"Bromley doesn't count, does it?" asks one of my new coworkers when I tell here where it's going tonight.
Well, Bromley does count. So much so that I'm heading back for my fourth, and hopefully, final visit of the marathon.
The Churchill Theatre looks different in the dark. The tall grey walls are lit up with turquoise lights, but veering off the high street and into the little square that the Churchill calls home I find that the scaffolding is still up.
Not much of a surprise that, I was only here last month.
And there's still an usher on the door. Two of them this time.
Except this time they're not just welcoming people in. Oh no.
"Hello loves!" says one of them with a wide grin at to a couple of old ladies rocking up ahead of me. "Dangerous Obsession?"
They nod and giggle and confirm that they are indeed there to watch Dangerous Obsession.
He presses on, still in full cheeky chappy mode. "Would you like a programme?"
Turns out they don't. But I would.
I go over to the other usher and ask if I can get one.
"Of course! That's three pounds."
I reach into my bag, trying to find my purse. Not overly keen on getting cash out while we are still, effectively, standing in the street, but if that's the way things are played in Bromley, who am I to question it?
"Sorry, big bag," I apologise, as the whereabouts of my purse continues to allude me.
"I love your coat!" says the programme seller, a compliment borne more of a need to fill the awkward silence than genuine admiration, I'm sure. But I appreciate it all the same.
I do rather like this coat. It's massive. And fur. And the sleeves have tiger stripes on them. It makes one hell of a statement, although exactly what it's saying, I'm not too sure. "Don't sit next to this woman," probably. Unless you want to be squashed, of course. I am rather large while I'm wearing it.
"Thanks," I say, humbly. "It's very warm. I almost fainted on the train. Do you have change for a tenner?"
"A ten? Yes. Better to be too warm than cold."
"That's true," I say as I feed a ten-pound note in between her fingers.
She hands me a programme. "It'll be coins," she warns, bringing out her plastic wallet of change.
"That's okay," I say, trying not to show my excitement. "I need coins." Especially in the form of pound coins. I fucking love pound coins.
She counts of the change and pours it into my waiting palm.
"Thanks!"
"Enjoy the show!"
And with that done, I'm inside.
No need to stop at box office. I already have my ticket. They gave it to me the last time I was here. Little bit annoyed by that, to be honest. I don't go asking for tickets to be 'care of box office' just for me to be given one early, which I then have to care for myself, for an entire month, through a damn house move, no less, and then bring it right back to Bromley, when it could have stayed here quite nicely.
Plus, and I'm being really real here, I was kinda hoping for an upgrade. By the looks of things, the circle ain't too sold tonight. The kind of not sold that would usually have a circle closed off and everyone bumped down to the stalls. But hey, sometimes when you play that game, you lose.
I look around for which door I need, and I find it, pressed right up against the box office.
There's no ushers inside by the looks of it, which might go some way to explaining why this place has no qualms with keeping an empty circle open.
There's a bit of a platform right at the back, which I imagine is space dedicated to wheelchair users, but I use the opportunity to survey the auditorium.
It's red. Not the classic theatre red of, say, the Bromley Little Theatre. Or even the glossy expensive red of last night's theatre, the Prince Edward. But a brownish sort of red that I feel could only have been dreamt up in the seventies.
I traipse my way down the steps to the front row. Row AA, as it happens.
Never seen that before in a circle.
Not one with fixed seating anyway.
AAs and BBs and the like tend to be reserved for the slips, or assigned to extra rows when they are added for, I don't know, when the orchestra pit isn't in use.
Perhaps the person charged with labelling the rows up here just got overexcited.
I'll give them this though. The legroom is amazing. Got space for my oversized coat and my oversized bag and my awkward legs. Doesn't look like I'll be needing it though.
The front row looks pretty empty. Just me and a group of three ladies sitting further in.
I decide to make full use of this and spread out, putting my bag on one seat, my coat on another, and me in the middle.
Elbows on armrests, slouch down: bliss.
And from this angle, the railing that should by rights be restricting my view is no problem at all.
I don't think I've ever been so comfy in a theatre this entire marathon.
But before I let myself drift off into a theatre coma, I should probably take some photos. I lean forward to see what's happening down in the stalls. it looks filled enough with people.
Bunch of mugs.
They may have the superior viewpoint, but look at them all crowded together, fighting over who gets the armrest, and with nowhere to put their coat.
The ladies down in my row have slung their jackets up over the railing.
Up here the seats come with built-in coat racks.
Just as I'm about to sink into my own smugness forevermore, the house lights go down, and the huge red velvet curtain rises.
We're in a conservatory.
Angie Smith's Sally Driscoll appears, wearing a rather fetching swimsuit.
The audience stirs. Someone lets out a loud breath which might have been an attempt at a wolf whistle.
As she potters around, I marvel at her ability to wear a towering set of wedges when there is literally no one else around to show off to. If I'm ever wearing heels I make damn sure I have an audience around me. The thought of falling over and embarrassing myself is the only thing that can keep me upright.
But she's not alone for long. Michael Sherwin's John Barnett soon comes knocking, unannounced and unexpected. The pair of them met once at a conference thing. And now he's turned up. For reasons.
Reasons that don't even come to light when Mark Huckett's Mark Driscoll comes home. Nor when the gun is brought out, complete with dumdum bullets, which are apparently, like, super dangerous.
Anyway, despite the run time behind hella short, and the second act following on directly after the first (yes, I read the programme), they manage to put a twenty-minute interval in the middle of it all. A decision I'm not wholly behind, considering I've got to get back to Finchley after all this.
I'm too comfy to move. I stay in my seat for the interval.
Almost everyone else does too.
This is not an audience that is keen to run off to the bar anytime soon.
The twenty minutes count down.
Doom-laden music fills the auditorium, and we are sent back to the conservatory, exactly where we left off.
Somewhere outside, down at stalls level, I can hear voices. They're definitely coming from outside. I can tell, because they sound young, and enthusiastic. Not like anyone in this theatre tonight.
The young people whoop and call out to each other, unhindered by any thought as to who can hear them.
Up on stage the actors press on, and eventually, the young people disappear off to do their young people things, which clearly does not involve hanging around the Churchill Theatre on a Tuesday night.
The walls of this place must be super thin. Last time I was here, down in the studio, I spent my interval listening to what was happening in the main house.
And now I'm getting the reverse.
I think of that lady I got talking to on my last visit, and how she said it wasn't usually like that at the Churchill.
Clearly the shenanigans are kept down in the studio.
All the serious business happens in the main house.
Even if they do give the seat rows weird names.
The audience gasps as we're treated to get another plot twist. They're coming faster every time. Barely giving us the chance to recover before the next one is launched at us. And just before we're twisted out, it's over, and we're applauding.
The house lights are up, and I am back up the stairs before the rest of my circle-dwellers have even got their coats on.
The usher on the front door hurries forward to open it for us quick-footed folks.
"Good night, sir," he says to the eldery gentlemen who just managed to beat me.
I scoot out behind him, clutching my massive coat tight around me hurry through the square, checking train times as I go. It's barely 9.30pm. With any luck, I'll be in bed before eleven.