A teenage boy leans out the train doors. He looks both ways and then desides to make a break for it, leaping out onto the platform and sprinting down to the next carriage.
Behind him, the doors beep and begin to close.
He turns around, his features twisting into a grimace of horror. "Noooo," he shouts, turning back just as the doors close in his face.
We're off.
To Bromley.
Again.
A couple of weeks ago, I didn't even know the Churchill Theatre existed and now I'm spending my Saturday afternoon squashed onto a train to go see a show there.
That's worrisome.
Not that I'm on a train, although, that has its own set of concerns. More that I could go through an entire ten months of theatre-hunting, and still manage to discover new places I need to visit.
And it's not like I even found it on a listing site or in a review or anything like that. I literally saw it. With my eyes. As I was walking though Bromley the last time I was here. That's seriously scary. I can't be spending the next two months walking around the streets of London. It's cold!
The wind is screaming down the streets. Trains are being delayed and cancelled all over the place.
It's amazing I even got here.
I pause in the middle of the shopping district and look up. The Churchill Theatre looks a good deal larger in the daylight. It fairly looms over all the shops below.
It's also covered in scaffolding. They must be doing some serious work to it at the moment.
I follow the signs, through a little alleyway and out into a wide courtyard.
The posters are out for this Christmas' panto: Aladdin.
That's not what I've here to see though. Thank goodness. I'm already booked into an alarming number of them. More pantos then I've seen in my entire life. Or could possibly want to.
I go in.
It's a big theatre.
Like, there's a dedicated merch desk going on here, and signs pointing out a restaurant.
How this place managed to escape my radar for ten whole fucking months... what are they doing here? They must be blowing all their marketing budget advertising on... I don't know... the back of health food packets... for me not to have come across this place before.
"Hi!" says the lady on the door. "Can I see your tickets please."
"I'm picking up?" I say.
"Just join the queue over there," she says, pointing over at the curved box office counter.
I do.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
There are two box officers, but both of them are busy. Selling tickets.
After a few minutes, the lady from the door comes over.
"Are you collecting for a current show?" she asks.
Well, yes. It's 2pm on a Saturday afternoon. I ain't here for panto tickets. I don't say that though. "Yes, the matinee," I tell her.
"What's the name?"
"Smiles."
She goes over to the counter and has a look through the few remaining tickets lined up and waiting to be collected.
"Hmmm," she says. "I can't see you there. So you'll have to wait anyway."
One of the box officers puts down her phone.
"This lady is collecting for the matinee?" says the door lady.
"Which one?"
That's a good question. I bring up my confirmation email. "Understanding Susan?" I say.
The box officer taps an a ticket box. "That's this box here," she says.
The door lady makes a grab for it. "What's the surname again?" she asks.
"Smiles."
"Yes, that's in there," says the box office lady.
"Unforgettable, that's me," I say, half to myself.
My ticket is found, and handed over.
"Where am I going?" I ask.
My show is in the studio, and I don't see any signs for it anywhere.
"Just round there, down the stairs to a half-floor," says the door lady.
Okay then.
"Don't worry, you have seven minutes. Plenty of time."
Sure is.
There's a sign over the stairwell. "Stalls & The Lounge," it says. With an arrow pointing down. No mention of a Studio.
Down the stairs, round the corner, down some more stairs. Is this the half level? There's a door. And a front of houser.
"Is this the studio?" I ask her.
"Yes," she says. "That's lovely," she adds as she spots my ticket.
And through I go, into an antechamber and to the next door.
This studio is packed. Rows and rows of chairs filled up.
I stand awkwardly in the doorway, wondering where on earth I'm going to fit myself in.
A man in evening dress comes over. "Hang on," he says, waving to an equally dressed-up lady standing at the back. "Is there a seat?"
There is. It has a fur coat slung over the back, but no one sitting in it.
"I don't want to move you," I tell the elegant lady.
She laughs and removes her coat. "I have to move anyway," she tells me. "Would you like a programme?"
"I'd love a programme!" I tell her, reaching for my purse.
Programmes are one pound and as I deal with that the lady inspects me.
"Do you know someone in the show?" she asks.
I cannot tell you how many times I've been asked a variation of this question on my marathon. Sometimes they ask how I'm connected with the show, others prod me on how I heard about it. But we both know, what they're really asking is: what are you doing here?
"No..." I say, still not sure, after ten months, how to explain my presence.
"Well, it's good of you to come." She hands me a programme, but I can still see the curiosity eating away at her. "How did you find us?" she asks.
With an internal sigh, I surrender to the inevitable and come clean. I'm doing a challenge. Trying to visit every theatre in London. "So here I am!" I say, throwing up my arms to demonstrate my presence.
"Are you a drama student?" she asks.
Oh lord... That's not the first time I've been accused of that this year, and I still can't get over it.
"No, but I do work in a drama school," I tell her.
This isn't true.
It is slightly true. Or at least, it will be true. Next week. I haven't technically started yet. But as I've already left my old job, I think it's true enough.
That done, our programme seller disappears into the crowd.
My neighbour leans over to me. "It's not usually like this," she laughs, before asking me about my blog. I get the impression she's worried I'm going to give the Churchill a bad review.
"Well, I'm going to the main house soon," I tell her. "So I'll get the full Churchill experience."
More people turn up and there's nowhere for them to sit.
Chairs are brought in, groups split up.
"I booked my tickets weeks and weeks ago," mutters one woman.
"It's first come first served," says her friend.
"But you shouldn't oversell!" comes the biting reply.
She's not wrong.
I scrap my chair along as more seats are carried in.
The black-tie ushers test walk through us. "Yes," says one. "Centre aisle is okay."
My neighbour spots something under her seat and reaches down. It's a stack of flyers. "These aren't yours?" she asks me.
"They're not." I may love print, but I draw the line at carrying around flyers on the weekend.
"They were here when you arrived?"
"Yes?" I mean... they must have been.
We look at them. They're not even advertising a show.
A man comes on stage.
"Apologies for the delay," he says. "We had technical issues due to... chairs."
And so we begin. Understanding Susan. We're in the thirties and a West End star returns home to cause chaos. It's funny enough and the first act zips along. Fast. Perhaps a little too fast.
We sit there, in our chairs. Not knowing what to do. Are we supposed to clap?
"We're now having a twenty-minute interval, ladies and gentlemen," comes the announcement.
Okay then.
I check my phone.
Half an hour has passed.
No wonder it felt fast.
I go out into the stairwell thinking I should probably get some more photos, but find myself just hanging out, listening to the sounds of the show in the main house buzzing on the other side of the walls.
A cast member appears.
"Can you hear me when I'm singing or not?" they ask a tech person.
"I can't."
"Shit," says the cast member.
I decide to go to the loo.
There's a queue inside. Not a long one. I stand around, waiting.
One of the stalls frees up.
"It's not flushing!" announces the lady as she steps out.
My stomach turns.
Yeah. No.
I decide I don't need to pee that badly, and return to the studio.
"The first half is very short," someone is explaining to my neighbour. "But the second is a bit longer. Scene changes," she explains apologetically.
The second act is a bit longer. And involves a lot of me leaning forward in order to avoid various cast members as they escape down the aisle and round the back of the room.
But we get through it.
Once the applause is done, it's my turn to make my escape. This is a two-show day and I was rather hoping to get some food before making my way to Kingston for my second venue.
"Have a safe journey home!" calls out an usher cheerily as I pass.
If only that's where I was going...
Umbrella up. Jacket buttoned. I step into the storm.