Wake Me Up When December Ends

I am having such a good day. I just found out that Helen (you know Helen) has passed her master's with a distinction, Ellen (you know her too) has done a mega work-thing, and me... well, just the little matter of me getting name-checked in the December round-up on Exeunt. 

As day's go, this one is proving to be pretty spectacular. I am ridiculously happy. Stupidly happy. Deliciously happy. Okay, maybe not deliciously. That one's weird. But the others: definitely. I can't stop smiling.

"I like your coat darling!" says a rando bloke on the road.

"Thanks!" I say cheerfully. It is an amazing coat. 

"Can I get your number?" he says. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

But my coat and I are already bouncing away. Nothing can touch me today, not even...

A man rolls down the window of his white van to wolf whistle in my direction. 

It's such a cliche I almost laugh in response.

Honestly, this whole smiling thing is dangerous.

Oh well, I make it the rest of the way to Bloomsbury without further incident. 

Signs decorate the railings with messages supporting the university pension strike. Can't say I completely understand the intricacies of it all. Or even the basics. But frankly, I'm too worried about my own lack of pension to care about anyone else's.

Oh well, I'm here now. The Bloomsbury Theatre. My second and last visit. I skip up the steps and head into the bright foyer. More steps and up to the box office.

I set my shoulders. In the reminder email from UCL Event Ticketing, they tried to convince me that I don't need a ticket. That I can just show my confirmation email on the door. Well, I'm not having it. I want a proper physical ticket, and nothing is going to stop me.

"Hello, the surname's Smiles," I say to the box officer behind the counter.

She taps something into her computer. 

I run through my pleading speech on my head as I wait.

There's a sheet of paper stuck up on the window.

There's a QR code on it. "SCAN FOR THE PROGRAMME!" it says.

Oh dear. They are really committed to this no paper thing. Not even a programme! If this is the modern age, I want none of it.

"Maxine?"

"...yes."

She nods, and a second later my ticket is printing and she's sliding it across the counter.

"Oh... thanks!"

Okay then. Umm. Not sure what to do with myself now.

I decamp to the nearest pillar and set about tearing off the receipt and stuffing it into my bag and eyeing up all the QR codes with suspicion.

There's a group of young people hanging around nearby, jumping up like meercats whenever someone comes through the door.

"Oh! You're seeing this!" they cry in unison.

None of them are scanning the QR codes.

In the corner there's a big set of double doors, guarded either side by ticket checkers. 

I watch as a young man with a suitcase rolls over.

The ticket checkers both look at it.

"Umm," says one. "You can leave it in the office?" He grasps the handle and helps the young man move it inside.

I join the queue.

"First door on the right!" says the ticket checker. "Enjoy the show!"

Through the door and I find myself in a secondary foyer. Doors on the right lead off to various parts of the theatre, while on the right is a small concession desk, with a not particularly generous display of snacks. Galaxy bars and Tyrell's crisps are laid out in rows. I suppose it's hard to make a merch desk look good without programmes to baulk them out.

At the back, there's a proper bar, surrounded by old posters. There isn't much of a queue. That's Gen Z for you. All heading to their seats to sit quietly and get ready for the show. They've probably pre-downloaded the programme and are busy memorising the song order in preparation. Bless them.

Music pours out of the auditorium, from a playlist that must surely be called Green Day's Greatest Hits, because, you guessed it, I'm here to see American Idiot. UCL Musical Theatre Society style.

I go through the first door, as directed. It takes me to the front of the stalls in what is a decently sized theatre. There's a circle overhanging the back, but that appears to be closed for tonight. The walls are covered in those slim wooden planks that are so beloved by higher education theatres. LAMDA has them. ArtsEd too.

The stage is raised, and big enough for the dance performances that happen here occasionally.

I go find my seat. The end of the third row. As is my preference. 

Not the best angle. I'm losing a bit of the stage, in the back corner, but I do get a clear view right into the wings, where I can see the cast jumping up and down as they warm up.

A girl pauses at the end of our row, trying to get in.

The bloke blocking her way reaches down to pick up his glass of beer and then proceeds to not move. Not himself. Not the huge puffer coat on the floor. Or the massive rucksack taking up the entire path.

Seeing that he has no intention of moving any further now that he's rescued his beer, she hops over his mountain and stumbles to her seat.

I think we've discovered who the British Idiot in the audience is tonight.

I glare at him on her behalf.

He doesn't notice. He leans forward to place his glass back down in front of the buffer seat that separates us. I contemplate kicking it over, but I don't want to ruin my boots.

The recorded music stops, and the band takes over, as the cast come out racing.

And can we just take a moment to appreciate those boys wearing mass levels of black eyeliner. I mean... that is some quality audience service going on there.

I am not ashamed to admit that boys wearing eyeliner is a teenage weakness of mine that I never grew out of.

Okay, I am slightly ashamed to admit it, but if me telling you this results in the world just being that tiny bit more kohled up, then my embarrassment will not be in vain.

But then I notice something. The boys may be in eyeliner, but the girls are all rocking the plaid shirt and skater skirt look.

I look down at my outfit.

Red plaid shirt and little skater skirt.

Oh shit.

I swear, before all the theatre gods, this was not intentional. Yes, I love theme dressing, but this time it is just a coincidence. I did not turn up to watch American Idiot, by myself, in costume. I just like tartan. And skirts. I would go so far as to say, those both feature in my top ten things to wear.

I slink down in my seat, hoping that no one else has noticed, and try not to worry about the fact that I'm dressed like a teenager from 2009. Was I even a teenager in 2009? Shit. No. I wasn't. I was already a fully-fledged adult. Christ. That's... let's not talk about that anymore.

I try to concentrate on the story.

There doesn't seem to be much of one.

Oh, sure. There's a plot. Rather a lot of it. But no characters. Just mannequins going through the motions without the hinderance of personality.

The songs are good though.

A girl in my row is having a great time, bouncing around her leg in time with the quality tunes.

And then it's the interval.

An usher comes in with a tray full of ice cream, setting up right in front of the speakers, now gone back to pumping out those hits.

If the usher is worried about damaging his hearing, he isn't letting it show. He's drumming his palms against the back of that box, bopping around, and looking like he is seriously enjoying himself, even if he doesn't manage to sell a single ice cream during the entire interval.

It's just not that crowd tonight.

As the lights go down for the second half, there's a massive whoop.

The students are out in force to support their friends. And by the looks of it, a few parents too. I spy a few grey-haired couples amongst the crowd, who don't strike me as massive Green Day fans, but then, I could be wrong. 2009 was a long time ago, after all. Even if I haven't managed to update my wardrobe in the past ten years, doesn't mean the fans weren't busy raising kids and sending them off to university.

They're certainly enthusiastic enough during the applause. It must be something quite mega to see your little darling being up there, on that massive stage, and being all talented and shit. Not something my parents were ever subjected to, a relief on all of our parts, but this lot seem happy about it.

I leap out of my seat and dive into my coat. I need to give some serious consideration to the continued presence of little skater skirts in my wardrobe.

One of the students at my work called me ma'am the other week. He's American, and was holding a door open for me at the time, so I think he thought he was being respectful. But... oof. I can't deny that it really hurt.

I'm going for twin sets and pearls from now on.

At least my coat is cool.

As I trot down the steps and make to push open the glass doors, I pause and look at my reflection.

I bought this coat thinking it would make me look like a Tolstoy heroine, but turns out I giving off more off a Pat Butcher vibe.

Huh.

Still, it's a good day. I guess...

Climb Every Mountain

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.

Two Bag Ladies go to the Theatre

“Which show?” asks the box officer, once I’ve given my surname.

“Made in China?”

That’s not the full title, but the truth is, I don’t know how to pronounce the first part of it, and I’m really not feeling up to guessing right now.

I’m still ill.

And feeling sorry for myself.

And it’s a Monday.

Even worse, a Monday evening.

At least I’m on familiar ground here.

I’m at RADA. For my third visit of the marathon. Of four. Or potentially just three. It’s hard to tell.

I thought this place had a studio theatre. I’ve seen it on the hire page. But in the ten months I’ve been tracking these things, I’ve yet to see a single show being programmed in that space.

I’m kinda hoping that it doesn’t exist.

Not that I don’t enjoy my drama school visits. Just, you know, at this point I’d run over my own grandmother for the chance to knock a row off my spreadsheet.

And before you get all offended, both my grandmothers are already dead. And no, neither of them were run over. Not by me, anyway.

The box officer switches boxes and starts looking through it, pulling out a ticket and tearing up the ream into its individual components.

“Ticket and card receipt,” he says, handing them to me. “There you are.”

From the box office, I walk into the cafe space.

I know how things work here now.

A queue lines up along a wall covered with student headshots. Doors open. Tickets are checked. And everyone files into one of the three (or potentially four) theatres. It’s a busy space and the front of housers take no nonsense.

“There’s seven tickets still uncollected,” says a young woman into a radio as she rushes from the box office over to the main doors.

A voice comes over the sound system. “GBS Theatre. GBS Theatre. Tonight’s performance of Stoning Mary is about to begin.”

That’s not me. I’ve already done the GBS. Shame really. I like the sound of Stoning Mary.

The bar is all decked up for Halloween. Cobwebs creep their way around the bottles of spirits, little paper ghosts bounce over the coffee machines in a row of bunting, and there’s even a pumpkin.

I very much approve. So festive. It really is the most wonderful time of the year.

At the end, a table has been set up with wine and snacks. Good snacks by the looks of it. No crappy bowl of crisps going on here. Oh no. These people have cheese twists.

Sipping wine and very much ignoring the excellent snacks, are the very important people. The casting directors, I presume. Theatre people.

I’m not a casting director, and barely count as a theatre person, so I table a normal seat at a normal table.

The tables are covered with photos of costumes. I hadn’t noticed that before.

I settle in and look around for a programme seller. There doesn’t seem to be one around here. There is a sign on the wall though, listing the locations of all the theatre spaces.

The GBS is in the basement, the Gielgud on the first floor, and the Jerwood Vanbrugh or floors two and three.

No mention of the Studio theatre.

If it exists, RADA has no intention of owning up to it.

A front of houser rushes over.

“Are you here for a performance?” she asks a woman standing near me.

I look around.

The woman is rolling a suitcase behind her.

The front of houser looks down at the suitcase with a significant glance.

“I’m like a bag lady,” says the woman with a sigh of resignation.

The front of houser tells our bag lady that suitcases are not allowed. But, she has a plan. “Unofficially,” she says, lowering her voice to emphasis that things are about to get sneaky here. “I can take it…”

And she leads off the bag lady to some back room, where the suitcase is put away. Unofficially. And the lady, sans-bag, can enjoy the performance. Officially.

“Welcome to this evening’s performance of Keffiyeh/Made in China,” says the disembodied voice over the sound system. Keffiyeh! So that’s how you pronounce it. “The auditorium is now open.”

Across the way, a front of houser opens the door which leads to the theatres, and a queue lines up against the wall with the headshots. I join them.

There’s no time to make friends with the headshots though. We’re on the move.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker and get nodded through with an instruction to head “upstairs to the Gielgud.”

As I turn the corner and make my way to the stairs, I can hear the ticket checker’s voice behind me. “Oh my god,” she cries out. “You’re Stoning Mary! That’s already started!”

The owner of the Stoning Mary ticket must have demonstrated some upset at this news because the ticket checker quickly switches to the role of calm problem-solver. “Don’t worry! Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll get you in.”

But I’m half way up the stairs already, rushing down the corridor, trying to keep up with all the young people as they make their way to the Gielgud.

The ticket checker on the door is tearing tickets. I fold the tab on mine back and forth to make it easier for him.

Inside there’s another front of houser. This one with programmes. I was worried there. Thought there wouldn’t be any.

“Would you like one?” she asks with an enthusiastic grin.

I absolutely would.

“They are one pound.”

Bargain.

I mean, not really. The ones at LAMDA are free. But outside the world of drama schools, these would be a considered a bargain.

Pity I can’t find my damn purse.

“Sorry,” I say, as the rummaging drags on a second too long. “My bag is so full.”

“It’s one of those days,” says the programme seller cheerfully.

“It is! Such a Monday.”

“And it’s a Mary Poppins bag!”

It is huge. And I do keep an umbrella in it. Turns out RADA has two bag ladies on their hands tonight.

But my purse is located, as is the right change. “There we go, two fifty pees,” I tell her as I drop them into her waiting palm.

“Perfect. Here you go,” she says, handing me a programme. “Enjoy!”

That done, it’s time to find a seat. Shouldn’t be too hard. The Gielgud is a titchy tiny theatre. Only a few rows of chairs in front of a diddy little floor-level stage. Not that they haven’t done the absolute mostest with it. There’s a proper set going on, with walls that look like they are going to move around and provide all kinds of backdrops. As for the seats, there may not be much in the way of rows, but every single one is working for it. With raised platform and different height chairs meaning wherever the casting directors are planning on sitting tonight, they are going to get an excellent view.

I dismiss the front row immediately. Not just because it’s the front row, but because it has those hella awkward chairs with the cut down legs. Corgie-legged seats are the preserve of the young. I’m not about that nonsense. Instead, I go for the first row with normal height chairs. Which is to say, the second row. Right at the end. Because I do like me an aisle seat.

The man who sits next to me is immediately greeted by everyone around us, with the young people twisting around to say hello.

I slink down in my normal height seat and have a look at the programme.

I will give the RADA programmes this, they may cost money, but they are beautifully printed. Nice thick paper stock, and with a green seam hidden under the saddle stitch binding so you get a flash of colour every time you crack back that spine. That’s some classy shit right there, and I appreciate it.

From the credits it looks like we’ll be watching a lot of short plays tonight.

I count them up. Nine. That’s a lot of theatre. I hope there isn’t an interval. Not that I don’t enjoy the whole RADA experience, but the experience of going home and having an early night is one I would enjoy a whole lot more.

Lights down. We begin.

And I find myself sitting on the side of the thoroughfare as the cast rush on and off stage. Coming together to shift the set around and then running back off again, leave behind only two of their brethren for the first shortie. It’s sad and confusing and opaque. The dialogue clipped, half-finished and layered. Hinting at a thousand past lives, and casting only shadows of the current one.

A scuffle breaks out in the aisle, and I flinch away to avoid getting hit as the actors blast past onto the stage.

Play after play, taking us from market stalls to children’s bedrooms, moving so fast there’s no time to get bored, with each one leaving a soft thumbprint on your heart that there is no opportunity to process or contemplate before the next one starts prodding at you.

And then it’s over.

One of the ushers steps out.

“Just to let you know, there will be a short after-show discussion if you want to stay for that.”

I do not want to stay for that. I slip around the seats and make my escape.

A few people follow on behind me.

“Didn’t you want to stay?” someone asks their companion as we slip back down the stairs.

“Nah, if I wanted it explained to me, the producers will do that down the pub.”

As for me, all I want explained is where the hell is the RADA Studio theatre.

Damn Commie Kids

“I’m visiting your alma mater tonight,” I tell one of my coworkers as he tries to do some photocopying. “ArtsEd?” just in case he’s forgotten where he studied. 

“Oh, right? What are you seeing?” 

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I don’t book to see things. Hang on…” 

I bring up the confirmation email. “It’s a double bill. Zero for the Young Dudes and The Sewing Group,” I say, a little doubtfully. 

“Right… in my day we did Chekhov and things like that.” He checks his printing. “You know, there’s a great pub just by the station. Like right next to the station. It’s called the Tabard.” 

“You mean the one with the theatre upstairs?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he says, realising who he's talking to. “You must have been there.” 

I must indeed. 

“It’s called the Chiswick Playhouse now,” I tell him. 

He pulls a face. “Why?” 

That I cannot help him with. 

Anyway, as I was saying, I’m going to ArtsEd tonight. Or more accurately, The Andrew Lloyd Webber Foundation Theatre that lives within the drama school. 

Out at Turnham Green station, past the Tabard Pub (and the Chiswick Playhouse), round the corner, and there it is.  

I try to step back to get a nice photo of the entrance, but young people are pouring through the door from every direction. Looks like everyone is in to support the troops tonight. 

Inside there is a small desk laden with ASOS parcels. And just beyond, some barriers. All open, and not in need of a student pass. 

I go in. 

The bar is directly opposite, with a curious lack of queue considering I’m surrounded by students. That’s generation z for you right there. Or rather, not right there. They’re all hanging around in the foyer space, leaping onto each other to envelope their friends in great big hugs, and talking excitedly about absolutely everything. 

I head over to the box office. 

I can tell it’s the box office because there is a tiny little sign posted off to one side of it. “Box office,” it says shyly, peeking out from in between all dancing heads crowding around the desk. 

Most of these people already have their tickets. The bright yellow cards flash as their owners bounce around, greeting a newly spotted friend. 

Amongst the chaos I find the actual queue. Or at least I think I do, as when I make it to the front, I discover that there was an entirely different line, approaching from an entirely different direction. 

The box officer wavers between us. “Hi! Hi! Hi,” she says, her hands alternating between us as if she were playing a game of invisible two handed table tennis.  

For once in my lift, I’m going to pull age, if not rank. 

“I’m just going to sneak in,” I say, sliding up to the counter. And before anyone can complain, I give my surname. 

A quick flip through the ticket box, and I’m being handed my own bright yellow ticket. “Here you are!” says the box officer with more energy than I have ever been able to muster in my entire life. 

“Thank you!” I reply, attempting to draw on whatever dregs I have left and failing. 

“You’re welcome!” she sings back in return. 

It’s no good. I was never meant to be a performer. Better stick to what I’m good at. Sitting quietly and watching the pros get on with it. Well, the almost-pros in this case. The on-their-way-to-being-pros. The studying-hard-and-putting-the-rest-of-us-to-shame-as-they-fight-to-make-it-in-this-impossible-industry-but-have-a-good-a-shot-as-any-of-joining-the-ranks-of-the-pros. 

What was I saying? I don’t remember. Let’s move on. 

I work my back through the crowd, towards the bar, the only place which isn’t absolutely rammed. 

Sitting on the counter are a couple of booklets. I pick one up curiously and find that it’s actually the programme for tonight. I look around, and see no other copies. Good thing I found them before they were all gone! 

It’s nice enough. Printed on thick card. Inside there are lovely headshots of all the bright young things. A short intro into each of the two plays. And that’s it. Well, what more do you need, really. 

I check the time. It’s twenty-five past. I should probably go in. 

A large curved wall is marked up with the name of the theatre in huge letters against a deep red wall. There is no mistaking who paid for this theatre. 

The nearest door has a massive queue stretching all the way out of it, but if I’m reading the tiny sign, posted high up on the wall, correctly, then there should be another door lurking being the Lloyd Webber sponsorship opportunity. 

I follow it around, past the loos, and into a small corridor. 

There’s an usher posted on the end. And a considerably shorter queue. It only has two people in it. Well, three now that I’ve joined. 

“Strictly speaking, one of you was supported to go through one door, and one the other,” says the ticket checker as he looks over the bright yellow tickets of the couple in front of me.  

“I’m sure they’ll forgive us,” says one. 

“They will! They will!” laughs the ticket checker. “Together forever. That’s how it’s meant to be.” 

And with that, he lets them through. 

Inside, I stand off to one side to get a photo. 

It’s nice in here. They spent that Phantom money well. 

The walls are made up of stripes, all painted shades of purple and red and pink. 

It’s like stepping into a Bridget Riley painting. Or perhaps wrapping one’s self in a Paul Smith scarf. Pick whichever metaphor makes me sound cooler, please. 

The stalls are almost full. These young ones don’t fuck around. 

“Hello!” says my new neighbour with a massive grin as I sit down. 

Did I ever have that much energy and enthusiasm? If I did, it was so long ago that I no longer remember it. 

“This is a date,” says my neighbour’s companion. Or, his date, even. “Hold my hand!” 

After a bit of grumbling, my neighbour offers out his hand to his date.  

Aw. Young love. 

The house lights go down. 

The first play of the night starts. The Sewing Group. 

Two women bend over their hoops, working on their embroidery. As a new member is introduced, they speak in stilted sentences. Unable to get off the subject of their work without floundering, while the newcomer struggles to make sense of her new home. 

I can’t blame her. I’m struggling to. 

Statements contradict themselves and no one seems sure of their own backstories. 

Plus, there are bonnets. I love bonnets. Theatre needs more bonnets. Especially for the audience. It’s so cold in here even my ears are freezing. I’m regretting taking off my jacket. And my cardigan. And my scarf. 

Turns out just because a room’s walls are stripey, it doesn’t mean sitting in it really is like being wrapped in a Paul Smith scarf. 

Metaphors are lies. 

At least the play is good. 

It’s funny, and weird, and twisting, and sad, and surprisingly, not written by M. Night Shyamalan. 

But as soon as it ends I’m racing back out into the foyer to warm up. 

Cardigan very much on, I find a place next to the bar and get out my phone, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. 

I love drama school productions, I really do. But being the oldest person in the audience by a good ten years is not what I’m after from my evenings. 

When the call comes to go back in, I’m once again baffled by the sheer verve and passion of young people. “Ladies and gentleman,” the woman on the tannoy squeaks. “Please return to your sets. This performance is now ready to begin. THANK YOUUUUUUU!!!!!” 

Honestly, I’m so glad I’m a bitter old hag now. I can have lie-ins. I mean, not now. I’ve got a stupid marathon to do. But 2020? Yeah, I’m not getting out of bed that year. And quite possibly, never again for the rest of my life. I will stitch myself into my pyjamas and surrender to my duvet for ever more. 

Bliss. 

“Is this the zombie one?” says my neighbour’s date back in the auditorium.  

“Ergh!” says my neighbour. “Don’t ruin it for me!” 

“But it’s got zombies in it!” 

Their date is going super well. 

As for me, I don’t care. I’ve never been fussed about spoilers, and am always up for some zombie action, 

A girl comes out on stage, plonks herself down and starts eating from a bowl. She lowers her head, fixes her eyes on us, and gives us the most sinister smile I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to witness. 

Turns out, Zero for the Young Dudes! is not actually about zombies. It’s about young people. And I think we’ve both seen tonight that the young people have way too much fervor to ever be cast as extras in a Romero movie. Anyway, they’re fighting the power that is the old ones. Willing to sacrifice themselves and everyone else for the cause of socialism. Anyone over thirty is an evil capitalist traitor, and honestly... they’re not wrong. Old people are awful.

Both casts come out for the curtain call, and as soon as the house lights start to come up, I grab my bag and slip out. 

I love generation z, I really do, but that doesn’t mean a trust them for a minute. And that play was intense. I skitter back through the barriers and out the door, before they have a chance to get any ideas. 

Monkey See, Monkey Do

I'm onto my next venue of the marathon and I have a bad feeling about this one. This bad feeling is based on nothing more substantial than the name, but the name is The Monkey House, and that is enough.

I don't like monkies.

I really don't like monkies.

With their creepy monkey hands and their creepy monkey toes.

Nope. Not into it.

And don't give me that spiel about them being just like people. That's the problem. People are gross too. With their creepy people hands and their creepy people toes.

Yeah, yeah. I should have just called this blog the London Theatre Misanthrope. I get it.

Perhaps that will be my next project. If I ever manage to emerge from the hermit-hole that I intend to seclude myself in come January.

Anyway, it looks like I was right because I'm at the address and there's not a theatre to be found.

I'm right here. On Seven Sisters Road. And all I see is a William Hill where there's supposed to be a theatre. I keep on walking, following the pavement around the corner, and almost walk into a group of young and cool looking people. The sort of young and cool looking people who would be up for watching a play about the Jamestown cult at 6.45pm on a Wednesday evening.

I look up, and yup, the sign over the door says "Fourth Monkey."

This must be the place.

Inside the door, perched on a chair in the tiny foyer, sat at an even tinier table, is another young and cool looking person. But this one has a pile of papers in front of her. Looks like I've found the box office.

"Hi," she says with a massive smile as soon as I walk in.

"Hello. Err, the surname's Smiles?"

"Nice name," she comments as she draws a line through it on the list.

"Thank you."

Seriously.

I've been wearing this name for over three decades and it never gets old.

"Here's one of these," she says, pulling a castsheet free from the pile on the desk.

They are nice. Really nice. Full-colour headshots and printed on a heavy paper stock. It doesn't get much better than that.

"Um, where am I going?" I ask as I suddenly realise that I have no idea what lurks beyond this tiny foyer.

She points towards the door a few feet away from us.

"First floor," she says, then stops. "No. Second floor. The top floor."

I nod. "Okay. Is the house open?"

"It is, but you may have to wait in the kitchen."

Blimey. I mean, that's weird, right? Waiting in the kitchen? Let's hope they have the kettle on. Although, I'm not sure a stuffy old kitchen is where I want to be right now.

"I might wait outside," I tell her. "Bit warm."

"Okay," she says brightly, very sweetly pretending to care where I plan to send my pre-show time.

I go outside. And once more curse myself for putting on a great big pleated skirt on a breezy day.

After a few minutes wrestling to keep my skirt at least somewhere in the region of my legs, I give up and go inside. Through the door that the box officer had pointed out and into a secondary room. Which turns out to be another foyer. Or perhaps a vestibule. Or even a lobby. One of those. Can't tell you which because I don't know the difference. Let's just call it Foyer Number Two.

Whatever it’s called, it contains the promised staircase, which will take me up to the second, or possibly top, floor. And on the walls, in all capitals, is the missive: NO SHOE ZONE.

For the first time I notice that the walls of Foyer Number Two are covered with boxy shelves. And that each cubby-hole is filed with footwear.

Shit.

But...

... they don't mean me, right? Not people going to the theatre? Right? This is just for the students... right?

Right?!

I look down at my boots. I still haven't sorted out the shoe situation since the last time I had to take them off for a show. I didn't think I would have to. Taking off your shoes to go into some's literal house is fair enough. To remove them in order to go upstairs in what I think is some sort of drama school seems a bit much. Especially when the shoes in question require straps to be unbuckled and a good deal of lacings to be loosened in order to get them off.

I look around at all the shoes on display. On the ground there is a wicker basket filled with soft slippers.

Oh gawd...

This is like going bowling. Which is something I don't do. And not just because of the public footwear situation.

I don't think there's any getting away with this. I think I'm going to have to do it.

With a massive internal sigh, I bend down and start on with the business of unbuckling and loosening. Leaning against the wall I manage to pull them off and I find a cubby hole to store them in for the duration.

Only then do I dare examine the state of my tights. With no forewarning, I hadn't thought to pull out a pair without holes. It's unlikely that I'd picked one out by chance this morning.

I have a rule, you see. I don't throw out an item of clothing until it has been repaired at least three times. Sometimes I manage to stretch that to six or seven before I finally give up on them. Bit three is the minimum. So my tights are often held together by more of my terrible attempts at stitches than would be deemed acceptable for public viewing.

But the theatre gods have looked kindly on me once again, and brought about another miracle, because today, my toes are stitch-free. And there is not a single hole to be found anywhere. I've got the good pair on.

It feels really strange to be going upstairs in a public building with nothing more than sixty deniers worth of nylon between them and me. It makes me feel intensely vulnerable, which is not a feeling I want to be having before I've even stepped into the auditorium.

One floor up and there's an office. Over the open doorway the signage proclaims this place as "Monkey Business," which I have to appreciate, if only on a punnage level.

I ask the two ladies standing on the landing where I'm going, and they point me up one more level.

One more level it is then.

Up I go.

The sign above the next door says "Kitchen," but it's nothing like the kettle-totting kitchen of my imagination.

I've instead found myself in a large, comfortable looking room, with leather armchairs, a counter running down one wall, and a hatch serving as the bar for the evening. There are also strings of red fabric running from the lampshades off all over the place, with masses of cardboard axes swinging from them, a Sarah Kane quote on one wall, and an artwork that places the Vikings in front of the London Eye on the other.

As I wander around, trying to find somewhere to stand which isn't in everyone's way, I tread on something.

I don't look down.

I don't want to know what it is.

I just keep on moving. Quickly.

No one else seems bothered the lack of shoe-action going on up here.

People stride around in their socks. A few have the wicker-basket slippers. Others have bare feet.

As a queue forms to get into the theatre, I spot a girl with socks so full of holes her toes clawing at the floorboards.

People hands and people toes.

Gross.

It takes a while to get through the corridor.

I'm not mad though. There's a Pina Bausch quote on the wall here. I love Pina Bausch. One of my prizest possessions is a signed Pina Bausch programme that I may or may not have lifted from work. And if I have to get stuck in a corridor with someone spouting out their views on choreography, I'm glad it's with her.

Eventually we make it through.

The theatre is a black box. Seating has been set up on two sides, traverse style. With a small stage in the middle.

There's one seat going begging in the back row.

"Do you mind?" I ask the person sitting next to it.

No reply. So I take it he doesn't and sit down..

It's really hot in here.

Really hot.

But there's no time to get my fan out because the lights are going down and the play is beginning.

It's a drama school show (I think... I'm still not entirely sure on this) so I won't be commenting on the performance. But the play is pretty good. Zipping along with a familiar tale. You know the one. Don't drink the kool-aid and all that.

Someone a couple of rows ahead neglected that part though, as she starts coughing. And coughing. And coughing.

She gets up and after coughing more in the empty space behind the seating block, eventually goes outside.

A second later, a woman in the row in front follows her.

The bloke next to me twists in his seat, again and again, to see whether they are coming back, not focusing on the play at all, his attention completely with the coughing woman out in the corridor.

They come back soon enough. And we can all go back to watching the play.

As soon as the stage lights go down at the end, instant applause rings out. I've never seen it happen so fast.

But as soon as it starts, it peters out.

The actors do not return to the stage for their bows.

"Are they not coming out?" someone asks. "We're clapping."

"No, they don't do that here."

Well, what do you expect from people who don't wear shoes?

The Two Ghosts of Queen's House

Seven o’clock starts are tricky as fuck. Especially when they’re in Greenwich. But after a slightly leg-jiggly journey on the DLR, I’ve made it to Romney Road with twenty whole minutes to spare. I can even see my theatre for tonight. Queen’s House. In all its gleaming white glory. The problem is, how to get there? The first pair of gates I passed were firmly locked. As were the second.

I keep on walking, my heart beating in time with my rushing feet. There doesn’t seem to be a way in.

Is there a password or something? Am I supposed to run full pelt at the railings with the firm believe that I can move right through them? Are iron bars nothing but an collision for those confined to the mediocrities of reality?

Just as I’m considering how badly I would hurt myself if I attempted to heave myself over the iron fence, I turn a corner, and find the car park.

Oh. Well, fine then. I’ll just go in this way, shall I?

Now I’ve actually managed to get myself within the confines of this handsome house, I can relax a little bit. I have plenty of time. And only a short walk over these peaceful green lawns.

And there it is. Queen’s House. Set back from whatever bustle Greenwich can throw at a person, amongst acres of green grass.

Not a bad place to catch a bit of opera, I must say. And a fucking impressive place for a performing arts college performance. Those Trinity Laban kids have it well swish, I can tell you that for nothing.

I stop to text Helen, letting her know about the whole getting in situation. She’s running late. Don’t want her trying to scale a fence in a panic.

That done, I walk up the path, and find a man holding a piece of paper, waiting to greet people next to a sign advertising tonight's performance.

“Do I give me name or…?” I ask.

“Are you a performer or…?”

No, mate. Clearly not. I want to ask if they’re missing a performer, but I fear he might ask me to step in. “Err, a ticket buyer?” I try.

“Right. Err let’s check if it’s here. What’s the name?”

I give it.

I’m not on the list.

“Right,” he says. It doesn’t sound like this is the first time his list has come up short. “That’s fine. I don’t know why they gave me this list. The reception is in the Orangery, around the Queen’s House, and past the colonnade.”

Well, okay then. I follow his instructions, around the house, through the colonnade, and out the other side.

There seems to be a bit of a party going on through here. There are canapes. And drinks. And everyone looks very fancy. Too fancy.

I don’t think I’m meant to be here.

I text Helen again.

“Have you crashed a wedding?” she asks.

“Maybe?” I reply.

Hmm. Not sure what to do. I go back the way I’d come, pausing in the colonnade to peer into a covered courtyard. People are walking through. Holding programmes.

Okay, so it appears that the audience are going somewhere. And unless my geography is totally messed up, they are coming from the Orangery.

I go back, stepping into the fancy room. It’s nearly empty now. The trays of canapes desiccated. The wine drunk.

A young woman with a box of tickets in her arms rushes over.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m picking up tickets?”

“For the reception or the performance?”

“The performance. Sorry,” I say, seeing the look of panic in her face. The expression of someone who just spotted their dotty aunt approaching a new boyfriend with a handful of embarrassing baby photos on hand. “Sorry. I got sent round here, but I was like… this doesn’t look right. So I thought I better just ask.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh no! This is just for the reception. The box office is just inside the main door. Tell them you’re general admission.”

I apologise again and back away from the fancy room. Places like this are not meant for the likes of me.

Okay then. Back around the building, I avoid the man and his piece of paper and duck into the surprisingly lowly doorway, rushing down the Spartan corridor and emerging into a museum shop. This looks much more my level. There’s a proper counter, and I join the queue to pick up tickets.

They do have my name here, thank goodness, and the lady on the desk pulls my tickets out of the box.

“That’s two tickets, is that right?” she asks.

It absolutely is.

She picks two programmes up from the pile on the counter and hands them to me.

Oh, yeah. Free programmes. That’s the stuff.

“Loos are to the left,” she says, pointing further into the building. “And stairs to the Great Hall are on the right.”

The Great Hall, eh? Perhaps I will be getting all fancy tonight.

Helen turns up a few minutes later. Limping slightly from a blister on her foot.

“This way,” I say, leading her towards the stairs.

“Hang on, do you mind if I use the loos?”

Well, you can’t say no to someone who just hobbled all the way over to Greenwich to spend the evening with you, now can you?

The last people in the foyer make their way upstairs.

I use the opportunity to take some photos. It’s strange down here. Like being in a wine cellar, with that curved ceiling going on over our heads.

“Ready?” I ask as Helen emerges.

She is, so we go up the stairs. The Tulip Stairs, according to the signage. That’s an unusually specific name, I think as we make our way up. Not that they’re not pretty, just not particularly tulip shaped… Oh. Oh, I see.

As Helen points her phone upwards to take a photo of the view above our heads, I find myself staring into a spiralling vortex of steps. They seem to go on forever, reaching up into the heaves, the steps unfolding, like, well, petals.

And on the balustrades… iron tulips.

That answers that question then.

There’s someone giving a speech in the Great Hall. Well, I presume it’s the Great Hall. There are a lot of people in here. Sat around in those spindly golden chairs you get at weddings.

A woman standing on the other side makes a big circle gesture with her arms to indicate that there are seats going spare over in the far corner.

Helen and I pick our way over between the silent rows.

Oops. Bit late.

Never mind.

The speech goes on. A potted history of the house. … I zone out. This room is far too pretty to be listening to this sort of thing. It’s the kind of room where you want murder and intrigue, not dates of construction and alignments with the river.

Once he’s done, he’s replaced by someone else. With her own set of speeches. These ones about Trinity Laban, about the operas being performed, about how marvellous the patrons are in this room for giving their money to such a worthy cause.

Someone in the front row claps loudly. The sound reverberating around the square room. The rest of us join in, more out of obligation than agreement.

I’m just here to catch some opera, and get a venue checked off.

I look up. Halfway up the high walls is a slim balcony. There are men up there. Young men. In costume. They lean against the railing, watching the audience below, looking the kind of effortless cool that only the agonisingly young and talented can achieve.

Self-congratulatory speeches now at an end, we can get on with the business of opera. First off, some Monteverdi.

The men up in the balcony begin to sing. Their voices raining down on us.

And down here, on the small bit of space being used as a stage, a lone female laments at her fate.

I don’t know what they’re singing. It’s Italian.

But I get the idea. She’s sad, and it is oh so pretty.

“I think that broke my heart?” says Helen as we all applaud.

I nod. I think it broke mine too. “It’s amazing in here,” I say. “The sound bouncing off all the walls…”

“Yes, the acoustics are great.”

“Yeah, alright. You and your big words.” Honestly, always the intellectual is our Helen. As Laban people bustle about removing the table from the last opera, and prepping the room for the next, I lean back, taking in the carved struts holding up the balcony, fat wooden scrolls picked up in gold. A bit of warmth in a white room. “It is beautiful in here. I might move in.”

“Perhaps not in winter though… I feel it would be quite hard to heat?”

She’s not wrong. Those high ceilings and cathedral sized windows would be the very devil to keep warm. “This is so going to be your summer palace when you become dictator.”

“It’s coming you know!”

I waft my hand towards the window behind us, from where we can see the long pathway going down to the river. “You’ll have peasants marching up the lawns with pitchforks.”

Helen gives a dismissive wave. “Just get rid of them,” she says.

The boys from the last opera return, slipping into empty seats and crowding into the windowsill to watch the next piece.

A young man takes the empty seat next to me, and I squish up to give him room.

These chairs are really closely packed.

Just as the boys settle, a group of young women burst in, their voices trilling and whirling as they start the next work. A modern opera this time. About a hen party. Svadba.

It takes me far too long to notice that they sing unaccompanied. With no instrument other than their own voices, and… some tins with spoons in them.

The dunk the wooden spoons in, rotating them around the insides and taping at the exterior.

Bored of their sound effects, they hand them to audience members.

A man in the front row looks at his newly acquired prop in bewilderment. “Should I tap it,” he asks the girl who gave it to him, and gives the tin an experimental drum with the spoon.

She leaves him too it.

The friends dance around their bride, the swirling sounds of their voices echoing off the walls, layering and combining into a symphonic orchestra that builds so high I can feel my ears vibrating by the end.

“Have your seen the painting in there,” says Helen as the applause fades. She’s nodding towards a side room. On the wall is the portrait of a rather dashing young man.

“He’s… well.” Very.

“He’s a bit of an alright,” says Helen.

“He’s totes a historical hottie,” I confirm.

The applause is still going, and shows no signs of stopping. The cast has long vacated the stage.

I look at Helen. She looks at me. We both shrug. I mean, they were good. Great evening. But I haven’t clapped this much since… I don’t know… Carlos Acosta’s farewell from The Royal Ballet probably. And no offence to Trinity Laban students, but they haven’t quite yet put in twenty years hard labour as world leaders in their artform.

Eventually, it slows, and stops.

“I’m going to get a photo of historical hottie,” I say, slipping between the rows to go into the side room.

“Oh look, they have ceramics,” says Helen, going to have a look at the display case. But I don’t care about them. I want attractive young men with swords and gold frogging from my art.

“I’m not sure we’re supposed to be in here,” I say. And right on cue, someone from Laban walks through. They don’t say anything though. And we’re left to gaze at the art in peace.

“Oh, look at the chairs!” I say, spotting a pair of translucent chairs.

“Oh, they’re the…”

“Ghost chairs? Is that want they’re called?”

“Yeah.”

I try to remember the name of the designer, but nope. I’ve forgotten it. Never mind. Ghost chairs. You know!

Strange addition to this room though. I wonder what they’re doing here, with historical hottie and.. I squint…a young Queen Victoria?

“We should probably go,” I suggest... I kinda want to go home while there’s still a chance of an early night.

But not before I get one final photo of the Tulip Stairs.

“Sorry,” I apologise to the couple stuck behind me.

“Don’t worry. One person took a photo and got the ghost. The Queen’s House ghost,” says the female half of the pair.

“Oh my…” Oh my! “There’s a ghost? I’ve always wanted to meet a ghost,” I tell her.

“Well, you’re in the right place,” she says, having the grace not to sound too baffled by my exclamation.

I take this as confirmation that she’d like to hear more.

“I’ve wanted to meet one for years, but I don’t think they like me,” I say. “I’m just too keen.”

“They think you’re needy,” agrees Helen.

“They do!”

The couple slips away quietly. I can’t say I blame them. If even the ghosts don’t appreciate my enthusiasm for them, I can’t expect the residents of this mortal plane to get on board.

Still, the sun is still shining and it’s only…

“That was only an hour and a quarter long,” I say to Helen as we walk down the path back towards the road. “The perfect evening!”

“And look! They’ve opened the gates for us,” she says, pointing to the end of the path.

No going through the car park for us!

We can just saunter, or at least stagger, through looking all chic in our sunglasses and…

Shit.

“Shit,” I say. “I forgot my jacket,” I say, already turning round to run back in.

Through the foyer, up the Tulip Stairs, hurried explanation of my appearance to the usher, into the Grand Hall, dart between all the singers and patrons to get to my seat right at the back, reach under, grab my jacket, nod to the usher on the way out and…

“You just wanted to see if you could find the ghost, didn’t you?” says Helen.

“No!” Yes. “And I already saw a ghost anyway. Two of them,” I say, remembering the chairs.

It's not much, but you've got to take your victories where you can find them.

Buy the rooftop and hang a plaque

Proving once again that London theatre defies categorisation, and thumbs it’s nose at my attempts to spreadsheet it, I only found out about the Silk Street Theatre a few weeks ago. Over the past six months I’ve had literally tens of people emailing me with the names of venues that I’ve missed off my official list, but this one has defied even their keen eyes.

It was only when I started trawling the Barbican’s website, clicking on all their theatrical events to see what they had going on in the Pit, that I found it listed as the venue for the Guildhall’s run of Merrily We Roll Along.

After a bit of digging, I found that the Silk Street Theatre is, as the name suggests, on Silk Street. And is part of the Guildhall complex, neighbours to our good friends, the Barbie and Ken (literally no one calls the Barbican this apart from me, and while I recognise that continuing to use it is basically just me trying to make fetch happen, it makes me laugh, and I need that, so back off).

This discovery had me starring at the wall for a good ten minutes. Could I pretend that I’d never seen it? None of my spies had noticed it’s absence. I could totally just not go, and no one would be any the wiser.

But wall starring is very unforgiving. With nothing to look at, you are left gazing at your own conscious, so on the list it went, ticket was bought, and I’m now on my way into the city.

I don’t know where precisely I’m going. The address is Guildhall School of Music & Drama. On Silk Street. I’m hoping that’s enough information to find it.

The building up ahead looks likely. I get out my phone and bring up Google Maps. I’m on the corner of Silk Street and Milton Street.

And yup, there’s some sort of signage going on just inside the doors.

“Milton Court Front Doors will open 1 hour before the event start time.”

What time is it now? About 6.30. I’m super early. For some reason, I’m always convinced the City is miles and miles away from my work. But it’s really just down the road.

I look around. There’s a woman talking on her phone just there. Hopefully she won’t notice me taking a photo. My memory is so bad now that photos are the one thing stopping me from becoming an Oliver Sacks case study.

“Hello, can I help?”

I turn around. The woman who was chatting on the phone is looking at me, her phone pressed against her shoulder.

“Sorry,” I say, not sure why I’m even apologising but feeling like I’ve been caught red handed with my photo-taking. “I was just reading the signs.”

“Right?” she prompts. She must be a Guildhall person.

“I’m seeing the performance tonight,” I explain.

“Oh,” she says with a nod. “That’s in the Silk Street building.”

“Okay?” I mean, we’re pretty close to Silk Street here. Right on the corner.

“Do you see the sign with the green arrow?”

I look over to where she’s pointing. I do see the sign with the green arrow.

“We’re in the Silk Street Theatre tonight,” she continues. “Because it’s bigger.”

“Nice,” I say. “I love a big theatre.”

I mean, I like small theatres too. But I seem to remember Merrily We Roll Along being quite a big show. With a big cast. It seems only right that the Guildhall students get a big theatre to play with.

I head over towards the sign with the green arrow, but I am really, ridiculously, early, so I go for a bit of a walk, edit my Park Theatre post, and then come back, returning to the scene of the arrow.

It points into a dark and narrow courtyard, at the end of which I can see the Corporation of London coat of arms stuck to the ugly pebbledash walls, and the Guildhall School branding frosted onto glass doors.

Inside there’s one of those long reception desks, most of which seems to be empty, but the corner is in use. With three people sitting behind, tickets at the ready. Two for the guest list. One for the box office.

I join the box office queue.

There’s only one person in front of me. A very old man. Stooped, with a cane. He wants to buy a ticket. It’s all sold out though. The box officer picks up the phone and tries to organise something for him.

She doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

Meanwhile, the guest list side of the desk remains empty.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

The box officer is still on the phone, trying to find this man a ticket.

The queue is growing behind me.

A woman goes over to the guest list side. They jump to attention.

“Do you have programmes?” she asks.

“Yes, over there at the cloakroom desk,” they say. And she leaves.

Left alone again, one of the guest list greeters looks over at the box office queue. “You’re all collecting pre-paid tickets are you?” she asks.

I confirm that yes, we paid for tickets and yes, we’re rather keen on the idea of picking them up.

“What’s the surname?” she asks.

I jump out of the queue slide over to her. “Smiles?”

She pulls over the ticket box and has a look through it. “Maxine?”

“Yes!”

She unfurls the ream and checks it. “Just the one ticket is it?”

“… yes,” I admit.

That done, I suppose I better get my programme. From the cloakroom.

That’s a funny place to be selling programmes, isn’t it? I mean, that’s not just me, is it? Do cloakrooms always sell programmes? I don’t usually check my things in, so perhaps they all are and I’m just not noticing, but it doesn’t feel all that intuitive. Hand over coat, get a programme. Is that how people are doing things?

“Can I get a programme?” I ask.

“Yes,” says the cloakroom dude, sitting up straighter. “Two pounds.”

Two pounds? Blimey. That’s the most expensive drama school programme I’ve bought. Double the price of the ones at RADA, and I was pissy enough about having to pay for that.

I dig out my purse. “I know I have another pound coin somewhere,” I say apologetically, digging around in the corners.

He laughs politely at that.

Second pound coin finally retrieved, I hand them over.

“You choose one,” he says, waving his hand over the fanned display.

I pick one out of the middle, because I’m an arse.

Programme in hand, I retreat to a wooden railing, overlooking the cafe below, and have a peruse.

There’s a page dedicated to former students. A kind of ‘where are they now,’ which is rather nice. I haven’t seen that before. Not even at RADA.

They even have programme notes.

I do like proper programme notes.

I prop myself against the railing and settle in for a good read.

I don’t get very far.

These must be the most opaque programme notes I’ve ever attempted to get through. And I’ve read some pretty dense stuff in my time. Hell, I’ve edited some pretty dense stuff in my time. Working in contemporary dance has set the barre pretty high for my tolerance of impenetrable text. But this… bloody hell. It’s all stuff about the nature of time and regret. It sounds like one of those wedding speeches you get in mediocre romcoms. You know the sort of thing: “Webster’s dictionary defines love as…”

I thought I was here to see a musical! I mean, sure, it’s Sondheim. Not exactly fluff. But still.

“The performance of Merrily We Roll Along starts at 7.30. The auditorium doors are now open. We invite you to take your seats.”

Saved by the tannoy announcement.

I put the programme away in my bag.

That’s quite enough of that.

I’m going in.

The lady on Milton Street was right. This is a big theatre. Not massive. We’re talking space for hundreds of people, rather than thousands. But definitely on the larger side of things for a drama school. I think it must have both RADA and LAMDA beat on scale.

There’s a wide stage. Raised. And an orchestra pit. Sunken. Which I suppose is to be expected, given where we are.

I make my way to my seat and sit down, but soon find myself jumping up again to let people through. With narrow rows and no central aisle, I think I’m going to be doing this a lot before the show actually starts.

The old lady sitting next to me sighs and twists her legs round for the newcomers to get past.

I think there’ll be a lot of that going on too.

She looks to me like one of those old ladies who are always pissed off. Made of pointy elbows and tutting tongues.

She’s the kind of old woman that I’m going to end up being. My elbows were tailormade to stick in people's ribs.

Up on stage one of the cast members comes out and sits down at the piano.

Above his head old photos are projected onto a screen. Except, they’re not totally old. The faces have been photoshopped into place, and by the sounds of laughter from the student contingent of the audience, those faces belong to their friends in the production.

Half way through the first act, as yesterday is done, and merrily we roll along, roll along, gathering dreams, and the date above the stage clicks back a few more years, my old lady neighbour starts to cough. A bad cough. Full of splutter. And I begin to worry.

Not that she might die. Thankfully that would be someone else’s job to clean up if she did.

But that she was not, as I had first assumed, the type of old lady I would become. But the actual old lady I would become. That she is me. Just fifty years ahead. Sharpened of elbow and tongue. And most annoyingly of all, still with this damn cough.

I try to convince myself that no, if I were an old lady who had harnessed the power of time travel and managed to journey back to 2019, going to watch a depressing Sondheim musical at the Guildhall School wouldn’t exactly be high up on my list of things to do. Even if it did involve the thrill of sitting next to me… Wait. Was she here to kill me? Was that what this was? She couldn’t do that! That’d be a paradox. And more importantly, like, really mean.

I’m saved from these terrifying thoughts by the end of the first act.

I get up to head back into the foyer but the old lady applies her elbows in all directions and barges past me with a barrage of tutting.

Oof. I’m going to be a bitch when I get old.

Once she’s cleared out the way, I follow on behind, taking up my old spot on the railing.

From here I can see all the students swarming beneath, buying drinks and necking them back as nothing but bottled water is allowed inside the auditorium.

Behind me are the boards. The ones drama schools set up with headshots of all the cast members, and their CVs for any casting directors and proud parents in the audience to take away. But next to them is a display of CVs for the backstage crew: sound mixers and prop supervisors and all the rest. Never seen that one before.

I’m beginning to suspect that the Guildhall likes to do things differently.

It must be that brutalist architecture they got going on. All the cruel walls and car park levelling leaking over from the Barbican Centre does things to the brain. Twists the thoughts in strange directions. Not bad directions necessarily, but… okay, the programmes on the cloakroom desk are weird. And the hard-line stance on drinks in the auditorium is a bit precious. It’s not like their upholstery is even new. And the programme notes… let’s not talk about the programme notes.

But, this dude. The one standing in front of the boards and inspecting all the headshots. He’s cool. So cool that I literally can’t tell whether the outfit he’s wearing is a natty suit, or a pair of pyjamas. Honestly, with that fabric, it could go either way.

“This evenings performance of Merrily We Roll Along will commence in three minutes. Please take your seats. This evenings performance will commence in three minutes.”

Oh well. Can’t stand around staring at suity-pyjamas, much as I would like to. It’s time to go back in.

“This evenings performance of Merrily We Roll Along with commence in two minutes. Please take your seats. This evenings performance will commence in two minutes.”

Blimey, give us a chance, love! I’m going, I’m going.

The old lady is already there by the time I get in. She can shift herself, I’ll give her that.

She clears her throat and looks at me. I can feel it. Her looking.

A second later she clears her throat again, and mutters under her breath.

I ignore her. It’s very rude of me, I know. But I’m fairly confident that looking at a version of yourself from the future would have very bad outcomes. Like the end of time itself kinda bad. Like… what if she has terrible eyeliner? I’m not sure I could let the world continue to turn if I found out that I would lose my liner skills.

As the lights dim for the second act, she gives up and we both settle down to watch the rest of the show.

My god, Merrily is grim. Watching the cast get progressively younger, their hopes and happiness expanding with every new scene is chipping away at my own hope and happiness.

Even when they are at peak-optimism they are unbearable. With their bestselling novels. And their hit musicals. And their friendship. Gross.

Honestly, what a cruel musical to programme on students.

Treasure it now, kids. For tomorrow you’ll be old, bitter, and sitting next to an unpleasant old woman who is quite possibly your own destiny.

Damn and blasted

After venturing to LAMDA on Friday night, I was off to RADA on Saturday. Comparison wasn't my intention, but hitting up two major drama schools back-to-back, within a single weekend does rather beg for it.

And if there was a race between the two mighty institutions, it was RADA who got their running spikes on first - sending out a booking confirmation email that detailed the entrances to use for each of their venues, followed up a few days later by a reminder email packed full of access information, content warnings, bus routes, tubes stops with step-free access, and basically everything else a visitor could possibly need.

There was even a rehearsal shot featuring all the actors looking relaxed and happy - which was, if anything, an anti-trigger warning considering the play they were rehearsing was Sarah Kane's Blasted. 

"See?" their sweet, smiling faces seemed to say. "It's all fine. We're fine. You'll be fine."

I wasn't so easily taken it.

Still, that didn't stop RADA from trying to hold my hand. Metaphorically, of course.

Everywhere I looked were signs giving detailed instructions on where to go. Not just arrows vaguely pointing the way, but step-by-step instructions. Turn here, go past one staircase, take another staircase, right, than left.

They really didn't want strangers wandering around and getting lost in their warren of a building.

I can't blame them.

Knowing my predilection for getting lost. they'd have probably found me, three years later, dazed, confused, clutching a diploma and muttering about the Stanislavski technique if it weren't for their signage.

So it was rather a relief to make it to the GBS Theatre and discover that I had indeed taken the right staircase (which is to say: not the main one, but the next one) and wouldn't have to make a life for myself in the RADA basements after all.

There were plenty of ushers down there. No doubt for when they inevitably needed to send out a search party to track down any missing audience members. Two on the door. One inside. Another busy making up the bed that composed the sole piece of stage furniture. I watched as he plumped a pillow case, rearranged the cushions, smoothed down the sheets and tucked everything in neatly. He made a much better effort than I can ever manage of a morning.

But what the front of house team had in numbers, they lacked in programmes. There wasn't a single one to be had.

Ah. I had neglected to buy one while upstairs because the one person I'd spotted selling them had been busy talking to someone who sounded very important.

I looked back at the door, debating whether I dare risk the return journey up the stairs to get one, but I decided against it. While yesterday I may have been all for becoming a theatre ghost, starting a second career as the Phantom of the RADA hadn't been exacting what I was going for.

Programmes would have to wait.

I had a seat to select.

At LAMDA, I'd noticed that the bench seats varied in height so that the floor didn't need to. Here at RADA, they did have a raised dais for the seats to sit on, but still found the need to utilise the same multi-height trick. I'm beginning to think this must be a drama school thing, because I haven't seen it in action anywhere else. 

The first row of seats had legs as short and stubby as those of a Corgi. While four rows back we had their Great Dane cousins.

I made the Goldilocks choice of the third row (what would that be? The Labrador row?). Not very adventurous of me, but I've always been the sort to keep both feet on the ground.

And I have say, I got through the play easily enough. 

Perhaps it was those cherubic rehearsal shots sent out in advance, or the anxiety-reduction of the intensely detailed signage, but I made it through to the other side of Blasted with only a minimal amount of trauma.

Feeling pretty pleased with this personal success story of mine, I found my way back upstairs and went in search of a programme.

The programme seller was busy. Talking to someone who sounded even more important than the very important person of earlier on.

I waited, checking my emails.

He was still talking about his next project.

I moved closer, put on my best I-would-like-to-buy-a-programme-please face and waited a bit more.

Nothing. Not even a nod of acknowledgement from the programme seller.

The very important theatre person wasn't running out of steam. He was still talking about his project.

Would it be rude to cut him short? And if so, is it more or less rude than monopolising the time of someone at work?

Fuck it.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said, interrupting. "Can I just... quickly buy a programme?"

It turned out I could and that they were a pound.

I decided not to comment on how they are free at LAMDA. But, like, they are totally free at LAMDA.

I left them then. The programme seller and the important person. I wonder if they are still there. Talking about his project. With a line of people queuing up behind him. Unnoticed, unseen, and without a programme to occupy their time.

As for me. I had plans.

I was going to head home, bash out a blog post, squirrel under my duvet, and snooze.

I managed the first two.

And got half way through the third.

But then I started thinking about Blasted.

And those sweet faces from the rehearsal room, screwed up and tortured on the stage.  

And I cried, and I cried, and I cried.

Getting ready to meet the theatre gods

Wouldn't it be hilarious if I died on this marathon? Calm down, there's no need to panic. I have no intention of not seeing out this thing to the bitter end, but it would be quite funny, wouldn't it?

I don't mean getting hit by a car or anything so mundane. It would have to be a marathon related death. Tripping down some steps on my way to my seat perhaps. Or being murdered by a disgruntled duty manager. All excellent ways to go.

Death by theatre.

It certainly has a ring to it.

And if I did die in pursuit of this marathon, I could come back as a theatre ghost. And hang out with all the other theatre ghosts. They wouldn't be able to ignore me then. Not when I was one of them.

Anyway, all this is my way of saying that I have a cold.

A really bad cold.   

Scratchy of throat and runny of nose, I headed of to Barons Court, to see what the shiny talented folk of LAMDA were up to.

That was, if I could find the theatre.

LAMDA has three (as far as I'm aware) and neither their website nor their confirmation email contained any instructions on how to get to any one of them.

I was fairly certain I was on the right street though.

I paused, digging out a cough sweet out of my bag as I squinted through the darkness, trying to make out the buildings.

A car chose that moment to splash past, sending a wave of ditch water from the side of the road in my direction.

I tried to jump away, but it managed to catch me mid leap, coating my leg from my knee down.

Scratchy throat, runny nose, I then had a wet leg to add to my list of ills.

Things are going super well for me right now, as I'm sure you can tell.

It did help focus the mind though somehow, or perhaps merely the eyes, as I spotted a long, modern building up ahead.

It was LAMDA! There was even a brightly lit foyer, with a queue at the box office and a sign reading: The Linbury Studio. 

Oh.

That wasn't the one I was after.

I carried on.

Past the main door.

Past the entrance to the Sainsbury Theatre.

On and on until the lights dimmed and I was left on a dark patch of road surrounded by construction hoarding.

It seemed I had run out of building.

Where on earth was the damn Carne Studio then? 

I turned around and headed back. It had to be there somewhere. 

I've joked that theatres are making up venues just to torment me, but I didn't think they were actually doing it.

Until then.

I looked back over my shoulder, just in case I had missed it, and stepped right into a puddle.

Great. A wet boot to match my wet legs.

This was not the theatre-death I was after.

There was nothing for it, I would have to ask.

I squelched my back to the Linbury and asked an purple lanyarded usher who was tearing tickets. I hoped that she didn't notice the wet footprints I'd left in my wake.

She frowned, but whether at my question or my dirtying of the nice clean floor, I couldn't tell. "Hmm. I'm not sure the best way. I don't want to send you I'm the wrong direction. Hang on... Excuse me," she said, holding the door open with one foot as she leant out to flag down a nearby gentleman wearing a matching lanyard. "Where is the Carne?"

He sprung to attention. "Ah, it's very close - just head back outside, walk down the building and the foyer is right there."

I was fairly certain I had already walked down the building and the foyer had very much not been right there.

Seeing the panic in my eyes, he led me back out and pointed down the street. The very street I had just walked. Twice.

"Oh," I said, still unsure. "I've been all the way down, but didn't see it."

He looked surprised. 

"I did see the Sainsbury though," I added hurriedly, as if to prove both to myself and to him that I wasn't utterly unobservant.

He smiled, his face clearing. "That's the same foyer."

"Ah." 

That made sense. I guess.

"Start time is at 7.45," he added.

It was 7.25.

"Plenty of time."

"Oh yes, plenty of time," he agreed in one of those smooth, highly cultivated voices.

It's only when you meet a properly trained actor with a properly trained voice that you realise how scratchy and messy your own bleating attempts at communication are.

I popped another cough sweet in my mouth and set out.

Back through the dark. Back towards the Sainsbury.

"Am I the right place for the Carne?" I asked the lady at box office. Somehow I still doubted it. There weren't any signs.

She frowned at me. I was starting to get used to that look.

Was I pronouncing it wrong or something? That would explain the looks.

Or maybe it really was all just some super elaborate joke on the part of LAMDA.

A performance piece in its own right. I wasn’t there for as Schiller play. There would be no Don Carlos. Instead I would be taking part in The Search for the Carne Studio. An immersive promenade performance in one act.

I hate immersive performances. Especially the promenade ones.

I looked down. There, fanned across the counter were a series of sheets - featuring the fresh-faced headshots of the cast and their biographical information. One for each actor in the play.

"Yes, you're in the right place," said the box officer at last, before asking my name and handing me a ticket.

Right then. I'd made it. Time to relax.

I found a table. And a programme. They have them out on display with a request to take one. "FREE," they proclaim from their covers. "Take one." I took one. 

"The bar has closed," came the sound of a plaintive voice behind me. "Why has the bar closed so early?" 

It was only 7.30. A full fifteen minutes before curtain up.

With the bar closed, we all gathered around the door to the studio.

I began to suspect that might have been the cause of the closed-bar. The people of LAMDA were ganging up on us, with the express purpose of ensuring that we weren't late.

By the time the doors were ready to open, there was quite the queue waiting to be let in.

But for once there wasn't a rush for the front row. If anything, my fellow audience members were actively avoiding it.

It didn't take me long to figure out why.

The floor in the Carne Studio is totally level. No rake. No dais. 

Instead, it was the seats themselves that varied in height. With each row increasingly taller than the one in front of it, so that those who did chose to sit in the front row had a choice - half sprawl across the floor so that they looked like an awkward tourist in a harem, or crouch with knees up by their ears in the style of a squatting frog.

Neither appealed to me. 

I went for the second row. A reasonable height for my short legs.

Such important decisions made and seat committed to, I had the chance to take in my surroundings.

We were in a church. Or at least, that's what I took the set design to mean - with huge stone doors on either side and a large altar in the middle. The two sets of bench seating positioned either side of the aisle-like stage only added to the ecclesiastical vibes.

As did the dense, smoke-filled air.

I unwrapped another cough sweet. The thought of coughing during a graduation show was nauseating. Which was then another worrying ailment I had to contend with.

I vowed to eat a fruit at some point this week. For the vitamins.

Thankfully, coughing didn't turn out to be a problem as I was too busy risking asphyxiation by holding my breath every time there was a fight scene. 

And there were a lot of fight scenes. Bodies flying all over the place. Blood pouring. Heads smashing against chairs.

Brilliant.

Who knew Don Carlos was so exciting?

Anyway, I'm going to have a little lie down now. Don't cry too hard if I don't wake up. I'm in a better place - hanging out with the Nudger, above the dome at the Royal Opera House - watching ballerinas chaîné into eternity.

 Good byeeeeee