I'm unemployed!
Yup, had my last day yesterday. Cleaned my desk. Spent an absolute age shifting all my programmes down to the print room in the basement. Said all my goodbyes. Got a speech. Couldn't make one. The threat of tears was too great. But got some lovely presents. And drunk. I got very, very drunk.
No matter. I'm paying for it today.
Hangover of the century happening right now.
But that's alright, because I'm getting on a train. To Romford.
I feel I could have planned this better, but honestly don't know how.
Where even is Romford?
I lean forward to look at the sign over the door.
Zone six! I'm going to zone six! I didn't even know there was a zone six, but there it is. With Romford in it. And soon enough: me.
The website for the Brookside Theatre says they're located opposite the Kenneth Elliott & Rowe Solicitors offices, which is not the most promising set of directions I've ever read.
When I find it, I stand there on the pavement and look at the building critically. It's brick. With a huge blue garage door on the front. And despite the lights being on upstairs, it looks deserted.
Oh dear. Have I got the day wrong?
I get out my phone and check my confirmation email.
"Thank you for booking your tickets for the upcoming event..." blah blah blah, it goes on, with details about printing at home, and collecting of tickets. I go through the entire thing searching for a date. Nothing.
Except for the order number up in the subject line, it is entirely generic.
I begin to worry that perhaps I've been scammed. That the Brookside Theatre is nothing more than this building with the lights on upstairs.
I cross the road to get a closer look.
There really is no one here.
I'm looking at it so hard I almost walk into the chains looping off the carpark.
I follow them to the end, and look up. There, on the fence, is a sign. Brookside Theatre, it says, with an arrow pointing away from the road.
I turn, and follow it. Down past the brick building, Through a car park.
And there, hiding at the back, is a little grotto. Paned windows overlook a garden filled with reeds. There's even a little bridge leading up to the front door. A front door topped with a pitched portico. It's like Snow White moved to Romford and set up house at the back of a car park.
Since the mines closed, the dwarves must have all got jobs at Kenneth Elliott & Rowe
"Programmes, three pounds!" comes a call as I step through the entrance into a dark blue foyer.
It's so dim in here I have to blink just to work out where I am.
"Raffle tickets!" calls another voice. "Two pounds to win tickets to any show here. Two pounds a strip."
Okay. I see it now. Lots of posing tables. Little merch kiosk on one side. Equally little box office window on the other. And... is that a Zoltar machine? They have a Zoltar machine.
I can't believe they have a Zoltar machine.
My second Zoltar machine of the marathon.
Of all the trends, I never thought I'd be seeing multiple Zoltar machines in London's theatres.
I can't handle this.
I'm going to pick up my ticket.
Might as well, I paid an extra one pound fifty for the privilege.
I go over to the window. "Hi! The surname's Smiles?"
"You booked today, didn't you?" says the box officer on the other side.
Yeah... I did book today. I think. It's so hard to tell. I might have still been a bit drunk at the time.
"I remember because I almost printed them early," he goes on. "Do you have ID on you? The card you paid with, or a passport, driving license, anything."
I want to tell him that while Romford may be in zone 6, I didn't need a passport to get here. But his smile is so earnest, I hold myself back.
I do have the card I paid with, so I show it to him, marvelling at the Hamilton-level security they've got going on here.
"That's so cool!" says the box officer looking down at my purse. I laugh. Yeah. It's pretty great. My elephant friend always gets attention.
"That's perfect," he says, checking my card. "So, you're in K8. That's the left side... or maybe the right... or..."
I laugh. "Don't worry," I tell him. "I'll figure it out."
Tonight is my 262nd theatre of the year. Excluding repeat visits. If I can't work out where my seat is by this point, there really is no hope for me.
Ticket thus acquired, I go in search of a programme.
The programme seller, with his three-pound programmes, has disappeared. I can't see him anywhere.
No matter. The kiosk has a sign advertising them. I just get one from there.
"Err," says the lady behind the counter when I ask for a programme.
"Are they on the move?" I ask, turning around just in case the programme seller has returned.
"Yeah," says the kiosk lady. "And the annoying thing is he was just here."
"Don't worry," I tell her, moving away to hunt down this roving programme seller.
"Wait!" She calls me back, grinning. "I've got one. Here you are. Three pounds."
"So you have change for a fiver?"
Her face falls once more. "Err. Sorry. I'm being really unhelpful. He has all the change."
"Don't worry, I think..." I rummage around in my elephant. "Two pounds, three. There you go."
"Perfect. Here's your programme. Enjoy the show!"
I turn, almost bumping into the programme seller as he takes another circuit of the room. "Programmes for three pounds!" Would anyone like a programme."
"Ladies and gentlemen. The house is now open. You can go in and take your seats."
Thank gawd. I need a sit down after all that.
I flash my ticket to the ticket checker and go inside. There's some steps, leading up to the back of the seats.
The ceiling is low. The walls are painted blue. And it's dark. Really dark. So dark that I cannot see the letters telling us what each row is. I have to lean right down. Which is tricky, because I'm wearing a mini dress. I mean, yes. I put shorts underneath. It's cold out there. But still. No one wants to see my lacy hot pants in here.
"What row is this?" asks the woman behind me. "If you can see!"
I laugh. "This is K... I think," I tell her. It better be K because I'm sitting in it.
The programme seller comes in. "I've only got three left! Programmes! Three pounds!"
A man gets his phone out and switches the torch on in order to navigate his party to their seats.
People fumble, and grip onto the seats as they make their way down the stairs.
The candle-shaped bulbs on the wall brackets offer the barest of assistance.
I try to have a read of the programme, but I can't make out anything on the pages. I give up. I wonder if this is an attempt to offer up an immersive atmosphere for tonight's show: The Canterville Ghost.
"Programmes! Three pounds! Only two left. No? Going, going, gone!"
Our town cryer disappears.
"A. B. C. D," says a man, counting from the back row.
We all look at one another, shocked to the core. In all my years of theatre-going...
"This is L," says a lady to him kindly. "A is right at the front?"
"Oh..."
He trudges down to the front row and eventually finds his seat in row B.
What little light we have disappears with a bang.
I jump. Audience members squeal.
And then we have to sit through minutes' worth of incidental music.
What a waste of a jump scare.
Oh well. At least we've started. With an 8pm curtain in Romford, I just hope I can get back to Hammersmith before midnight.
With the curtain now up, I can see that the Brookside has a nice little stage. And the set is very impressive for such a short run. They have even special effects. All very naice.
The story zips along with the cast running up and down the aisle as they escape from the ghost, and soon we are plunged into the interval.
"I haven't been here before. Have you?" asks a lady sitting in front of me.
Her companion shakes their head.
"We were shocked!" goes on the lady. "We thought that brick building at the front was it. It's cute where you go down here though."
Exactly what I was thinking, lady in the row in front!
"Ladies and gentleman," comes a voice from out in the foyer. "If you'd like to take your seats, the next act is about to begin."
With another flash and a crash, we are back in Canterville Castle, and the little girl of the family is determined to set all this family nonsense right.
It's all very cute and we applaud mightily at the end.
And then, that awkward pause which stretches out way too long as you sense one of the cast members has something to say.
The clapping stills.
Our housekeeper steps forward. "An extra round of applause for this one," she says pointing to the little girl.
We happily give it. It's quite something to carry a story like that.
I've sat through a lot of post-show speeches this year, and this one isn't bad. The building we're sitting in is a world war two memorial. When the theatre moved in, it was a leaking bingo hall for the old people. And they need money.
"A little girl with puppy dog eyes will be waiting with a bucket," she tells us. "As well as my very strange onstage husband. Any spare change would be much appreciated. Just it up and pop it in."
I've heard that one before, but I laugh all the same.
The cast disappears down the aisle, and sure enough, as I emerge into the foyer, there is the little girl with the puppy dog eyes, and the strange onstage husband. Both holding buckets.
I keep my head down as I run the gauntlet.
It's not that I think that they don't deserve the money, it's just... well, as I've said. I've sat through a lot of those post-show speeches.