in tonight, the bad news is that this newcomer works on the show.
I sure hope the others turn up.
I send up a short prayer to the theatre gods, and try to distract myself by editing a blog post.
But all the time, I'm watching that door.
Just as a start giving up hope, a woman comes in. She goes over to the box office. I hold my breath, hoping she's not on a purely toastie-based mission. She's not. She's buying a ticket, and she's paying cash. She throws down a ten-pound note onto the counter with an alarming confidence before taking a seat on the other side of the cafe.
After that, more people come through the doors, sign in, and take their seats, until we are an almost respectable number.
"Can I get a cider?” one of them asks.
"Course you can!"
"I don't need a glass."
The box officer sighs. "I have to give you one, I'm afraid. But they are biodegradable!"
The time inches closer to 7.45. Show time.
"Does anyone want a programme before you go in?" calls out the box officer. "One pound?"
No one responds.
"In that case, the house is open!"
He runs outside and waits for us.
I pick up my bag and make for the door.
He's stood at the bottom of the steps.
"Just through there," he says, pointing the way. There's a small gate over there. And through it, what I presume must once have been the church hall.
I go in, finding my way through the corridor until I find the entrance to the theatre space. It's narrow. With a high stage at one end. But the stage is covered with stacks of chairs.
Instead, the set has been built at floor level, taking up one of the long sides, with a bank of seats up against the opposite one.
I go find myself a seat in the third row, because that's my fave, but in the middle, because even with our increased numbers, I don't think we're going to be filling up this space, and I don't want to be the awkward penguin sitting over in Siberia on the end.
Toastie-dude is sitting in the corner. At the tech desk. So that explains his role here.
"Thank you so much for coming with me," whispers a bloke to his companion as they sit down in the row behind me. "I've wanted to come for ages and I live just down the road, and I feel we should support these things. For the community."
Bless him coming up with that excuse to shoot his shot. So adorbs.
No sure I would have taken my crush to a play called The Affair, but it is billed as a farce, so maybe he knows what's he's doing after all.
As Claudio Del Toro's Gustavo appears dressed as an Edward Gorey illustration, with a lovelorn sigh on his lips, I think that the bloke sitting behind me might be onto something. Gustavo wants to ask his lady a very important question. The most important question.
But first...
"What's the time?" he says, looking at me.
I shrug. I don't know.
"You don't know the time?"
I mean... no? I could get out my phone, I guess. But that's meant to be off.
It isn't. But it's supposed to be.
I hold up my wrist to demonstrate the lack of watch.
He looks over me, to a couple sitting just behind my shoulder. "Do you know the time? It's really important. Does anyone?"
"It's ten to eight!" calls back the bloke.
And with that, I know it's not going to be an easy play. There's going to be interaction.
Oh dear.
I'll give the marathon this though: having actors talk to me doesn't terrify me as much as it once did. Don't get me wrong, I still hate it, and will never again willingly book for an interactive show once the clock hits midnight on 31st December. But I don't want to die at the thought of it. Which is good. It would be terrible to die this close to the end, with less than thirty theatres left to go.
Even when his beloved appears, the vain and dippy Daffadowndilly, played by Amy Gibbons, Gustav can't leave the audience alone. He threatens to spray a shower of wine across the confident girl sitting upfront, before shaking his head in contriteness. When Daffadowndilly accuses him of having dandruff, he turns to the audience with pleading eyes to help him think up an excuse for the whiteness on his shoulders.
"Flour?" suggests the girl sitting behind me.
"Flour!" he cries in relief.
"Flour," nods Gibbons, accepting this answer.
Things only get worse when the other woman arrives, Shea Wojtus' Lark.
Gustuv clambers over the seats in search of his proposal worm (don't ask, I'm not sure I could give you an answer that makes sense here) and narrowly avoids stomping all over my coat.
The door opens.
We all look over.
Even Lark, from her position hiding behind a picture frame (again... best you don't ask) looks over to see the newcomer.
It's a man. He glances from stage to seats, dithering, unsure what to do.
Wojtus waves at him from behind the frame and indicates that he should take a seat.
He does as he's told, climbing up the steps towards the back row, walking across the full length, making everyone sitting back there shift and stand and move of his way, before plonking himself down in the far corner.
This is a man who really doesn't like audience interaction.
We all make it to the interval though.
I pull my scarf out of my bag and wind it around my shoulders. Turns out it wasn't the terror of having an actor almost step on my coat that was making me shiver. It really is freezing in here.
A few people head for the bar, but most stay behind, chatting quietly.
I get out my phone and start editing a blog post.
"Dada, dadada, dadadada," sings the tech guy, returning to his desk and turning on the music. He hums along with it for a minute.
Someone else appears. "Sorry ladies and gentlemen," he says, stopping on the stage to talk to us. "They lost a little something and I just went to find it. We'll be starting in five minutes."
"Don't worry about it," says on of the blokes in the row behind me, very generously.
The tech guy looks up from his laptop. "What part of London is this?" he asks the room.
"Plaistow," comes the helpful reply.
Is it? I thought we were in Upton Park. Are they the same place? I have no idea. I just go where my spreadsheet tells me.
The audience starts to come back from the bar.
"It might be good to sit on the other side," they're advised. "To balance it out."
Audience balanced out, it's time for act two, and our Gustav wastes no time in offering out a bowl of crisps to the audience. One by one everyone turns him down with a shake of their heads. Which, I respect, but my stomach is growling over here and just as he's about to turn to me, he knocks over a cup and the bowl is taken away.
Gawddammit.
When he returns, he is sans bowl. And he's still looking for that earthworm.
He finds an empty chair and sprawls himself on it, twisting around to clutch at my arm in despair. That poor earthworm, alone and frightened, somewhere in this freezing cold arts centre.
But even with an earthworm as distraction, he couldn't keep the inevitable at bay. The two woman are fully aware of his scandalous behaviour and are not happy about it.
They slap him, again and again, one after the other.
Gustav reaches out for help.
I reach back, offering him my hand, but Lark isn't having it. "Don't help him," she says, pulling him back for another slap.
He accepts his fate after that, even offering the confident girl at the front a go.
She raises her hand high above her head and his eyes widen in horror, but when his palm lands, it's only a gentle tap. She gives it a good go. Slapping one side of his face, then the other, then going for an innovative two-handed move.
Slightly dazed, he looks over to me.
"Would you like a go?" he asks.
I wouldn't definitely not like a go. That is so not my thing.
I'm not saying that I've never slapped anyone, because that would be a lie. But when I slap someone, I do it for real. I'm not into pretend violence. I mean... I'm not into real violence either. I don't even like shouting. But sometimes... well, sometimes...
Thankfully he takes my frantic hand waving well, and leaves the slapping to the professionals.
And after some applause, and a request to tell our friends if we enjoyed it (and to shut up if we didn't) it's time to go.
My stomach rumbles as I slip back through the gate.
I probably should have tried one of their toasties.