thank u, next

I'm at the Riverside Studios and I'm not happy about it.

Not a great start to an evening, but I have my reasons, and you get to hear all about it.

Well, some of it. Because, here's the thing: it involves something that hasn’t been announced yet. A super cool theatre thing. Which kicks off tonight.

Problem is, by the time I found out about my inclusion in this super cool thing, I'd already bought my ticket to see Persona at the newly reopened Riverside Studios.

So obviously, first thing I did was to go to the Riverside website to see what their returns policy is.

Scroll-scroll-scroll to the bottom of the page. Click on the Ticketing Policy link. And... nothing. Just a note that content will be coming soon.

Fine. Okay then.

I just needed to send a nice email to the box office and they'd sort me out. It's a new venue. They'll all be on high alert for customer service.

I found my confirmation email, and yup - there was a handy dandy link to a customer service email address. Perfect.

I sent my email, asking for an exchange.

Less than a minute later, I got a reply.

Score!

Except no. It was not a reply. It was a bounceback.

The email address did not exist.

Okay, well. Fine. No matter. Because I was pretty sure I also spotted a link to a box office email.

I clicked on that, copied and pasted the resulting email address. Dug out my request, and forwarded it to the new address.

A few seconds later, up poppped another bounceback.

Well... shit.

Trying not to panic, I went back to the Riverside's website, and clicked through to their contact us page. There were a few options, but the most relevant looked like the generic 'contact' email. So I pinged my email over to that one and held my breath.

And held.

And held.

No bounceback.

Hu-bloody-rah.

The next day, that is, this morning, I realised I hadn't had a reply. Not even an automatic one saying that my email had been received.

I double-checked my inbox just to be sure.

Nope. Nothing.

So obviously I did the sensible thing and took my pleas over to Twitter.

Polite. Charming almost.

When the reply came, it hit straight into my DMs.

When I saw the notification pop up on my phone, I wasn't unduly surprised. I've had a fair number of theatres on this marathon sorting my problems via the old DM. Doing me favours that they wouldn't want getting about. Even an artistic director giving the go-ahead to book me in under a young person offer despite me, well, not being a young person.

But there was nothing like that waiting for me.

"Hi there," it read. "Box office hours are Monday - Friday 12:00 - 20:00."

Followed up by a phone number.

I stared at the messages, unsure what to do.

Eventually I decided to respond. "Okay, but can I contact you *not* on the phone?"

I mean, surely there must be a way? This is 2020. Just having a phone number is like... I don't know... only offering fax as a method of communication. Who even phones people anymore? I certainly don't. And not just because of my crippling social anxiety. It's just so inconvenient. I can't call people from work. What am I going to do? Sit around at my desk waiting and waiting for someone to pick up my call, and then spelling out my surname ten times to the person on the end, and then waiting and waiting for them to sort out my problem.

Excuse my language when I say: fuck that Boomer nonsense.

In all my travels, I have not come across a single theatre that can't handle this sort of thing via email. Even the smallest fringe venues manage to figure out my issues via written missive, accompanied by an instruction to sort any extra finances when I go in to pick up my tickets.

To say I'm shook is an understatement.

A few minutes later, I got my reply.

Again, I was asked to call. But, as a concession, another email address was offered.

With a groan of annoyance, I sent my fourth email to the Riverside Studios.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By mid-afternoon I was beginning to panic.

I could not afford to not use a £12.50 ticket.

Because, no, I didn't put in a press request. I should have done. Maybe then they would have replied to my emails.

The minutes ticked on. I refreshed my emails, just in case I'd missed it.

The clock wound its way towards the time I would need to leave in order to get to my thing on time.

Nothing.

So that was it. I had to go to the Riverside Studios.

And here I bloody am.

Feeling fucking annoyed about the whole thing, if I'm perfectly honest.

And I don't want to be all "don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre," but like: don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre? I link to my damn blog from my Twitter handle.

I told them in my email I was… involved in some theatre… stuff.

I mean, there is something to be said for a venue that treats everyone the same, regardless of whether that person is going to write it up afterwards or no. But like... that only works when everyone is getting the same nice treatment. Not being ignored.

Egalitarianism sucks when everyone is in the same shitty boat.

But anyway, the studios are lined with huge glass windows. presumably looking over the river, but it's 7pm in January, so it's too dark to actually see anything.

Inside the door there's a chalkboard sign saying that dogs are welcome.

"Yeah, but bloggers aren't," I huff to myself as I take a photo.

I go in.

It's massive in here.

The space spreads out into a vast cavern of emptiness. White walls. Concrete floor. Industrial pipes running across the ceiling. Not an aesthetic I'm super into, if I'm honest. I find it hard to get into factory-chic. I spent a good chunk of my childhood in one.

Not in a bad way, you understand. I wasn't forced to sew trainers in some grim sweatshop. I just mean, my parents were very busy, you know. And most nights I was doing my homework in the office, waiting for one of them to finish up and take me home. Sometimes this involved sleeping on the sofa until the early hours of the morning. Most of the time it meant having free rein to practice my rollerblading on the fantastically flat floors after the machines were shut down for the night.

Anyway, what I'm saying is: it's a bit bleak. Even if the walls down the other end have pictures on them.

I make my way across the empty floor towards the box office, a great curving desk.

The staff are all huddled around a single computer, brows furrowed as they try to make sense of a customer's order.

"It says the ticket has been printed, but it hasn't..." one says.

Down the other end, a free box officer smiles at me and I go over to her.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?"

Now it's the turn of this box officer's brow to furrow.

"I have the order number?" I say, turning around my phone screen to show her. I have it all prepared.

"You don't need a ticket..." says the box officer.

"Oh," I say, deflating.

More fool me. I should know better then to trust confirmation emails by now.

Double fool even, as I even read the instructions twice over to make sure I got them right. "Please print out this email and bring it with you," it said. "The QR codes below will be scanned at the venue door and you will be given access."

I'll admit, this did give me pause as the QR code is actually at the top of the email. And I also had no intention of printing it out. But thankfully, there was more: "If you are unable to print this email, please proceed to the Box Office on your arrival, give our staff member your booking reference number and your tickets will be printed for you."

Now, you know how much I love a properly printed ticket.

I'm not taking the lack of one very well.

I'm just a marathoner. Standing in front of a box office. Asking it to print a ticket for her.

"It said to come to box office?" I try, putting on my best pleading eyes.

A sweet young-faced front of houser steps forward. "No, if you have this, they'll just scan you on the door."

"Oh," I say again. "Okay. Thanks."

I have been defeated.

I take myself and my confirmation email away, crossing the great straights towards the bar. There's lots of seating down this end. Long banquettes and trendy-looking orange chairs.

I find myself an empty table and sit down.

A minute later, I'm blocked in.

A cage full of rubbish has been wheeled out and left in front of me as its carer goes off to open the door.

Twenty minutes before a show opens, with bar-service in full swing, seems like an odd time to be taking out the bins, but clearly people at the Riverside are working on a completely different plain of reality to the rest of us.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Studio Three is now open for this evening's performance of Persona, if you'd like to like your seats."

I'm quite comfy where I am now that the rubbish has been removed, so I give it another five minutes.

As the empty cages are wheeled back inside I realise something. I have no idea where Studio Three is.

I look around.

No signs of any... well... signs.

There is a line of people heading towards the door next to the box office though.

I should probably join it.

I wander over and get in line. All around me people flap around handfuls of slim tickets. Real ones. From the box office. I stare at them.

How on earth did they get those?

The front of houser on the door doesn't even look at them. "As I said, it's ninety minutes," she hollers as we file past. "No reentry. And no coming out. If you need to go to the loo, go now. You won't be able to come back in. There's no reentry. Ninety minutes."

Probably now is not a good time to ask about the existence of programmes...

Her rapped-out words follow me down the corridor and through the door into the auditorium.

Inside, the sweet face of youth is checking tickets.

Without a scanner. Or programmes.

I get out my phone again.

"K4? Back row." They pause, as a thought occurs. "K4... That's on the left. Be careful with your head, some parts are lower."

With my eyes keeping a careful watch on the ceiling, I climb the stairs and head to the back of the auditorium.

It's a simple black box space. The stage a mere slither across the front.

But above our heads, wires have been cast out like fishing lines, radiating out from a heavy object in the corner.

I squint at it.

It's no good. I need to get out my glasses.

Earth Harp. That's what it says across the front.

I look between this golden trunk and the strings above our heads.

They've turned this theatre into a musical instrument. That's pretty cool.

More people come in.

Not quite enough to fill the theatre.

As the lights dim, the row in front of me is still completely empty.

Sadly this isn't enough to compensate for the terrible rake.

The cast takes their place on set. One actor lays down on a bed and immediately disappears below the horizon of heads.

Oh well.

I let my attention drift over to the earth harp.

The musician stands before it, the wires cast out either side of him, his gloved hands resting on them as he waits for his cue.

As the deep vibrating noise drawn straight from a horror film fills the auditorium, I look up and watch the wires shiver over our heads.

The sound fades and is taken over by text.

I try to concentrate on the story, but I'm having trouble keeping up.

My eye is drawn back again to the earth harp.

The words become nothing more than a gentle background hum. Like a radio left playing in the next room.

I'm mesmerised.

Is it ninety minutes yet? We must be near the end. Surely.

Someone sitting near the front gets up. I stare at him. There's no way out. The door is on the side of the stage. We're all trapped in here together.

But he has no intention of leaving.

With a pint glass in each hand, he turns around and walks back, up the stairs, towards the empty row.

He crosses in front of me, and takes a seat right in the corner.

Okay then.

Again I try to focus on the play, but again, the man gets up, crossing over to the other side of the row, where he once again plonks himself down in the last seat.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. If it weren't for those two drinks I might think he works on the production. Checking out the sightlines from the back and all that. A worthy purpose.

If only he had a hand free to take notes.

At last, we reach the end.

Bows.

Applause.

The cast disappear and it's time for us to go.

The central aisle clogs as audience members tip back their heads to examine the harp strings.

Someone reaches up to touch them.

No sound is made.

Disappointed, they move on.

And so do I.

Back down the corridor and out into the foyer.

I look over at the box office, hoping for a sniff of a chance if getting a programme. There's no one there, but perhaps they left some freesheets lying around.

I go over.

On the counter there are stacks of illustrated squares, all pile-up.

I pick one up off the nearest stack.

It's a beer mat. With a drawing of a face.

I turn it over.

According to the info on the back, it's Vanessa Redgrave. And part of a series of twelve.

I look at the others. Meera Syal, David Bowie, Yoko Ono, and Benjamin Zephaniah.

These are rather nifty. I like them.

Are they free?

I look around. There's no front of houser to ask.

Oh well.

I take one of each and slip them into my pocket as I make a break for the exit.

Safely outside, I pause to check my emails.

Still nothing.

I wonder if I'll ever get a response...

Not that it matters anymore. I doubt I'll be back. There are over three hundred theatres in this city. I don't need this one in my life.

Next!

Crossing bridges and trying not to burn them

You can't just walk into the JW3 building.

The entrance is set back from the road and only accessible by crossing over a long bridge. Access to the bridge is through huge metal gate. A gate that is guarded by security.

"Bag check?" I ask the security guard as I approach. Probably best to at least show willing.

"Yes, please!" he says, clicking on his torch as I open my bag for him.

He pokes around inside, picking up a tissue-wrapped parcel.

"What's this, if I may ask?" he asks in a tone that mixes politeness and the promise of significantly less politeness in equal measure.

"Is a gift box," I tell him. "It's empty."

I just bought it at the Tiger down the road. The very nice sales assistant wrapped it in tissue so that it wouldn't get messed up in my bag. And I was too cheap to pay the 50 pee fee for a bag. On reflection, this was a mistake. As packages go, it does look a touch suspicious.

He turns it over, and discovers that it is, indeed, empty.

Convinced that I have no intentions of bombing the Jewish community centre, he steps back and lets me through.

I walk across the bridge.

Far below, a small ice rink has been built, and the last couple of kids skate around, protected by the high walls on all sides.

I pause to take a photo, but I don't want to hang around. I can feel the security guard keeping a close eye. I hurry over to the doors and go in.

There's a huge desk taking up one wall. That's the box office.

Over on the other side there are bookcases and huge floor cushions which a few kids are making full use of.

"Oh sorry," says one of the box officers, suddenly looking up and noticing me waiting.

"Hello! The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S.?"

"Collecting tickets?"

"Yup."

She taps something into her computer. "First name?"

"Maxine. M. A. X. I. N. E." I say. I've got a bit of a cold again. The kind of cold that clogs up my voice. Always best to spell things out.

"That's one ticket," she says, handing it over.

I take it, a touch surprised. Given all the security I thought I might at least have to provide a bit of ID. But perhaps they already ran the background checks on me before I got here.

"Thanks, err, where am I going?"

Yup, I'm ashamed to say I have never been to JW3 before.

"It's in the Hall," says the box officer. "Down the stairs, to the left, and through the restaurant."

"Down. Left. Restaurant," I repeat. "Thanks!"

And off I go, down the stairs, and into the restaurant. And it's a proper restaurant, not a cafe. Bit annoying. I could have been tempted by a slice of cake. But nevermind.

I turn left. Keeping close to the wall as I pass tables heaving with people having their dinner.

Right at the end, there are doors, flanked either side by ushers. That must be the entrance to the Hall.

It's closed.

I'm early.

I look around.

There's nowhere to sit.

I'm in a restaurant.

I turn back, wondering whether I should go back upstairs to make use of those massive squashy floor cushions. But I'm too old to sprawl.

Over on the far side of the room are some doors leading outside to the courtyard.

I go out.

The last skaters are packing up and coming back in.

I'm all alone out here.

Headlights flash.

There's a car by the gate.

It waits, engine running, the lights so bright they make my blink.

The gate creaks open.

The car drives in.

I don't hang around to find out who's driving it. I go back inside.

The doors are open now.

A queue has formed, running all the way down the side of the restaurant.

I join it.

We move quickly.

"Thanks very much," says the ticket checker as he tears off the stub. "Enjoy!"

Inside I find myself walking down the side of a seating bank until I reach the front.

It's busy tonight.

People wearing lanyards scuttle about the front, getting in the way and yet not directing anyone.

I squeeze through them as they hold hurried conversations. They don't even look up.

I start climbing, trying to find a seat.

The back few rows have been cordoned off with a rope, and I slip into one of the last rows.

The seats are a mixture of singles and doubles. I pick a double, and send up a short prayer to the theatre gods that I won't have to share it with anyone.

From here I can see tens of heads wearing kippahs. I can't remember the last time I saw a man wearing a kippah in the theatre, let alone so many at once.

That's not the only thing that's done differently here.

A woman comes in, carrying a takeaway box from the restaurant. By the smell, the contents is warm and savoury. She also has a fork.

Now, I appreciate that being around your own people makes you feel safe enough to wear religious clothing. But hot food? In a theatre? Truly that is an abomination.

She sidles into the row in front of me and she points at an empty chair.

"Can I just reserve this one?" says the man sitting next to the empty seat.

She nods and moves one along.

It's a double-wide.

"Is this for one or two?" she asks.

"There are lots of seats," comes the confused reply of the seat-saver.

"But is this for two? Or can I have it myself...?"

"If you like...?"

She sits, but as the row begins to fill up, she changes her mind.

Coat and bag are swung over the back of the seat into my row. Next comes her umbrella. Then her dinner.

Finally, she climbs over.

As she organises herself, she places her takeaway down on my double-wide. I stare at it, faintly disgusted but also really hungry.

I miss eating dinner.

Eventually, the takeaway box is removed.

But I soon find something else trying to my friends with my knees.

An elbow.

It's draping over the back of the seat in front.

I shift my legs to one side, but it's no good. This girl is doing to full flirt-stretch over her date for the evening. I can tell it's a date because as well as the arm, she's also fluffing up her curls and tipping back her head to laugh.

An action that means that my knees aren't just getting elbowed, they are getting blanketed by hair.

I'm beginning to doubt that these are my people.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to start, if you can take your seats."

A woman appears on stage. She introduces herself. She's the programmer at JW3.

She introduces another woman. Who in turn introduces our performer for the evening. A little excessive on the whole introduction front, but this is an industry that attracts people who like talking, so I suppose we should be supportive of that.

Anyway, the show for the evening is about conspiracy theories. Which sounds fun.

Antisemitic conspiracy theories.

Which sounds less fun.

As the target of Marlon Solomon's exposition narrows to the Labour party... I begin to grow uncomfortable.

I've made it no secret from you that I'm Jewish. Nor that I vote Labour.

And I can tell you now that my family have, in turn, not made a secret of how little they approve of my political affiliations.

I've been called a race traitor. I've been told that I voted for Hitler. I've been told I should be shot for voting Labour.

Shot.

Shot!

Thank gawd for strict gun laws, eh?

So, yeah. I'm feeling a little awkward in this room right now. With these people, who are my people. And yet...

Solomon tells us that he never feels more Jewish than when his Jewishness is under attack.

I get that. I've felt that.

I've never felt less Jewish than in this room.

I've never felt more left wing.

Solomon tells us that he's lost work though his calling out of antisemitism in the Labour party.

I can believe it.

My family likes to say that I'm a lefty liberal because that's what I'm surrounded by in theatre. But the truth is, it's the other way around. I went to work in theatre because I wanted to surround myself with lefty liberals.

That's where I feel comfortable.

But I've heard plenty of suspect shit over the years.

Like an old co-worker, who I won't name because... well, the arts is a small world… anyway, when I told them I had dual nationality with Britain and Israel, they quickly informed me that the reason they were anti-Israel, no, wait, scrap that, the reason they had to be anti-Israel, was that their father was posted there with the army. The British army. A statement I've thought a lot about over the intervening years, and yet it still baffles me as much now as it did then. Both in its content and the need to tell me.

Another co-worker, who I won't name because she's a dear friend and an absolute darling, once gigglingly asked me if I had heard of David Icke. She had been listening to his stuff and thought he was fascinating. Lizard people! Fancy. I told her that she should stop listening to David Icke. Because David Icke is well-known as a antisemite. I don't know if she took my advice. I hope she did.

Then there was Falsetto-gate. Which was never resolved, or explained, or even defended.

Oh, and that thing at the Tricycle theatre. Do you remember that thing at the Tricycle theatre? Back when it was the Tricycle and not the Kiln? They pulled an entire film festival, a Jewish film festival, because it recieved funding by the Israeli embassy.

I mean, of all things to boycott, art seems to me like it should be last on the list.

I was lucky enough to be employed somewhere where a lot of Israeli artists were (and are) invited to bring their work on the regular. But when they came there was also the question "who is funding it?” and then bracing ourselves for protests if the answer wasn't one acceptable to the right-thinking-left. There never were protests. Not while I was there. I'm not sure I could have coped with it if there was.

Perhaps we avoided it because the Israeliness of these artists was always downplayed

I was asked, more than once, to remove a reference to these artists' nationality from marketing copy.

It's a weird thing, being asked to scrub out the name of a country that you hold a passport for. Lest it spark trouble.

I was never required to do that with artists from any other nation.

Time for questions.

"Now there's been the little matter of the general election," says someone in the front row who has seen the show three times now. "And Corbyn will be spending a lot more time on his allotment..."

"Thank gawd," stage whispers the woman sitting next to me.

Thank gawd.

Thank gawd.

I don't hear the rest of the question.

I'm shifting in my seat, desperate to get out of here.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.

The arts is very left. This is true. And like Solomon, this is where I feel my most Jewish. But sitting here in JW3, or having dinner with my family, that's when I'm most socialist.

The questions finish.

People start getting up to put on their coats.

One of the introducers from the beginning comes back on stage and starts doing an outro.

I just want to get out of here.

The couple next to me are taking their time leaving, sorting through all their bags and pockets, clearly with nowhere else to be.

The bloke looks up and sees me waiting.

"Shall we move?" he suggests. "People want to leave."

People do want to leave.

As soon as they pick up their stuff I'm out, speeding down the steps, around the seating block, through the door, down past the restaurant, up the stairs, across the foyer and back across that bridge.

Theatre was supposed to be my safe place, and I have never felt more attacked.

As I hurry down to the bus stop, I feverishly type notes into my phone.

On the bus ride back through Golders Green and back to Finchley, I try to make sense of my feelings.

I don't think they've changed.

I don't regret voting Labour in the last election.

I just really hope that I never have to.

The beautiful people do Panto

I'm on my way to the Tabernacle.

It's been a long time coming. Eleven months I've been trying to find a marathon-qualifying event to book myself onto. Every few weeks I've gone on their website, only to find endless listings for Gong Baths, which I'm still not entirely convinced are a real thing. Things were looking up over the summer when some sand artist was putting on a show. But a few days after purchasing my ticket, I was sent a refund. No explanation. Just that. The refund. 

I figured they must have found me out and decided they didn't want a mediocre theatre blogger in their midst, but a couple of days after that, the Tabernacle's website was updated. The show had been cancelled.

On the plus side, they did have a load of plays programmed in.

In Russian.

I have no problems with seeing theatre in the foreign, but these ones didn't have surtitles.

And I'm already seen my fill of Russian theatre this year. Didn't even get a blog post out of it. It was a repeat visit.

I held out.

And held out.

And held out.

And eventually, the waiting paid off.

The Portobello Panto was in for Christmas. 

Now, I hadn't heard of the Portobello Panto, but after some Googling, I found out the apparently, it's quite the thing. Celebrities have been known to turn up. Sometimes even on stage. But it's not about them. It's made by the locals, for locals. And yadda yadda yadda, it's all super heartwarming.

So obviously I'm got my shoulders set, ready and waiting to cast a withering, cynical gaze over the whole enterprise.

But as I pass through the high iron gates, and find myself in a courtyard, in the shadow of a huge, red brick temple, complete with curved frontage and turrets rising up from the party-hat roof, I realise that I've actually been here before. With Allison.

It was to see a Bush theatre production. About boxing. What was it called? The Royale? Something like that.

Anyway, I'm back.

And as I step through the glass doors and into a bustling marketplace, I manage to hold back my surprise.

Yes, I remember this.

Stalls butt against the entrance as they compete for space. Beaded jewellery spreads out on tables and people hover as they take try and get their Christmas shopping done before the show.

Beyond the tables is the cafe, borded on one side by a well stocked bookcase, and on the other by a row of squashy-looking booths.

I ignore all this and head straight to the box office.

There's a bit of a queue going on. It's a sold out show this afternoon. As is the entire run. And by the looks of it, it's not just families wanting to take their little ones for a bit of festive entertainment. Oh no. This lot are young, and sporting the kind of cool haircuts and interesting earrings that are usually found in the wilds of Dalston.

Each of them Ooos and Ahhs over the programmes, and almost all of them dive into their wallets to hand over the two quid and walk away with one of the handsomely illustrated booklets.

Eventually, it's my turn.

"Yes?" asks the box officer who is clearly having a bit of a day.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles?"

"Yeah." I spell it out for him. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

He looks down at his list. Turns it over. Looks again. Then moves over to the second bit of paper.

I'm not there.

"You bought online?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And it's spelt…?"

"Exactly as you'd think it's spelt. I have the confirmation email if that helps?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Just to see how the name's written. Then I can see it."

I bring up the e-ticket, zoom in on my name, and show him.

"How many was it?" he asks.

"One."

He grabs a wristband from the pile and hands it to me.

"Yes?" he says to the next person in line.

"Umm," I say, interrupting. "Can I get a programme?"

He glances over. "Yeah, one pound or two. Whatever you want..."

I take two pound coins out of my purse and lay them down on the counter before taking one of the programmes from the display.

The box officer is already handing out more wristbands.

I find an empty corner where I can put on the wristband. It's orange. With TABERNACLE printed along it in blocky capitals. These things are tricky, but I just about manage it, and flash it to the staff on the door before heading up the stairs towards the theatre.

I have to step back as young families scuttle out of the theatre entrance for one more trip to the loos before things get started, but after a few aborted starts, I get myself in. The stage has been set up at one end, with the rest of the pit filled with a seating bank. Around the edge is an ornate slim balcony of slip seats.

I climb my way towards the back. I have no idea what to expect from a Notting Hill take on pantomime, but I am pretty sure that I don't want to be near the front.

I slip into the third row from the back.

A very well-dressed family is taking up the middle seats.

"Sorry, is there anyone here?" I ask one of the grown ups who has clearly spent a good deal at the hairdressers to get the shiny blow-out she is sporting.

She doesn't even look around.

"Sorry," I say, trying again. "Is there anyone here?"

This time she glances in my direction. "Noooo," she says in the primest West London accent I have ever heard in my life.

So I take the seat next to her.

Usually I'd leave a buffer, but as we know, this place is sold out, and I doubt there will be any other people here on their lonesome. So Ms Blowout is going to have to content herself with having to sit next to a North London scruff for the next few hours.

The band is already playing from their corner next to the stage and the air is filled with chatter as people lean over the rows to say hello to each other.

A family with young children comes in to take the seats on the other side of me.

A small boy holds down the flip seat for his mother.

Her hands full of coats and bags she makes to sit down.

The boy let goes.

The mum falls heavily to the ground.

All around hands grasp out to help her get back to her feet.

She's okay.

That excitement over, I inspect the set.

A sign marks out the presence of a Polling Station.

Something tells me this panto is going to get political.

A boy runs over to his seat. He's wearing a EU-themed Christmas jumper.

A tech person appears on stage, drink still in hand as he fiddles around with the street lamp.

"Remember to put your phones on silent," whispers a woman sitting behind me.

"It's a panto," comes the laughing reply. "No one will care."

The band finish their jam and the audience claps and whistles in appreciation.

The lights dim.

A man in a waistcoat comes out to introduce the show. A Christmas Carol. Not prime fodder for a panto, I would have thought, but here we are. He gives us a few instructions. Remember to boo the baddies and all that panto-stuff. The children give a quick demonstration of their booing skills, and we're off.

Into the world of fast fashion, where Ms Scrooge, in a floor length taffeta skirt and oversized glasses, presides over a clothing brand which relies on quick turnaround and unpaid labour.

Blowout-lady wriggles out of her coat, giving me a good bash with her elbow as she does so.

We journey to the Cratchett's home, where Tiny Tim sings us out with the plaintive 'Don't look back in hunger' after this family have insisted that 'Scroogey can wait.'

As the interval starts, my chair wobbles. Someone is climbing into my row. I stand up to let them pass.

The chair wobbles again. Someone else is clambering over. I stand to let them pass too.

Of all the things I've been getting annoyed by on this marathon, people insisting on having strangers stand up so that their friends don't have to move is the one that makes my blood boil the most.

I turn around, ready to glare at these lazy layabouts, and find myself staring at a row of tiny babies, resting peacefully in their parents’ arms.

There are three of them. All tiny.

"How old is she?" asks someone stopping next to the row of sleeping tots to admire the preciousness.

"Four months, but she was two months premature."

"So tiny!"

She is tiny. The tiniest baby I have ever seen in a theatre.

One of the mums returns, slipping into my row and leaning over to check on her child.

"Is she wet?" she asks.

"She just made," replies the dad.

I lean away, suddenly considerably less enamoured with these miniature humans.

"Are you okay?" asks the dad bending over the bundle. "Oh dear. A bit of vom."

I scoot forward in my seat. I definitely do not want to be close to that.

I get out the programme and have a look. The cast list is massive. And right at the end, there is the promise of a special guest playing the role of the fashion buyer. That's exciting.

People are starting to come back in. Every time I stand up to let people past the row of chairs leans back alarmingly as the unsecured feet rise up from the floor.

One of the blokes sitting behind puts out his arm to stop it encroaching on the babies.

“Is that mum's jacket?" asks a teenage girl, pointing down at my coat.

"No, that's mine," I tell her.

"Oh. Right," she says, but she keeps an eye on it all the same, until her sister recovers her mother's actual coat from under the seats and pulls it to safety.

"They must be mortified round here," says a woman as she takes her seat near me. "Because the Conservatives got in."

"There was a swing to Tory," agrees her friend.

"They showed a map of London and it was all red except this area."

And Finchley. Don't forget Finchley.

I would rather forget Finchley.

"They hated Corbyn though."

"To think this area is the area of Grenfell. It's just tragic."

It is. I saw Grenfell on my way here. Still there. Still looming. Still devastating.

One if the teenage girls starts inching her way down our row. I stand to let her past but she waves me back into my seat. "It's fine, I'm not going...," she says before plonking herself down in her mother's lap and winding her arms around her neck, messing up that salon-coiffure.

Her mother doesn't seem to mind.

The second act starts.

Things are really getting bad. Cratchett has lost his job. A sweatshop is being built right in Ladbroke Grove. And poor Scroogey is getting all these scary apparitions creeping into her bedroom.

And the special guest turns out to be a young man in a highlight pink suit.

The two men sitting in front of me turn to each other with a look of confusion.

"I think..." starts one...

But the special guest has already read his lines off the back of his folding fan, and has disappeared back off stage.

Soon enough, we are all clapping along to some Christmas song.

The cast are all introduced and each in turn steps forward to get their applause. Everyone has given their time for free and the ticket sales all go to charity.

Our special guest turns out to be called Tom Pomfrey (or possibly Pomfret?) which doesn't help me at all. I suspect I'm not cool enough to know who he is.

"A big cheer for this amazing little thing!" says one of the cast members, pointing down to a tiny toddler who is bouncing around in the front row, having the best time of his life.

The cast member leans down to pick the tiny toddler up, but finding himself on stage, the tiny toddler promptly bursts into tears.

But they don't last for long, and soon half the under-fives in the audience have found their way onto the stage to dance along with the cast.

And we are sent out into the real world with Scrooge's final message: "The real meaning of Christmas... is to change the awful people."

And on that note, I'm off to have dinner with my family.

Not very Hans Christian

Well this is weird. Six weeks to the day since I said goodbye to this joint, I'm walking back through the stage door at Sadler's Wells. It's ten-thirty. I have to remind myself that I'm not actually late for work. I'm early for my show. 

I pass all the carved heads and painted portraits of various dancers that I never paid much attention to when I worked here. I'm not about to start examining them now.

For performances in the studio, a box office is set up at the reception desk, and I head over to join the queue.

I don't know this box officer. I'm rather relieved by that. I get to stay under the radar for a few more seconds.

"I think it'll be under..." I say, giving Martha's surname. Bless her, she sorted all this out for me.

He flicks through the tickets in the box. "Noooo?"

Oh. "Maybe Smiles?" I say, hopefully.

"Ah yes!" he says, immediately perking up. He remembers that one.

He plucks the ticket out and hands it to me.

By this time, the stage door keeper has returned, and there's no getting away from her eagle eyes. "Hello honey," she says and I am suddenly overcome by the need to explain my presence to her.

"I'm seeing Little Match Girl," I say, holding up the ticket to prove that I am, indeed, there to see Little Match Girl.

After a bit of chit-chat I make a break for it. I never returned my staff pass when I left, and I don't want to risk getting found out.

I pass the cafe, turning my head away from all the cakes. They don't push this in the marketing, but Sadler's has really good cakes. Especially the carrot cake which was always my afternoon indulgence on really hard days. The flapjacks are good to, and are the sort of thing you can almost convince yourself is an acceptable breakfast when you have to come in early to meet a print deadline.

Just opposite are the doors to the studio. A row of ushers are standing guard, and amongst them, the front of house manager. I put my fingers to my lips. I don't want her giving me away, because I've just spotted the programming team.

I creep up, and bless them. They pretend to be happy to see me.

But not surprised.

Almost like they knew I was coming.

"Yeah, I wrote your name,” says an ex-co-worker who I won't be naming because I forgot to ask permission.

Oh.

"I thought it would be under Martha's name and I can sneak in."

"No. Nothing escapes me here."

Well.

"Do you want a freesheet? I know you love a freesheet."

I do love a freesheet.

She goes off to fetch me one and after posing with it for a photo, hands it over for me to give it a professional once over. Nice paper stock. Correct logo. No glaring typos. Slight formatting error, but I doubt anyone else would notice it. I'm almost disappointed. I was rather hoping everything had fallen apart after I left.

"They were printed down the road."

Oh? "Oh?"

There's only one reason things are printed down the road. 

"We almost didn't have freesheets for Wednesday but I told them we couldn't not have freesheets."

Definitely not.

I smile as she tells me all the exploits of getting them printed in time for first night and I begin to feel a lot better.

"Let me get you the visual storyline," she says, going off to fetch me more paper.

Ah yes. I didn't mention. I'm here for the relaxed performance. And along with the ear protectors I see laid out on the podium table near the door, and the chill-out room going off the cafe, there's also the visual storyline - a document designed to diminish anxiety by preparing audience members for everything that is going to happen.

"The titles are in italics," I say with a dramatic sigh as she hands it to me. "Gone a month and already the brand is falling apart."

But I'm only kidding. It's great. Especially the bolded line that tells me that while the matches in the show are real, as are their flames, "they are not dangerous if you don't go near them." Further down, a bullet point informs me that the dancers may dance close to me "but they won't touch you," which is very comforting.

Honestly, as someone who gets anxious about something as simple as hailing buses, I think these things should be available for all performances at every theatre. I am very much in favour of visual stories.

There are pictures of the entrance, and the box office and... I just realised something. This is my blog. This is what I'm writing. Except where mine is long and rambling, this is short and snappy and can be read in under a couple of minutes. Turns out you can filter down the entire experience of visiting a theatre in less than two thousand words. Huh. 

Who knew?

Anyway, after a few more hellos and a few more hugs, it's time to go in.

I show my ticket to the front of houser on the door.

"You know where you're going?" she laughs.

"I do!"

The Lilian Baylis Studio, or the LBS to those in the know, is a black box theatre. The stage is wide, as you'd expect for dance, and the seating basic but comfortable. 

I find my seat. It turns out that I'm near the back, and on the end. These people understand me.

Phil King is already in the corner of the stage, standing behind a barricade of instruments.

I dump my coat and my bag. And the very expensive chocolates that I just bought from the very expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage. 

Don't make that face. I know. I shouldn't be spending any money in any form of shop, let alone an expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage, but I had to vote this morning, and I know it will do absolutely no good at all. That's a level of despair that can only be cured by a very small purchase from a very expensive shop. The chocolate will help when the results come in. As will the tenner I put down on a conservative majority at the bookies yesterday. At least a Tory win will be buying my lunch tomorrow.

Enough of that. I have a theatre to concentrate on.

All around the auditorium, children bump into each other as they find their seats.

"I like the smoke!" says a small boy, pointing at the haze wafting over the stage.

"Where shall I sit?" calls out an equally small boy as his group is ordered to wait in the aisle until the grown-ups get themselves organised. "Where shall I sittttt?"

A minute later, he is told where to sit, and he gazes open-mouthed at the large moon hanging over the stage.

I stand up to let someone in my row, immediately apologising as I realise my bag, chocolate, and coat have spilled out to take over half the row.

"Don't worry," he says. "If no one comes, we can spread out."

I sigh. "The joys of thinking you can get away with going to the shops before the theatre." I grab my expensive chocolate and stuff it in my handbag, hoping that the thin layers of pavé don't crack in their box.

One of the learning and engagement team members comes over.

"Guys," she says. "Do you want to sit nearer the front?"

I absolutely do. Now that I know that none of the dancers will be touching me, there's no fear to be found sitting further forward.

We move over and plonk ourselves down in the second row, with the other staff members watching this morning show.

Probably the last thing they wanted, but I'm enjoying the view.

Especially as the lights dim, and the dancers appear.

I have to admit. I've seen the Little Match Girl before. I may not like panto, or even Christmas, but if I have a winter tradition, it's getting all weepy about a small girl shivering in the snow. I've been saving this theatre all year just so I could come and see this show. It was my one big concern about leaving Sadler's - not seeing Little Match.

But I've made it back.

And now I get to sit here, sniffing, for an hour, as the poor little match girl skitters about the stage, struggling in the face of a capitalist society that wants nothing to do with her. 

While all around greedy Tories guzzle on champagne and panettone and shut their doors to the unattractive sight of poverty. I mean. They're Italian. So they're not actual Tories. But still. I'm feeling a bit fragile though and the parallels are right there, for all to see.

It is unsettling though, with their whitened skin and darkened eyes, I feel like I'm seeing myself up there. It doesn't help that I've got a small stash of very expensive chocolates sitting in my bag right now. As the tiny match girl curls up in the show, I feel guilty for every time I kept my head down and pretended not to see a homeless person begging on the tube.

I should probably sign up for some volunteering over Christmas.

It's not like I'll be doing anything else.

The theatres are shut that day.

Thankfully our match girl has one more adventure in store for her before we say goodbye, as her grandmother takes her off to the moon.

Yes. Fine. It's not Hans Christian Anderson going on here. It's Arthur Pita. And you know how much I love Arthur Pita. This is my third Arthur Pita show of the year and they've all be charmingly surreal. So, of course he takes her to the moon. And we get to go with her. As does the musician, joining her on stage with his theremin.

As the little match girl comes forward to blow out her final match, a boy sitting behind us calls out: "Again!"

We all giggle.

And it's time to go.

I hastily press my hands under my lashes to check my mascara hasn't run.

I think I'm safe.

I've got a lunch date, followed by a coffee date, with some old coworkers. It wouldn't do at all to let them know I have a heart lurking under all my black armour now.

Back in the cafe, I make towards the chill-out room to grab a photo, but it's too late. It's been broken down and everything is now being carried out.

Thankfully, someone offers to send me a few of theirs.

Which means I can go guzzle myself sick over lunch and hopefully try not to think about what I'm going to wake up to tomorrow.

I am the reverse marathoner

"Are you trying to get to the theatre?" asks a young woman squeezing her way between bags of rubbish on one side, and a family on the other, in a very dark alleyway.

Honestly, I know I've told you before about my fringe theatre theory. The one where, if you're ever lost, you should just head for the scariest, narrowest, alleyway, and pray you don't get murdered. But seriously, this is just too on the nose.

We're behind a shopping centre.

In Hounslow.

I don't know what the crime rate is in Hounslow, but I am definitely about to become a statistic.

"Yup we..." says the family's mum.

"You know how to get there?"

The mum nods. They know how to get there.

So do I. Because the Arts Centre Hounslow has a very fulsome set of instructions on their website. They have to. It's not exactly simple. You know when the first thing they do is send you to another website to check the opening hours of a shopping centre to see what directions to give you, things are about to get complicated.

Tonight, the Treaty Shopping Centre closed at 6pm. The show starts at 7pm.

Which means I'm sneaking through a set of iron gates and making my way down a very dark alleyway, complete with the aforementioned rubbish.

There's a sign pointing the way to the entrance.

At least, I think that's what it is.

To be honest, I can't read it.

When I said it was dark down here, I really wasn't kidding.

Well, whatever it says, there's a door here, with a brightly lit stairwell on the other side, which looks promising enough. The family disappears inside and I get out my phone to take a picture.

But someone else has appeared. A man. He stops right in front of the door.

I hang back, waiting for him to move, but he's on the phone. Giving someone directions. Very loudly. He sounds like air traffic control, if planes were being landed by a man standing in the middle of a busy airfield while screaming into a megaphone.

I wait.

"Where are you?" shouts the man. A small pause as the person on the other end gives their answer. "No! That's no right."

He gives the instructions again, even louder this time, but the person on the other end isn't getting it.

Even worse, he's still standing in front of the door, right in the way of my shot.

I start editing a blog post.

A whole 1,000 words proofed later, the man on the phone sighs. "Look, I'm not there. That's the point, isn't it?" and he says goodbye.

Thank fucking gawd for that.

I bring up the camera app, take my photo, and go in.

Then I start climbing up the stairs. They don't look particularly theatre-y, but Nirvana is pumping out from somewhere, and signs for Jack and the Beanstalk have been posted on every level.

At the top, the pistachio walls have been brushed with white paint, and someone has painted "Arts Centre" with an arrow on top.

Found it.

I follow the arrow.

On one side there's an open door. Inside I spy rows and rows of chairs. That must be the theatre.

It's empty.

I turn the other way.

More white paint with more arrows.

I find the one for the box office and follow it.

"I'm so lost and confused!" wails a small boy as he walks past me.

You and me both, kid.

By the looks of it, I appear to have landed in Wonderland.

The walls are covered in painted clapperboard. As it, painted to look like clapperboard. By a cartoonist.

I find the bar. There's a haind painted sign advertising a writing station for letters to the North Pole. I’ll give Hounslow this, they're keeping their artists busy. There's even one on the other side advertising "Twanky & Sons," which I can only presume is leftover from last years' panto.

What it doesn't have however, is a box office.

I turn around and keep on going. 

There's a little room here. Painted trees and painted bricks and painted roof tiles make me feel like I've stepped into a book of faerie tales.

The kids think so too, and they are dashing about pretending to be knights and princesses and whatever else they can conjure up in their cute little heads.

Over the other side, is another door. And passing through the door, is a queue.

I join the end of it, figuring there is probably a box office at the other side.

This queue isn't moving very fast.

In fact, I would go so far as to say, it isn't moving at all.

I look around, trying to work out what the hold up is, and spot a man draped in an official-looking gold chain.

Oh. A Mayor.

I've spotted quite a few of them on my travels. Mayors love amdram. And panto, it seems.

He's chatting up the people in the queue, and they are loving it.

I go back to editing my blog post.

We shuffle forward. Painfully slow.

"I am the reverse Mayor!" the Mayor declares as a small child asks what would happen if he didn't wear his chain.

He's sure making this queue go in reverse.

Many, long, minutes later I make it to the front.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

"Hi!" says the box officer as she sorts through a pile of papers on her counter. I look down. Every single one is a print out of an eventbrite e-ticket. "Do you have an email?" she asks.

"Probably..." I say. I don't know. I get a lot of theatre emails. I stopped reading them months ago. "Is that all I need?"

"Yup," she says. "That's your ticket."

I look pointedly at all the print outs and then leave. I could print my own if I wanted one of those.

You got to admit though, that's one strange mix of being paperless and having a fuck-tonne of paper floating around.

I find myself standing near the large windows overlooking the closed shopping centre before.

The space is filled with sofas and armchairs, placed to enjoy the view.

There are sunflowers in the window and a huge tree made of branches built overhead.

The Mayor makes his way over. The people on the sofas rotate towards him, just like those sunflowers would at dawn if they weren't fake. And looking out over a shopping centre.

A woman starts telling him about how she never talked as a child.

Another asks for a photo.

I think that's my cue to leave.

I go back to the bar.

It's busier now. The two barmen are rushing about serving people. One of them is wearing a slinky Santa hat. I mean thatit's a spring, bouncing around on top of his head. Not that it's all satin and lace and leaving nothing to the imagination. The other barman is very much not wearing a Santa hat. Something for everyone here.

As more people crowd in, I'm pushed further and further into the corner.

"When we go in, you're going to need to sit down in a chair," a mother warns her energetic son.

And then the Mayor arrives.

"You lot going to the panto?" he asks a group of children. "Obviously!" He moves over to another group. "Enjoy the show!"

You know, I'm beginning to think he's following me.

Well, I'm over it. I'm going in.

I slip out of the bar, back down the corridor, and into the theatre.

A slim stage is lined either side with rows of chairs. I'll admit, I don't know much about panto, but I had no idea you could do it in traverse. Hounslow is really pushing the form out here.

I find my seat. Second row from the back. As far away from the action as I could get.

The chairs around me begin to fill up.

There isn't much room between the rows, necessitating plenty of knee-swivelling.

The Mayor comes in. He takes his seat on the opposite side of the stage. Front row centre.

"There's the Mayor," says a lady sitting behind me. "It must be good if the Mayor's here."

"Yeah, I thought that," says her companion.

"He very friendly!"

A very tall man with massive hair comes in.

"Hello! Hello!" waves a group a few rows ahead of me.

"Do you know him?" asks the Mayor-lover. "He's very friendly."

He sure looks it.

A kid wearing hi-vis ear protectors runs in and jumps onto the stage.

The other children are outraged. "Off! Off! Off!" they shout at him.

The kid with the ear protectors doesn't hear them. Can't hear them. 

Obviously. Because of the ear protectors. He takes a circuit of the stage, and then runs off again.

The big man with the bigger hair is trying to get in my row. "Sorry," he booms.

"Sorry," I say, doing the knee-swivel. "Am I in the way?"

"No! I'm in the way."

It's true. He is in the way.

"I thought he was in the show," says the Mayor-lover.

An usher comes over. "Is that your pushchair?" he asks the women sitting in front. He points to a pushchair that has been left in front of the set. "Do you mind if I just pop it behind the curtain?"

"I can't seeee!" whines a small child. The mum goes to talk to the usher, and a seat in the front row is found for them.

"So sorry about this everyone," trills a man as he clambers into my row. "I've got a giant bag."

A family arrive. The daughter is in a wheelchair. The usher rushes over. "Can we move this?" he asks gently. "The barn is going to open you see? If she can just go behind the black line..."

The girl and her wheelchair is duly moved.

By the door, I can see the box officer. Her hands are filled with eventbrite print outs. The usher runs over to give her the thumbs up.

I think we might be ready to start.

At last. I'm exhausted.

I check the time. Ten past seven.

It's going to be a long night.

As the lights dim, I realise that not a single person has checked or even asked to see my ticket this evening.

They're trustworthy here in Hounslow.

"Can you see?" a mother asks her little one.

"I can't seeeeee."

Another mother leans over. "At the back you can kneel upwards." This interjection doesn't seem to help. "My daughter is going on kneel upwards. On the chair. So she can see." She demonstrates this upward kneeling with a meercat motion of her hands.

"Oh, I see. Thank you!"

The cast come out, all bright and shiny with massive grins. It must be the beginning of the run. They won't be looking so chiper at the end of the month.

The Mayor gets out his phone and starts filming.

On stage, the cast gets on with the business of panto. The cow moos and bats her truly astonishing false lashes. The faerie throws around handfuls of glitter. The Dame lobs sweets.

Two crash down by my feet.

I lean forward and grab one, offering it to the girl sitting nearest me. She shakes her head, so I put it on our buffer seat.

"Oh look," says the Mayor-lover, her hand sneaking forward to whip the sweet off the chair. "This landed on the chair."

The Dame looks out into the audience. "Tony!" she says, spotting she Mayor. "Tony the Tiger! Our lovely Mayor, Tony."

A pretty baby sitting in front of me begins to scream. Her mother bounces her around but it's no good. They go outside.

The screaming continues. Pouring into the room. The audience begins to look around. It sounds like the baby is dying. Or, possibly, teething.

Jack's brother Billy tries to teach us a call and response.

"You sound like you've spent a bit too much time at the bar," he groans as we fail to keep our end in time with one another. "Almost as if the show went up late."

After a small joke about Boris being a growling monster, the humour stay local. Richmond is too posh. The highstreet has two Greggs on it. And some other stuff I don't understand but I presume is hilarious if you live around here.

And then the beanstalk grows.

"Can I borrow the coat on the back of your chair?" Jack asks someone in the front row. "I'll give it back!"

After trying, and failing, to cover up the massive stalk with the small pink coat, he does indeed hand it back.

"See you on the other side!" calls Jack as he climbs. "Of the interval, I mean!"

"And now a twenty-minute interval," booms a voice over the sound system. "Go to the toilet and make sure you go to the bar and buy lots of lovely booze."

Thank gawd. I'm not sure I could have taken much more of that.

I lean down the move my coat out of the way and find that other sweet. I slip it into my bag before the Mayor-lover can get her hands on it.

When I look up, the Mayor is on his way over.

He's come to talk to the family of the girl in the wheelchair.

"Where are you from?" he asks them. 

"Hounslow."

They're local-credentials established, he asks how they got in, if there's a lift, and what education options there are.

I keep my head down. After all the Richmond jokes, I'd hate to think what they have to say about Finchley.

The air fills with smoke as haze is pumped in, and the Mayor makes his retreat.

The cast is back. Still bouncing with energy, and if anything, even shinier then they were in the first act. I hope they had a quick glug of something from the bar too.

They power on.

Footsteps boom and the children all look around, expecting to see a giant.

There is no giant.

They flop back down in their chairs.

More booming.

And a massive giant appears.

Fuck! That's good.

Terrifying.

He's not happy. He's hungry. So hungry he's been forced to eat Richmond. Too crunchy by half with all those diamonds.

Our villain, Fleshcreep, sinister in his top hat and tails (he must be from Richmond) offers him Daisy the cow. We all boo. Much to his annoyance. 

A very small toddler climbs up on stage, and his brother is dispatched to fetch him back.

The boy in the ear protectors isn't letting toddlers have all the fun.

He makes a break for it, leaping up on stage.

Fleshcreep guides him back off with a small sneer.

As the plot reaches its crescendo, so does the band, and the cast launch into their version of Bohemian Rhapsody, with Daisy tackling the Scaramouches with a chorus of moos.

Battle won, giant defeated, and Fleshcreep broken, I think we are at the end. 

But there is one more thing.

The sing along.

"I wrote it ten minutes ago," says Billy, as a huge board is brought out with the words to The Proclaimers' hit.

As one, we declare our intention to walk 500 miles, and then 500 more.

Billy isn't impressed.

"Are there four children who can help me?" he asks.

Hands dart up and Billy hauls their owners onto the stage.

Four children.

Then five.

Then six.

"But no more. Once we had seventeen!"

But they keep on coming.

Billy turns anguished eyes onto the audience. "May I remind parents that the car park charges," he says.

He gets a microphone and starts asking who he has with him. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

"I don't know and I don't care," is the reply from a sassy ten year old girl.

Billy goes on, finding a Spiderman wannabe, a future nurse, scientist, and doctor.

Gosh. Perhaps all those funding cuts for the arts are paying off. The kids of Houselow are STEM-crazy.

More children start creeping their way onstage.

Billy orders them to line up, and marching in time, they walk those 500 miles together.

And then... they're going to do one more song. "You didn't think it was going to last so long," says Billy laughing hollowy. "Well... neither did we!

"I'll be back for the finale that should have happened ten minutes ago!"

We have to promise something first though. There are going to be buckets on our way out. And we need to drop whatever change we have into them, so that the Arts Centre can continue to make shows... just... like... this.

And so they sing. One more song. Pulling the Mayor up on stage with them to boogie on down.

A few kids join them.

I, on the other hand, am getting myself out of here.

I don't think I've ever felt so overwhelmed by a performance, and I need some fresh air and the quietness of a dark alley right now.

I bypass the buckets.

The usher is opening the doors.

He leans forward, struggling with the second one. I push it open for him, and hold it until he's got in.

In the stairwell, an arrow points to the car park. Up.

There's no sign to say where down leads.

A family goes up.

I go up too.

And find myself in the car park.

I wander around not sure how to get off this shopping centre roof.

There's the exit for cars. A sign instructs they should drive dead show.

I should probably go back in.

I look around.

There are no cars.

Fuck it.

I head for the ramp, my feet quickening as I decend. One level, then two. I'm running now. I can hear a car somewhere behind me.

Three levels.

I turn another corner.

The ramp is merging into a road. I leap off, across a barrier, and onto the pavement just as a car appears. Thank the theatre gawds it was driving dead slow, or I would have been as dead as a Richmond resident.

Breathing heavily, I push the button for the green man and reach into my bag to find my scarf.

My fingers land on something small. A Maom.

At least panto has some tangible rewards.

The Fat Cats of Clapham

For some reason I have decided that taking a two hour walk to tonight's venue is a good idea. I have also managed to convince myself that my new boots, fresh on this morning, would be up for the challenge. Two miles in, I realise that I an wrong on both counts.

But hobbling along, trying not to think of the blister rapidly growing on my right heel, does give me the perfect opportunity to think. Really, I get all my best thinking done when I'm walking. Like: what I want to have for dinner, and: who will be first on my hit list when Boris introduces the Purge.

This evening, I'm thinking about my marathon. Or rather, the themes. At some point with the next few weeks, I'm going to have to come up with some finale blog post. A round up of all my thoughts. And I'm not sure I have any. I mean, I do. But I'm not sure anyone is that interested in my ten thousand word treaty on the benefits of freesheets. Nor my list of ten questions you should never ask a audience member (with number one being: why are you here?). 

I suppose if I really want to talk about things that I've come across again and again, the starting point must surely be Emily Carding. Starting way back at the beginning of my marathon, at theatre twenty, I've seen Carding perform four times. And tonight, in a neat mirror-trick as we are now twenty theatres from the end, I'm going back for a fifth.

It's almost as if I planned it.

I did kinda plan it.

Two Carding-shows in, I made a conscious decision to follow this actor throughout her London dates.

Not that I'm a stalker you understand. I'm just loyal.

That's what I've been telling myself anyway. I'm just very, very loyal. Committed, one might say.

And it's not like she doesn't know. I'm not creeping around theatres, popping up without warning, demanding blog content. Now that would be weird. 

That is not the case at all. Carding is fully aware of my marathon, and my intentions to turn up at any of her performances taking place in a London venue that I haven't been to yet. And she hasn't complained. Which to me sounds like approval.

Umm.

Just as I manage to convince myself that I am definitely not a stalker, I limp my way past Clapham Common and pause outside the Omnibus to take it all in. Yup, I'm back here again. 

And I'm slightly annoyed by it. Not about being at the Omnibus, as it's a very nice space. Nor about seeing the show, because well, we've talked about that. But because I hadn't planned on it.

The Omnibus started out the year as a single-theatre venue. And now they've only gone about opening a studio. In 2019. In the year of my marathon. It's almost like they did it just to pain me. I'll admit I did not take the news well. I may have gone off a little bit at them. And by 'gone off' I mean, I told them to fuck right off to Yorkshire on Twitter.

It was not my finest moment.

I guess I better cross the road and get this exterior photo taken. 

Almost getting run over by a car that does not understand the concept of a pedestrian crossing, I make it to the other side, take my photo, and totter back again, checking the images as I step through the great stone archway and...

Someone is coming out the door, wearing a bright blue leotard.

It's Emily Carding.

In costume.

Umm.

I smile and hope she hasn't noticed me. But as I make my way to the entrance, I find her there, holding the door.

Oh.

"You have a familiar face," she says, fixing her eyes on me. She's wearing white contact lenses. Only the pupils are showing. They're terrifying.

"I hope so!" I say. I mean, after four theatre trips and a tarot reading...

"Yes, you have a familiar human face..." 

I am no good at this kind of thing. Unfortunately, working for a drama school has not improved my improv skills over the last few weeks.

She smiles, taking pity on me and drops the character. The change is instantaneous. The cold exterior falling away as if it never existed. She pats me on the head.

"Those contacts are terrifying," I say honestly.

"They are," she agrees, and we go inside.

Oof.

Okay. That was intense.

I head straight for the box office. A small desk tucked inside the foyer.

"Hello," says the box officer in the exact soothing tone I need right now.

"Hello. The surname's Smiles?"

“For Quintessence?”

“Yes!”

He finds my name on the list and hands me an admission token. "Listen for the bell," he says. "We should ring it just before nine. The bar is just through there."

I follow the direction he's pointing and find myself in a lovely front room, complete with piano. Rustic wooden tables crowd the space, and the bar is decorated with illustrated chalkboard menus. 

It looks like the kind of cafe that should have ‘Kitchen’ in the name, with a herb garden out back and a farm-to-table manifesto scrawled on the windows. Instead, they have Christmas decorations. Which is almost as good.

I find a table and have a look at my admission pass.

It's a ticket.

I mean, it's a ticket for the omnibus.

I mean, it's a ticket for public transport. Of the omnibus variety. 

That's neat. I like that.

As I busy myself taking photos, an alarm starts. A very loud alarm. An alarm far too loud and insistant to possibly be a theatre bell. The type of alarm that should really have us lining up outside and having our names ticketed off by someone with a hi-vis jacket and clipboard.

I look over at the staff behind the bar. They don't look overly concerned about the whole thing.

"Why has that gone off?" one of them asks.

"Somebody smoking probably."

They carry on with bar business and the alarm eventually stops.

For a few minutes.

As it starts up again, one of the bar people sighs with aggravation. "Oh gawd," she groans. "Reminds me of the IRA. They used to go off all the time."

Honestly, that's not something I ever thought I'd have to be worrying about in the idles of Clapham.

At last, it stops. I hold myself very still, not wanting to jump in shock when it starts up again. But as the silence spreads out, my stomach decides it's time to take over.

Well, it is past 8 o'clock and I haven't had my dinner yet.

I go over to the bar to see what the food selection is. There's a selection of cakes, all of which look depressingly vegan and gluten free. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's very important that our vegan and gluten free friends can get a slice of cake when they go to the theatre. But vegan cakes are not visually appetising, and frankly, I like gluten. The more of it the better.

"Can I help?" asks one of the ladies behind the bar.

"I'm just investigating the food situation," I tell her.

"We also have savoury," she tells me.

"Oo!" I say, suddenly excited. "What do you have?"

She looks around, thinking. "We have quiche?" She turns to the other lady there. "Do we have quiche left?"

"We have sausage rolls," says the other bar lady.

"Vegetarian sausage rolls!"

"No, not vegetation."

"Meat."

"I would love a non-vegetarian sausage roll," I say.

"Meat?"

"Yeah... meat..." I agree.

"With salad?"

"... alright." I don't really want salad. But I don't think they get many meat-eating, non-gluten free customers in here. I should probably at least make a small effort. "And a cup of tea?"

"What type?"

"Breakfast?" I say as a question, hoping my choice won't get me banished.

She nods. Phew. "I'll make the tea first. Milk is just over there," she says, pointing to a small tray with milk jug and dishes for spoons and spent teabags.

"The fire brigade is here," she says as she starts making my tea.

"Yes, they have to come when it goes off."

Slightly dazed, I go back to my seat with my tea. I appear to have just paid over nine pounds for a cup of tea and a sausage roll. That's a lot of money. I do hope it's at least a large sausage roll. I'm starving.

A few minutes later, it's brought over.

It is not a large one.

"Bon appetite," says the lady from the bar. "Would you like mustard with that?"

"I'm alright," I tell her, looking sorrowfully at my plate. I admit, I eat a lot. A lot a lot. But even so. Nine pounds for a sausage roll, a bit of salad, and a cup of tea. I had no idea Clapham was so expensive. I would have popped into the Co-op on my way here and bought a sandwich if I'd known.

At least it tastes good.

And there's a cat.

Wait. What?

There's a cat!

Over there.

Under the table.

Am I imagining that?

No. It's a cat.

A very fat cat.

Possibly a pregnant cat.

I lower my hand and flutter my fingers.

The cat looks at me.

I flutter my fingers again.

The cat gets up and waddles in my direction.

I click my tongue, and give an extra flutter, just in case.

She waddles up, and keeps on waddling, right past me, without a second glance.

Dammit.

I knew that extra flutter was overdoing it. I was too keen. Cats and ghosts. They don't like you when you come on too strong.

I need to learn how to play hard to get.

I finish my sausage roll, and settle back with my cup of tea, watching the cat as she scampers around, chasing invisible rabbits and scratching up the table legs.

Out in the foyer, a bell rings.

It's time to go.

I wave at the cat. She looks out me before twisting around, lifting her leg, and turning her attention to cleaning her bottom.

Chairs scrape as we all get up and head for the door.

As we pass the kitchen a man leans in and asks one of the people inside to throw out something for him.

"Blueberry?" he asks, offering out his small plastic tray of berries.

She shakes her head. She doesn't take bribes.

The box officer is at the bottom of the stairs, collecting passes.

I hand him mine and head up.

The door to the theatre is open.

It's very dark in here, but I think I've found myself behind the seating block.

I edge myself around it to the front.

And there's Carding, on stage, her head bowed, eyes closed, and arms poised in a more angular version of ballet's first position.

I creep across the front of the stage and slip up the centre aisle, finding my comfort spot: end of the third row.

It's freezing in here.

All the warmth in this building has been diverted down to the cafe.

I heft my massive coat up over my knees and shiver.

A voice comes over the soundsystem.

It seems the humans have got themselves into a bit of a mess, and the androids have to step in to look after them.

As Carding wakes the story unfolds. Humans have retreated into domes, from where the androids look after our every need. As their manual, they take the ultimate authority on what it is to be human: Shakespeare.

Now, you know I'm not a big fan of Billy Shakespeare.

So, already I'm in a dystopian nightmare here, even before this supposed utopia begins to unravel.

But like... Carding is really good. And, like, she does like Shakespeare, so if anything is going to make all these excerts from his plays watchable, it's her.

There's a bit from Winter's Tale. I know that bit. Mainly because I watched a matinee of it this afternoon. But still. I'm feeling pretty smug all the same.

We also get Hamlet. And Romeo. And Juliet. And Henry Five. And Attenborough. And... Carding shudders. The lights flicker.

The voice is back.

The android is rebooting.

Carding's head lifts, her expression clear. All is well.

Something tells me this isn't going to end well.

But we press on all the same.

The audience grin knowingly to each other as the androids come up against human adolescence for the first time. Their response to it soon has the smiles fading from our lips.

Carding switches from character to android and back again, her face filling with the deepest emotions, before the shutters are brought back down in an instant, and the android takes over.

But such serenity can't last.

The lights switch to red and Carding is leaning forward, arms behind like tortured wings, her face twisted and contorted. She is perfectly still. She is perfectly terrifying.

I freeze. Something tells me I shouldn't blink.

If the Weeping Angels are real, then we have one of them in Clapham right now.

And then it's done, and we are released.

I manage to unfurl myself enough to clap. At least, I think I'm clapping. I can't actually feel my hands.

"You know those angels from Doctor Who?" says someone in the front row as we all start gathering our things and getting ready to leave.

"No," comes the reply. "But I can imagine."

Oh, sweet innocent front rower. You can not imagine. Although, perhaps after that performance...

Carding is on the landing. She has a flock of fans and friends and well-wishers around her.

"Let me just say a proper hello," she says turning to me.

"You were amazing," I say truthfully. I mean, I'm scarred for life. But it was amazing, all the same.

"I don't want to get makeup on you," she says as we hug.

Eh. I wear enough eyeliner for three people and cry a lot. I'm not afraid of getting makeup on me.

I wobble my way back down the stairs. I'm choosing to blame the five-ish miles I walked to get here. And not the fact that I am still shaking in fear.

A Tale Told in Three Programmes

Leicester Square at Christmas is quite the sight. The usual pools of vomit have been replaced by the more glittery sight of Christmas upchuck. Everything is lights and colour and consumerism.

At least the beatboxers are still here. 

Rocking their tunes in the middle of a crowd. A sign displaying their Instagram handle in place of a upturned hat.

"By the way," says the beatboxer, pausing in the middle of his spree. "It's called freestyle. I hope you like it."

The crowd is not unappreciative, but I can't hang around. I have tickets to pick up.

The box office for the Spiegletent is right next to the entrance.

It's in a small wooden cabin that I'm sure it meant to make us think of gingerbread and ski chalets. It's painted red, and the windows are split into four panes, like a child's drawing of a house.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say to one of the box officers.

He types something into his computer and a second later my ticket is printing off.

"There you go," he says, handing it over. And that's it. I'm dismissed.

Easy.

I head for the entrance. A huge sign is proclaiming Christmas at Leicester Square as the home of La Clique. The trees are drenched in lights, and the pathways crowded with more cabins - these ones more of the market stall variety.

First up though, the bag checkers. I pull mine forward, ready to open, but neither of the hi-vis jacketed men on duty pay the slightest bit of interest in me, and I walk past without interruption.

I'm a little bit early, so I find myself hanging out with a row of Christmas trees while I come up with a plan. I could stand here an edit a blog post. That would be the sensible thing to do. But the whole point of my blog is to write about the experience of going to the theatre, so perhaps I should be off experiencing it. Not at all to indulge in Christmas shopping, you understand. This is a purely selfless enterprise. I need to look at what all these cabins are selling for you.

Turns out though, they're all selling a bunch of tat.

Wooden tat. Crystal tat. Tote bag tat.

I keep on going, hoping there's something to help me knock at least one name off my Christmas list, but as I turn the corner and start up the opposite path, I seem to be getting a repeat view: more wood, more crystal, and some Union Jack hats.

The air smells of molten sugar and hot dogs. The food-stalls alternative between carbs and sausages. My two favourite food groups, but the combined fug is turning my stomach. 

People wander around clutching at paper cups and a curious lack of shopping bags.

I finish my rotation and end up at the entrance to the tent.

A pretty girl and her date are arguing about whether to go in.

"What time does it start? It's only half past..." says the most chill dude ever.

His gorgeous girl isn't having it though. She wants to go inside, and he follows on up the steps behind her.

I suppose I should go to.

Up the steps and towards the entrance which is rocking some old school circus vibes.

I hand my ticket over to one of the ticket checkers and she tears off the tab.

"Err, sorry, which way is it?" I ask, looking between the two entrances to the space. One either side of us.

"Either way!" she replies happily.

I chose left, because I like being sinister.

Inside I find myself in the emptiest bar I've ever seen in my life. A vast space punctuated only by a small group leaning over on the bar.

I have no interest in joining them, so I go through.

More ticket checkers await, both wearing the bowler hats so beloved of cabaret performers. Although I'm not quite sure they are usually worn with plaid shirts. But it's a bold satorial choice, and I respect it.

"You're rear stalls," says plaid shirt, glancing at my ticket. "Which is these ones here." He points over to two short rows of high stools, tucked against the wall.

But I'm too busy gawping at the space to inspect them properly. It's quite something in here. Like a proper circus high-top, the circular ceiling is lined with stripey fabric. Huge globes of light float around the frame. And roving spotlights pick up the ruched satin curtains behind the stage. It all has the exact level of seedy glamour that you would hope for when booking a revue show.

In the centre, tucked up close to the stage, are circles of chairs. Then there's a moat-like walkway. After which come the booths. The booths look rather nice. All tucked away and darkly lit. The sort of place you could get very very drunk and not even care. 

Pity that they are all completely empty.

I turn around and head towards the stools at the back, and pick one in the second row. 

There's a programme waiting for me on the seat. They all seem to have one.

I pick it up and have a quick flick through. But I'm left rubbing my palms in disgust. The paper is all wavy. Like someone dropped it in the bath and thought they could get away with drying it on the radiator. 

Looking around to check no one is watching, I switch it with the one on the next seat.

This one isn't wavy. But the cover feels all crusty.

I really don't want to contemplate what with. A cocktail, I tell myself. 

"Is anyone sitting there?" asks the leader in a gang of three young men. He points to the three empty stools next to me.

"Go for it," I say, twisting around in my seat so that he can get past.

But a second later, one of the bowler hatted ticket checkers come over, and they are backing out, disappearing around the walkway.

A few more people go after them.

Something tells me that I missed something quite significant.

The bowler hatted lady returns. "Did you hear what I said?" she asks, looking at me curiously.

I have to admit that I did not.

"We're not sold out tonight, so we're offering a free upgrade."

"Oh!" I say. "Wow. Great."

I slip off my seat, grab my coat, and follow her into the main pit, close to the stage.

"Just one?" she asks.

Yup. Just one.

She leans into a row. "Is this free?" she asks. The row residents all nod. Yes, it's free. "In here," she says, waving me in. 

I appear to have found myself in the third row. That's quite the upgrade.

The girl on the end stands up to let me through. The boy on the other side grabs the programme from the seat and holds it until I sit down. "There you are, this is yours," he says one I've plonked myself down.

This one feels very smooth. It definitely hasn't had a drink spilled on it.

"Sorry, your coat," says the girl as she takes her seat again.

"Sorry," I say, stuffing it out of the way. "It gets everywhere." It's a big coat.

"No, it's your coat. If you don't mind it being on the floor..."

"Eh," I say with a shrug. "It's cheap."

That done, we settle back.

Our host for the evening is Bernie Dieter, dressed in a slinky cat suit with feathers emerging from her shoulders and a black wig sitting on her head, making her look like a bird of prey. The object of her hunt soon becomes obvious.

"Silver Fox," she purrs, narrowing her eyes at one of the men sitting in the front row.

She turns back to us. It's a Monday night, but that's no excuse for a poor show from the audience. She's going to make sure we know what we're doing. 

She starts us off gently. Clapping with just single fingers. Then two. "Then the whole hand," she says with the dirtiest leer I've ever seen.

The bar is at the back, she tells us. The toilets are at the back and on the right. She's in full flight attendant mode now, gesturing with her arms. No flash photography, it's dangerous for the performers. And, she adds with a lowering of the head to show she means business, if she sees our little phones out, she will confiscate them, and stick them down Silver Fox's pants. And she will not be held responsible for any dick pics that might appear on them.

With that dire warning ringing in our ears, we begin.

The acts move quickly. A singer, a juggler, acrobats. None of them stay long enough for us to get bored. All of them beautiful and sultry and not wearing very much.

And then Dieter is back. She hasn't forgotten about Silver Fox, but she's out for fresh blood now.

Her dancing finger lands on a young man in my row. My neighbour's neighbour. And presumably his date for tonight.

"Business!" she names him with a triumphant jab of her finger.

She kicks off her shoes and she's off.

I lean down to move my bag out of her way. But nothing could stop her, she launches herself through the row, clambering up over Business and straddling him. He blinks at her, shocked, but he's taking it well. At the demand to caress her, he strokes her thigh. When she insists that he add another hand to the mix, he clamps onto her bottom, digging his fingers in.

I squirm uncomfortably.

With all the horror stories of audience members getting all groppy in immersive theatre, seeing something so blatant is sending me into paroxysms of worry. But then, I did just go to a play where one of the actors asked if I wanted to slap him, so perhaps I'm being to precious about it. As long as the performers are comfortable with what's happening, I should be too...

"It's Monday," Dieter purrs. "You've worked hard." 

She eyes the woman sitting next to him. "Is this your Mother?" she asks, shocked. "Oh my god, it is! You're doing this in front of your Mother!"

It's time to get someone else involved.

"Lumberjack!" she coos at a man wearing a plaid shirt sitting just behind us. And she beckons him in to the embrace. One hand on her. One on Business. They writhe together.

It's not enough for Dieter.

"Beardie!" she calls.

"Shaven Haven!"

Now in charge of a veritable harem, she has a job for them. To carry her back to the stage.

Business it seems, is not just a smart chap in a suit. Oh no. This guy works out, and he's not afraid to show off. Clapping his hands on Dieter's thighs, he hefts her onto his shoulder and carries her out, with the rest of us scrambling to get out of their way.

Giggling, we all return to our places.

But if anyone thought about relaxing, the ushers coming in with huge plastic sheets soon put a stop to that. They drape them over the front row. Designating them a splash zone, and as Jamie Swan takes a bath on stage he makes sure they get wet. 

The ladies in the front row lift up their portion of sheet, cowering behind it, in fear of their blow-drys.

Slightly damp, we are released for the interval, with the order to go to the bar. I suspect this is more of a warning. If this is act one, alcohol may truly be required for the second part.

Stage hands appear with squeegee mops and start pushing the water off the stage, will one of the ticket checkers in the bowler hats works on mopping up the floor. Mops are replaced by towels, and they crawl around on their hands and knees, working the the stage until it is perfectly dry and it's time to start the show again.

"It's a quality night," says my neighbour as he returns to his seat.

"Yeah, it's funny," agrees Business.

Business' mum nods along. She's loving it.

The band is back on stage. We're ready for act two.

Except nothing could have prepared us for the beautiful David Pereira. Too shocked laughter at his shaving cream antics, he bounces off the stage and asks for help from a man sitting in the front row.

Our front rower is a little wary, but he does his best to help out. Only to find himself with a lap covered in foam.

Dieter comes out with a sympathetic smile, clutching a packet of baby wipes. The shell-shocked front rower takes one, but she presses the entire pack on him. He's going to need it. 

He wipes delicately at his trouser legs. He doesn't seem to have noticed that his jacket is coated too, from where Pereira wound his creamed-up arm around the man's neck.

His programme has slipped out of his hands and onto the floor. It's covered with foam.

I think we're solved the mystery of the crusty programmes.

"You need a drink," Dieter says soothly, and a stage manager runs over, drink in hand.

But there's no time to linger on him. It's time for the next act. Under cover of darkness, Dieter comes back with a towel so that our foamy front rower can get the stuff out of his hair. He seems much more relaxed now that he has a drink in his hands.

"I'm so glad we're not sitting over there," whispers Business to my neighbour, as if he hadn't just been wiggling his bum at at audience that contains his own mother.

When Leah Shelton starts pulling a tiny red handkerchief from increasingly more intimate locations, to the shocked laughter of the audience, I make a mental note not to ever take my mother to see La Clique.

Handkerchief recovered for the final time (and sniffed) we are sent out into the night with a drinking song.

Out in the bar, a pap board has been set up and people are queueing up to have their photo taken with the (now fully clothed) Dieter and Shelton. I keep on walking, stepping out into a fog of sausage fumes.

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...

I Am A Revolutionary

"Come on, mate," growls the man standing behind me.

Thankfully, this man's ire is not directed at me, but at the box officer at Stratford Circus, who seems to be having a lot of trouble looking up someone's order.

The woman at the front of the queue gets out her phone to find the confirmation email.

The computer is consulted. Lists are checked. The order is not found.

The queue sighs, stepping from foot to foot as we wait. The tinsel garland stuck across the front of the counter isn't doing much to get us in the Christmas spirit.

At last, some sort of arrangement is made, and the woman walks away with her ticket.

Except, no. She's stopped. She's walking back.

"Do you do food here?" she asks.

"The bar has crisps," offers up the box officer. "Yeah, just snacks."

"What about next door? Never mind," she says, stopping herself with a wave of her hand. "I don't have time. I'll have to settle for crisps. I've only eaten once today, you see."

And with that, she's off.

The queue shuffles forward.

But we're moving quickly now, and soon enough it's my turn.

"Hi! The name's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S."

The box officer looks down a printed list and taps her finger on my name. 

"Maxine?"

The one and only.

"That's two tickets," she says, pulling a pair of laminated admission passes out of a business envelope.

Yup. That's right. Ya gurl actually has someone with her tonight. No single shaming for me.

I reach out to claim the passes, but the box officer isn't letting go.

Another box officer has come over, and the pair of them are deep in discussion about the list. 

"When was it printed?"

"Last night."

"Ah! That explains it."

Yes, yes, yes. I nod along, keeping my gaze fixed on the passes still clutched in her hand.

Eventually, the two box officers conclude that the reason the woman's order couldn't be found was because she had booked on the day.

They do not approve.

At last, the tickets are relinquished into my care, and I can finally have a look around this place.

I've been here before. I already have Circus 1 checked off my list. And now I'm back for Circus 2, which gives me the perfect opportunity to inspect their Christmas decorations.

First ones of the year. Everyone else seems to be holding off until December.

But even with their early start, Stratford isn't doing things by halves. There's not one Christmas tree, but two. Each surrounded by piles of presents. Tinsel loops its way over the bar. There's even a stocking.

I retreat to the windows, where there are tables and chairs and a convenient pillar to lean against.

I'm not sure, but I think those doors right next to me are the entrance to Circus 2. This is based on nothing but the fact that they have an usher posted outside of them.

There's no signage. Not that I can see.

Circus 1 is over the other end of the foyer. And Circus 3 and 4 are upstairs. I can see their numbers all printed on the walls. But there's not a 2 to be found anywhere.

A group of young women wander over.

The front of houser steps in front of them. "Should be open in a few minutes," she tells them.

They retreat a few steps, not wanting to go too far and lose their precious place in the queue. It's unallocated seating tonight. And they have no intention of being stuck in the back.

The woman who hasn't eaten strolls over. She looks a lot more calm now that she has a packet of crisps in hand. She finds a table to munch them. 

The foyer begins to fill up.

I keep close to my pillar and check the time.

It's seven to seven. 

The doors open.

People start to form a line.

I get out the way and check my phone.

There's a message from Sarah. "2 mins!!" it says. Two exclamation marks. She must be stressed.

I'm not overly worried. We won't get the best seats, but we probably shouldn't be taking them. We're here to see Messiah. Based on the true story of that Blank Panther who was killed by the Chicago police, Frederick Hampton. And as we are a pair of white girls, we should probably be finding ourselves at the back.

The audience is going in.

I take up a spot near the doors, looking up from my phone every time someone comes in.

Not her.

Not her.

Still not her.

Neither of them are her.

Okay, now I'm starting to get slightly anxious.

I get my phone out again, but she hasn't even read my last message. The ticks remain resolutely grey. 

Shit.

She's probably dead.

"Maxxxxx," calls out someone wearing a leather jacket and a bike helmet. 

Arms wrap around themselves around me.

I think this must be Sarah.

"Shall we go in?" I say, edging her over to the doors as she tells me about her bike journey. Sounds like a bloody nightmare. This is why I don't cycle. I mean, one of the reasons I don't cycle. Other than the main one which is that I would definitely die if I tried.

I hand the admission passes over to the front of houser and we go in.

There's lots of people in here. Messiah is clearly the show to see tonight.

"Can you fill in from this side for me?" asks a front of houser as I stop to figure out where we should go. 

We do as we're told, heading towards the nearest block of seating. Except, we don't get very far. There's one of those rope barriers blocking off the back couple of rows.

I stare at it. "Ummm," I say.

Everyone else around us stops too. "Ummm."

One of the standers decides to take the initiative and calls over to the usher. "Can we...?"

But the usher is otherwise occupied and doesn't hear her.

Being the hero that we all need, the woman grabs hold of one of the metal polls and shoves it out the way, freeing up one of the rows. I follow her lead, grabbing the other poll and giving it a quick kick for good measure.

Exhausted by my efforts, I slide my way down the row, collapsing at the far end.

Sarah follows me, looking around. In a low voice she makes a comment suggesting that the people in the audience for tonight's performance of Messiah are of a considerably higher calibre, looks-wise, than you might usually find in a theatre.

She's not wrong.

We're an attractive bunch in here tonight.

A young man comes barreling down our row, shoving Sarah out the way before climbing into the seat in front.

Sarah winces. "Thanks mate," she mutters.

We both glare at him.

My appreciation of the audience has gone down a couple of notches.

"I literally just pulled something," says Sarah as she sits down.

Pretty people are such twats.

I look around, scoping out all these attractive arseholes.

But I can't help but notice that there are some amongst our midst who are taking things to another level. They are radiating a kind of energy that you don't tend to find hanging out in an arts centre on a Wednesday night.

I watch them carefully as they move about, very much not sitting down.

And wouldn't you know, they're actors, because of course they are.

I can't tell you much besides that. You know the rules: no freesheet, no crediting. I'm not Googling no one.

But one of them, who I’m guessing is our Fred Hampton, is ordering us all to our feet, arms in the air, in the Black Power salute.

We all look at each other, but Fred isn't having it.

We need to get the hell up.

We do, raising our arms in the demonstrated pose cautiously.

Sarah and I share a glance. I giggle nervously. I'm so glad I'm not here alone and have a fellow white person to share this with, because I'm feeling hella awkward right now.

Fred is now ordering us to repeat him. "I. Am. A Revolutionary," he says.

"I. Am. A Revolutionary," we chorus back to him.

A few people try to drop their arms, but Fred is having none of it.

"Don't put down your arm!" he orders. "I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

"I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

Across the way I spot a girl have trouble with the salute. Her arm is falling forward and talking on a more Nazi-esque angle than I'm sure she intended. Although... I suppose you can never tell with white people.

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

I am not a revolutionary. I mean, I pretend I am. But you and I both know it's all lies. I prefer lie-ins over sit-ins, and while I've gone to a few protests and marches and whatnot in my time, when the going gets tough, the Maxine gets going. As in, away. Far away.

"I want that to be the last thing you say before you go to sleep," he tells us. "I. Am. A Revolutionary."

Someone comes in. A white someone.

You just know he's going to be a police officer.

Fred orders us to sit down.

"Thank gawd," whispers Sarah. "My arm was getting tired."

The door opens and the usher waves in a latecomer, pointing out the reserved seats in the front row.

The police officer looks at him. "Take a seat. Sit down," he orders.

And on the backs of our laughter, we are launched into the story. Or at least, the framing device around the story. We're recreating the events of that night. When the police stormed Hampton's flat and opened fire, killing him in front of his heavily pregnant girlfriend.

The floor has been marked up with white tape, showing off the layout of the apartment. But those white lines, combined with the long stage and high walls, is giving this room serious school-gym vibes that even the blackout curtains cannot compensate for.

But I soon forget about that, as we are flung back in time, to the evening before those awful events happened. With Frederick and Deborah enjoying dinner, dancing together, calling his mum together, and laughing with each other, laughing with the Panther's head of security, William O’Neal. Oh my, they laugh together so much. My heart is melting at the sight of them.

As the lights dim to a final blackout I breath out a long sigh.

"She was so good," I say. "The girlfriend."

"She was realy good," agrees Sarah. "I really enjoyed that, actually."

I'm not sure enjoyed is quite the right word, but I know what she means and I nod to show my agreement.

"Food?" I ask.

"Gawd yes."

"I am starving."

"Me too."

It's a quarter past eight, there is plenty of time to be getting ourselves dinner.

Besides, I need to get all the gossip about my old work from this former colleague of me.

We head outside, and as I wait for Sarah to unlock her bike I get out my phone. There's one thing I need to do before we find somewhere to eat.

I look up the cast. I know, I know. I'm breaking my own rules here. But I need to know the name of the actor who played Deborah.

I find the information on the Stratford Circus webpage for Messiah.

Angelina Chudi.

Fucking brilliant.

Feeling fruity

I'm taking you to Applecart Arts tonight. Yeah, I don't know what to expect either. I don't know anything about this place. Other than the name is making me hungry.

It's one of those venues I only found out about mid-marathon. So, I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself that I managed to schedule in a little trip. Even if it does mean that I'm walking down a very long, very dark, street in Upton Park on a Friday Night.

I squeeze through a couple of parked cars and cross the road, stopping to inspect a glass door with a sign saying Applecart on it. It doesn't look like the sort of place you'd watch a play. For a start, it looks closed.

I keep on walking. And sure enough, there's a great big yellow banner on the wall. And a giant hand pointing the way. Two of them, actually. One points to the left. "Main Entrance," it says. Another points the other way, back towards the glass door. That's the stage door apparently.

Okay then.

I go left, through a short iron gate, and I appear to be standing in front of a church.

Honestly, I don't know how I got this far without guessing that. A fringe venue, in outer London, with a cutsie name. Of course it's in an old church.

The door is open and the lights are blazing.

I go up the steps and slip through the wooden door.

Inside it's a cafe. A rather cool looking cafe. All vintage furnishings and tables made out of packing crates.

And in the corner, over the counter, is a sign saying "Box Office." Looks like I'm in the right place.

"Are you here for the show?" asks the guy behind the counter.

I sure am.

I go over, pulling off my gloves. "Yeah, the surname's Smiles?"

"Right... have you bought a ticket already?"

Yup. I don't travel the entire length of the District line without a booking waiting for me at the other end.

"Sorry," he says, clicking at his laptop, "I'm just setting up the box office, What's the name again?"

"Smiles," I repeat. For such a simple name, it proves to be quite tricky. People always think they've heard it wrong. That's why I usually end up spelling it out.

"Ah!" he says, finding me on the list, "There you are. You don't actually need an actual ticket."

But I'm not paying attention, because I'm just spotted a pile of beauties sitting out on the counter.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"Yeah! They're one pound."

Perfect. I pull out my purse and start rummaging around, but all I can find are useless coppers. "I always have loads of pound coins until I actually need one," I laugh, trying to explain why it is taking me so long to purchase a damn programme. Finally, I find two fifty pees, hand them over and am able to retreat in my poundless shame.

There's no one else here. I have the pick of seating choices. And while the leather wingback armchair does look very tempting, I'm heading straight for the petite chaise longue because it's a Friday night and I'm feeling extra.

It is at this point that I begin to wonder if this lonesome state is going to extend throughout the evening. You know that's a big fear of mine, Being in an audience of one, I mean. With me being the one. I really don't think I could cope with that.

So it's with some relief that I spot someone else coming through the doors.

He gives me a nod and goes over to the counter, ordering himself up a toastie and a glass of wine.

And then he asks how things are looking for tonight.

The box officer leans in and gives him the figures.

The good news is that I'm not the only one to have booked in tonight, the bad news is that this newcomer works on the show.

I sure hope the others turn up.

I send up a short prayer to the theatre gods, and try to distract myself by editing a blog post.

But all the time, I'm watching that door.

Just as a start giving up hope, a woman comes in. She goes over to the box office. I hold my breath, hoping she's not on a purely toastie-based mission. She's not. She's buying a ticket, and she's paying cash. She throws down a ten-pound note onto the counter with an alarming confidence before taking a seat on the other side of the cafe.

After that, more people come through the doors, sign in, and take their seats, until we are an almost respectable number.

"Can I get a cider?” one of them asks.

"Course you can!"

"I don't need a glass."

The box officer sighs. "I have to give you one, I'm afraid. But they are biodegradable!"

The time inches closer to 7.45. Show time.

"Does anyone want a programme before you go in?" calls out the box officer. "One pound?"

No one responds.

"In that case, the house is open!"

He runs outside and waits for us.

I pick up my bag and make for the door.

He's stood at the bottom of the steps.

"Just through there," he says, pointing the way. There's a small gate over there. And through it, what I presume must once have been the church hall.

I go in, finding my way through the corridor until I find the entrance to the theatre space. It's narrow. With a high stage at one end. But the stage is covered with stacks of chairs.

Instead, the set has been built at floor level, taking up one of the long sides, with a bank of seats up against the opposite one.

I go find myself a seat in the third row, because that's my fave, but in the middle, because even with our increased numbers, I don't think we're going to be filling up this space, and I don't want to be the awkward penguin sitting over in Siberia on the end.

Toastie-dude is sitting in the corner. At the tech desk. So that explains his role here.

"Thank you so much for coming with me," whispers a bloke to his companion as they sit down in the row behind me. "I've wanted to come for ages and I live just down the road, and I feel we should support these things. For the community."

Bless him coming up with that excuse to shoot his shot. So adorbs.

No sure I would have taken my crush to a play called The Affair, but it is billed as a farce, so maybe he knows what's he's doing after all.

As Claudio Del Toro's Gustavo appears dressed as an Edward Gorey illustration, with a lovelorn sigh on his lips, I think that the bloke sitting behind me might be onto something. Gustavo wants to ask his lady a very important question. The most important question.

But first...

"What's the time?" he says, looking at me.

I shrug. I don't know.

"You don't know the time?"

I mean... no? I could get out my phone, I guess. But that's meant to be off.

It isn't. But it's supposed to be.

I hold up my wrist to demonstrate the lack of watch.

He looks over me, to a couple sitting just behind my shoulder. "Do you know the time? It's really important. Does anyone?"

"It's ten to eight!" calls back the bloke.

And with that, I know it's not going to be an easy play. There's going to be interaction.

Oh dear.

I'll give the marathon this though: having actors talk to me doesn't terrify me as much as it once did. Don't get me wrong, I still hate it, and will never again willingly book for an interactive show once the clock hits midnight on 31st December. But I don't want to die at the thought of it. Which is good. It would be terrible to die this close to the end, with less than thirty theatres left to go.

Even when his beloved appears, the vain and dippy Daffadowndilly, played by Amy Gibbons, Gustav can't leave the audience alone. He threatens to spray a shower of wine across the confident girl sitting upfront, before shaking his head in contriteness. When Daffadowndilly accuses him of having dandruff, he turns to the audience with pleading eyes to help him think up an excuse for the whiteness on his shoulders.

"Flour?" suggests the girl sitting behind me.

"Flour!" he cries in relief.

"Flour," nods Gibbons, accepting this answer.

Things only get worse when the other woman arrives, Shea Wojtus' Lark.

Gustuv clambers over the seats in search of his proposal worm (don't ask, I'm not sure I could give you an answer that makes sense here) and narrowly avoids stomping all over my coat.

The door opens.

We all look over.

Even Lark, from her position hiding behind a picture frame (again... best you don't ask) looks over to see the newcomer.

It's a man. He glances from stage to seats, dithering, unsure what to do.

Wojtus waves at him from behind the frame and indicates that he should take a seat.

He does as he's told, climbing up the steps towards the back row, walking across the full length, making everyone sitting back there shift and stand and move of his way, before plonking himself down in the far corner.

This is a man who really doesn't like audience interaction.

We all make it to the interval though.

I pull my scarf out of my bag and wind it around my shoulders. Turns out it wasn't the terror of having an actor almost step on my coat that was making me shiver. It really is freezing in here.

A few people head for the bar, but most stay behind, chatting quietly.

I get out my phone and start editing a blog post.

"Dada, dadada, dadadada," sings the tech guy, returning to his desk and turning on the music. He hums along with it for a minute.

Someone else appears. "Sorry ladies and gentlemen," he says, stopping on the stage to talk to us. "They lost a little something and I just went to find it. We'll be starting in five minutes."

"Don't worry about it," says on of the blokes in the row behind me, very generously.

The tech guy looks up from his laptop. "What part of London is this?" he asks the room.

"Plaistow," comes the helpful reply.

Is it? I thought we were in Upton Park. Are they the same place? I have no idea. I just go where my spreadsheet tells me.

The audience starts to come back from the bar.

"It might be good to sit on the other side," they're advised. "To balance it out."

Audience balanced out, it's time for act two, and our Gustav wastes no time in offering out a bowl of crisps to the audience. One by one everyone turns him down with a shake of their heads. Which, I respect, but my stomach is growling over here and just as he's about to turn to me, he knocks over a cup and the bowl is taken away.

Gawddammit.

When he returns, he is sans bowl. And he's still looking for that earthworm.

He finds an empty chair and sprawls himself on it, twisting around to clutch at my arm in despair. That poor earthworm, alone and frightened, somewhere in this freezing cold arts centre.

But even with an earthworm as distraction, he couldn't keep the inevitable at bay. The two woman are fully aware of his scandalous behaviour and are not happy about it.

They slap him, again and again, one after the other.

Gustav reaches out for help.

I reach back, offering him my hand, but Lark isn't having it. "Don't help him," she says, pulling him back for another slap.

He accepts his fate after that, even offering the confident girl at the front a go.

She raises her hand high above her head and his eyes widen in horror, but when his palm lands, it's only a gentle tap. She gives it a good go. Slapping one side of his face, then the other, then going for an innovative two-handed move.

Slightly dazed, he looks over to me.

"Would you like a go?" he asks.

I wouldn't definitely not like a go. That is so not my thing.

I'm not saying that I've never slapped anyone, because that would be a lie. But when I slap someone, I do it for real. I'm not into pretend violence. I mean... I'm not into real violence either. I don't even like shouting. But sometimes... well, sometimes...

Thankfully he takes my frantic hand waving well, and leaves the slapping to the professionals.

And after some applause, and a request to tell our friends if we enjoyed it (and to shut up if we didn't) it's time to go.

My stomach rumbles as I slip back through the gate.

I probably should have tried one of their toasties.

¿Dónde está el teatro Cervantes?

I'm lost.

I shouldn't be lost.

I'm in prime theatreland. Within stepping distancing of the Vics, young and old.

And yet I have no idea where I am or where I'm going. All that I do know is that I'm rather embarrassed about the whole thing.

I check the website for tonight's theatre. They have a ‘How to Find Us' page, which I am desperately in need of. I scroll down to the ‘By tube' section.

"3-minute walk (2 minutes if you’re running late!) from Southwark tube station (served by the Jubilee line)." Well, I got out Southwark tube station a good deal more than three minutes ago, and I've been walking in circles ever since.

What else does it say?

"Arch 26, Old Union Arches, 229 Union Street London, SE1 0LR."

Right. Well, that's not at all useful. I already put the postcode into Google Maps. That's what got me into this mess.

I keep on walking, squinting down every alley I pass, but nothing looks right.

A huge iron arch tops one of them.

"Old Union Yard Arches," it says.

The website didn't say anything about Old Union Yard, but if I'm looking for an arch, then this seems like as good a place as any to find it.

I step in. There are indeed lots of arches in here. There's the Africa Centre, the windows filled with bright light and colour. I keep on going. Arch 27. Okay. That seems promising. The next one must be...

There we are. Cervantes Theatre. I've found it.

I push open the door.

Wood mixes with bare brick. There are pot plants dotted around. I see we're visiting the chicer end of the fringe spectrum this evening.

At one end of the foyer, there's a small desk, Dark wood with barley twist legs.

I go over and wait for the girls in front of me to finish up.

Giggling, they disappear up the stairs together.

My turn.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer frowns. "Sorry, what's the name?"

"Smiles," I say again. Slower this time. My voice is still jacked from that awful cough I had. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

"What a beautiful surname!" she says as she looks through the tickets.

"Thank you." It is rather nice.

"Here's your ticket," she says handing it to me. She leans forward and grabs a booklet from the display at the front of the desk. "And a programme. Doors are in fifteen minutes and there's a fifteen-minute interval. Thank you!"

I blink at the booklet in my hand. A free programme. Yes, an actual programme. Not a shitty freesheet masquerading as a programme. This is a proper booklet. Eight pages. Professionally printed.

I'm mentally upgrading this place from chic-fringe to fucking-fancy-fringe.

Taking the lead of the giggling girls, I go up the stairs.

There's a twisted neon chandelier thing up here. All sharp angles and metal frame. From the tip hangs a small Christmas ornament. A tiny glittery star.

I keep on climbing and find myself in the bar. Housed under the curved roof of the railway arch.

Above our heads, a rail rumbles past.

No one looks up. They're all too chill. Lounging around in curvey armchairs and chatting quietly about the play we're seeing tonight.

House of Spirits. Based on a book apparently. One I haven't read but these people clearly have.

"Only in the English," one woman clarifies humbly.

"Oh, I've read it in the Spanish too," says her friend.

"Yeah... I should do that."

I can't do that. I can't speak Spanish. Not even a little bit. Not that I haven't tried. I took Spanish for a whole year at school, before realising that I couldn't pronounce anything and I should just stick with French. Although, I can't speak French either, so that was a waste of time too.

Oh well. The play tonight is in English at least. I checked. More than once. Because it's also being performed in Spanish, on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Switching to English on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

Today is Thursday. English day. Suitable for monoglots like me.

I lean against the railing and look down the stairwell as I edit a blog post.

From the corner of my eye I spot something moving. I look down. There's a ledge halfway up the stairs, onto which a trailer is being projected. Fucking hell, that really is fancy.

Behind me, the barman rings the bell.

It's time to go in.

"Shall we go downstairs?" asks the girl who has read The House of Spirits in the original.

"Is that were the theatre is then?"

"Yeah. Downstairs."

Clearly, this girl knows what's she's doing. So I follow them down.

A door, tucked away at the end of the foyer, has now been opened. And a guy is standing there, tearing tickets. The queue moves slowly, as he stops to place each stub down on the edge of the box office table before moving onto the next person.

"There you go," he says to me, handing back my ticket.

In I go. Walking past a set of shelves set into an alcove. They seem to be stacked with props. Great big pots. A crucifix. An electric fan. A lamp.

I don't have time to inspect them all properly. The box officer is in here, checking the newly shorn tickets.

She looks at mine.

"Second or third row here," she says, pointing over at the central block of seats across the way. "Or you can sit here." This time she points to a side block.

I bought a ticket in the standard price range, you see. The front row myst be reserved for premium payers.

I look between the two. This kind of decision making is a bit too much for me on a Thursday night.

"Where ever you like," she prompts.

I panic. Then fall back towards my classic choice. Central block. Third row. Near the end.

I get out the programme and have a look at it. It's in English. Which is great. No Spanish at all. I wonder what they do on Spanish nights. They surely can't have an entirely separate programme for Monday to Wednesday shows. But perhaps they do. This is fucking-fancy-fringe after all.

I mean, just look at these chairs. They're really nice chairs.

Three blocks, set up around a floor level stage. There's a staircase up against the back wall, which has been drapped in the massive sheet of fabric that is serving as our set. It all feels a little bit familiar. With the staircase and all. A bit like the Union theatre, which must be pretty close by now that I think about it.

More people come in. A group. They sit right next to me. Not even leaving an empty seat to serve as buffer between us. Weirdos.

Now, I get that front of housers hate leaving gaps when the show is sold out, but I don't think that's the case tonight.

And as the box officer disappears, closing the curtains over the door behind her, I can see that while it's a healthy house, there's no damn need to be cosying up to people you don't know. And my new neighbour clearly just has problems with being alone. Even when they're with friends. Rather sad really.

The lights go down and we are plunged into a prison cell. A girl is dragged out in chains, and then, right be before our eyes, is tortured, raped, and left for dead.

Dear gawd.

What kind of novel was this?

Turns out, an incredibly brutal one. As we are swept back in time, back to the youth of that poor girl's grandmother, we are taken to a world of hardship, and death, and political upheaval. And a dog puppet. The dog puppet is great. The dog's puppeteer is great. That Gian Carlo Ferrini is doing wonders with the dog. If anything happens to the dog...

Gawd DAMMIT.

And all the while, our girl, Pia Laborde-Noguez's Alba, watches from the corner, sat by the prop shelves, pulling notebook after notebook open, to read over her family's history.

The lights go down once more. A moment of stunned silence, and then the applause starts.

I'm shivering, and I can't tell whether it's the play or the fact it's freezing in here.

The box officer reappears.

"We have now an interval of fifteen minutes," she tells us. "Can I ask you to leave the theatre please."

Once again I climb those stairs up to the bar, my legs feeling a wee bit wobbly and my head still spinning, I reclaim my place on the ledge and listen to the soothing sound of the trains passing overhead and trying to puzzle out all the posters written in Spanish.

I really should have tried harder in school.

Before I can figure out what month of the year "enero" is, the barman is ringing the bell again and it's time to reclaim our seats.

The girl is still there, in the corner, reading her notebooks.

The box officer stands guard by the stage so we don't traipse all over it.

I pull my coat up over my knees. Turns out, it actually is really cold in here.

The box officer leans out the door to check that no one else is coming, then closes the curtain, sealing us in.

And my friend, it does not get better. Sadness layers on sadness, and is squidged between two slices of pain, making up a Big Masochist ending.

Gawd it's good.

Applause done, it's time to get out of here.

As I pull my scarf out of my bag, my glasses ping out and skitter out the seats in front. I crouch down to grab them.

"Are you okay?" asks my neighbour, leaning down to check.

"Yes?" I hurriedly explain I was picking up my glasses, although I'm not sure what else I could possibly be doing down here.

The girls who had read the book stop over by the stage to pet the dog puppet, who seems to have been left behind for that exact purpose. I pause to say my own goodbyes. He's very cute. He deserved better.

I stumble out, into the yard, and head for the tube. As I walk, I realise I recognise this place. I stop, looking over at the arch next to me. It's the Union Theatre.

No wonder those stairs looked familiar. They're all in the same block.

So much for discovery all of London's theatres. I’m still getting lost.

You Must Suffer Me To Go My Own Dark Way

Somehow, when coming up with the idea of a marathon of London theatre, I never considered mud featuring much on my list of woes. But here I am, squelching through the wet stuff, wishing I'd worn my wellies to get to the next theatre on my list.

I'm in Wimbledon. Which doesn't seem like prime real estate for mud-making, but here we are.

Pulling my apparently-unwaterproof boot free from a sticky patch, I hurry over to a slightly drier piece of land.

In the darkness I can hear the roar of moving water, but it's so dark, I can't make out where it's coming from until I'm on top of it. Literally.

I seem to have found myself standing on a bridge.

Which is lucky.

Certainly better than finding the water without the aid of a bridge.

I keep on going.

According to Google Maps, the Colourhouse Theatre should be around here somewhere. But all I can see are some dark buildings and what appears to be, on close inspection, a millstone.

I stumble around, feeling like I've stepped back in time. As if in crossing the bridge I'd gone through some Outlander style shit, but instead of landing in the Highlands and surrounded by a bunch of blokes in need of a razor and some boxer shorts, I'm instead in a Georgian mill town where hundreds of children are breaking their fingers on looms, or whatever it was that happened in these places. I missed that history lesson at school.

Up ahead there's some light. I follow it.

An A-board points tells me that there's a bar open.

I stare at the building.

It's old brick. Very mill like. Except for the brash panto posters stuck all over the place.

As I stand there, a young woman comes over to the door to close it, but pauses when she spots me.

Ah. I should probably head inside.

"Is this the right place for Jekyll and Hyde?” I ask a little doubtfully.

"Yup!" she says cheerfully, closing the door behind me.

That's a relief. Will all the signage pitching this very much in the children's theatre mode, I was getting a little worried that I had found myself at the wrong place.

There's some kind of event room on one side, and a bar on the other.

It's very colourful. And warm.

And there's a queue to get in.

That's good. Nice to know that I'm not the only one squelching her way through the mud on a Friday night.

The queue takes us through a narrow corner, where a box officer is cramped into a small alcove to tick off names as we pass.

"Hi!" I say when it's my turn. "The surname's Smiles?"

She looks down at her pieces of paper. "Which list are you on?"

I pause, not knowing how to answer that. "I booked online?" I chance.

"Ah!" she says, finding my name on the relevant list. "There you are. I don't need to give you a ticket. You can go right in. Would you like a programme?"

I definitely would.

"That's one pound."

I hold out my pound coin, all ready to go, and she gives me what I hope is an appreciative glance. I'd been paying attention you see. I don't just gawp around when I'm in a queue. Oh no. I'm watching the interactions happening like a damned hawk.

Programme in hand, I take my hawk-like self into the auditorium, walking alongside the hugely tall seating bank until I reach the front. It looks busy. Very busy. In front of the mountain of seating, there's even more chairs down the front. There are a few spares in those front few rows but I don't want to be placing myself and my cough that close to the action.

I turn in the other direction and start climbing.

It's dark up here. I'm having to squint real hard to make out the steps. But even so, I can tell that empty seats are at a premium here.

But, I think... yup. There's some going in the back row.

I climb all the way to the top.

A woman leans forward and waves at the empty spaces. "We're got two here, but the end is free," she says.

"Perfect!" I say.

"It couldn't have worked out better," says the woman.

She's not wrong. The one on the end is right in front of the staircase. Which means I get to nab all that tasty legroom to dump my stuff. And what a lot of stuff I have. Umbrella and jacket and cardigan and massive bag. I take up a lot of real estate in winter.

A few minutes later, those two seats are reclaimed by their owners. A couple of teenage girls, all laughter and lipgloss.

As they sit down they giggle and toss their hair about.

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

There are a lot of teenage boys in this audience. A lot of teenage boys.

And they are all very aware of the two pretty girls sitting in the back row.

One chancer, sitting right up front, keeps on turning around in his chair to look at them. He grins, and even attempts a very bold wink.

The girls giggle and toss their hair in response.

These teenage mating rituals are put on hold as the box officer comes in to make an announcement from the stage. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Can I have your attention for a minute?" she calls out. "Has anyone come in who I've not checked off my list, just so I know whether to hold it."

We wait.

"Anyone?"

A couple of hands raise and the box officer rushes around taking down names.

But it's not enough.

"Has anyone not checked in with me?" she tries again.

Nope. That's it. We're done.

A few latecomers arrive, and the box officer busies herself trying to find them seats.

"There's one here," says a man, pointing at a seat in the middle, covered in a mountain of coats.

"One there?" says the box officer, sounding more than a little stressed. "We're still got nine to come."

Nine?

I look around, trying to spot the empty spaces. I see three. Nine is going to be a bit of a challenge unless they all have their own Jekyll-Hyde split personalities.

Oh well. The doors are closing. Hopefully those nine didn't get swept away in the river.

Pat Abernethy and Dave Marsden step out on stage and get on with telling us this creepy tale of Victorian science gone wrong. Abernethy sits in his lab. Salts are measured, liquids are poured, vile looking concoctions are tipped back throats, and monsters are made. All the while Marsden runs around performing all the other roles.

The theatre door opens.

A family comes in.

A large family.

There must be at least three kids there.

They stand awkwardly, not knowing where to go.

Mum points out a couple of seats on the front row and pushes the youngest ones to slip into them.

A woman in the audience takes pity. She gets up and goes over to help them, wine glass in hand. Seats are found for all of them. Except now the woman with the wine glass has nowhere to put herself.

She looks around, and then spots a stack of folded up chairs leaning against the wall.

Very carefully she takes one, unfolds it, and sets herself up in the corridor.

Masterfully done.

This is clearly someone who has had a crack at ushering in the past.

Over on stage, Abernethy's Hyde is busy trampling small children and generally proving himself to be a bit of a dick. He's like one of those house guests that just refuses to leave, no matter how much potion Jekyll drinks, or how he mixes the salts. He's just there, sitting in that body, letting himself into the lab, and using the butler like his own servant. Oddly though, he does make a point of finding 'willing' women. So, you know. At least he believes in consent.

But even so, there's no help for him. Or that foolish Jekyll. And the poor sod of a doctor has to take the only course of action left to him.

Abernethy and Marston take their bows and then there's that slight awkward pause as they wait for the clapping to stop so that they can actually say something.

"We're doing the show again in January. If you know anyone studying it, it saves having to read the book."

"Only joking!"

Well, that explains all the teens in the audience.

"You can go past," I tell the teen girls from my row. I've got a lot of prep to do before heading outside. Cardigan. Jacket. Umbrella. I'm not taking any chances with that bridge.

No Body Likes Me, Every Body Hates me

The first thing you see when stepping onto the platform at Latimer Grove tube station is Grenfell tower. It looks over the station. The upper levels lit up. A green heart spotlit against the night sky. "Grenfell. Forever in our hearts."

There's no escape from it. Even when you leave the station. The Co-op opposite has a banner slung up one of the upper windows. "Justice 4 Grenfell."

As I walk through the streets to the Playground Theatre, I can feel it behind me. The tower. Looking over my shoulder.

I hope I'm not the only one it's hounding tonight.

I clutch my jacket close about me and check my phone. There's a message from Allison.

"I think I'm here!" it says.

I bring up Google Maps. I'm very much not here. Or there, rather. By the looks of it, I'm a good ten minutes walk away. And that's if I don't get another coughing fit stopping me in my tracks.

"I'm a few minutes late," I lie in my reply.

Just as I'm putting my phone away, the screen lights up again. Another message from Allison. "It's not busy at all."

Oh dear. I really don't like an empty theatre. Especially when I'm unwell. There's no one to hide behind when the choking starts. Then again, I also hate a packed theatre at these times.

As I stumble through the dark streets, I try to work out what percentage of fullness suits my current grotty condition.

Sixty-two percent.

I think that would work nicely. Full enough that I can visibly sink low in my chair and hide myself from the cast. But enough free seats so that I don't get someone else's perfume choices clogging up my throat.

I check my phone again.

I turn a corner and find myself on some sort of industrial estate. Pre-fab buildings line the wide street. From an upstairs window loud music pours out into the otherwise silent air.

I really should update Allison again on my whereabouts. Not that I think I'm about to be murdered. But I'm definitely about to be murdered.

But that's okay. I'm nearly there. That's it, over on the other side of the row.

At least, I think that's it. I can't think of any other reason that one of these stubby little buildings would be surrounded by cafe tables and parked cars.

I hurry over and make my way through the doors.

Inside it's bright and warm, with peach mottled walls and carved wooden doors. An aesthetic that would have given me serious Italian palazzo vibes if it were not for the fact that we were in the middle of an industrial park. By brain realigns, and categorises my surroundings more on the level of upmarket garden centre.

A great big chalk board points the way to the box office and I follow it around into the bar. Glass domes cover a cake selection, and wannabe Phillippe Starck Ghost chairs crowd around metal tables.

Allison waves at me.

I must look even worse than I feel because her smile immediately fades into an expression of concern. "How are you?" she asks in a tone that makes me think only politeness is preventing her from questioning: "what the hell happened to you?"

"I'm ill," I tell her, collapsing into one of the see-through chairs. On cue, I cough.

"You're coughing! Again!"

Yup. I'm coughing. Again.

Properly as well. Not just the cough that I've had for over a year at this point. But the type of really intense, hacking, cough that goes hand-in-tissue with the worst sort of man-flu.

But as I keep on telling my boss, I feel fine. Well, as fine as one can when you literally can't lie down without your lungs trying to escape through your mouth.

Probably not the best condition to be in when going to see an opera, but if I stayed home every time I coughed... well, I'd never leave the house ever again.

"So," I say, pulling myself together and getting out my phone. "There's a sign out there saying we should pick up a playing card." I turn my phone around to show Allison the picture I took. "What do you think that means?"

"I don't know!" comes the reply.

Well, okay. As long as I'm not alone in my ignorance.

I look around.

"It suddenly filled up," explains Allison as I take in the bustle surrounding us. "It was totally dead when I first got here."

A front of houser makes an announcement. It's time to go to our seats.

There's a slow stirring around the bar. No one is going anywhere fast.

As we pass the box office the young woman behind the counter calls out to us. "Hi ladies! Have you got your playing cards?"

"Have we?" I say, turning back to Allison, having completely forgotten the conversation we'd had all of three minutes ago.

"I don't even know what they are!" she replies.

The box officer smiles indulgently at the pair of us, clearly used to people being as useless as us.

"What's your surname?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Maxine?"

That's me.

"Great." She holds out two playing cards. They've been laminated, but that's exactly what they are. The Jack and Nine of Spades. Slightly beaten up and a bit grimy under their plastic coatings. "When you check in, you get playing cards, which you hand over on the door."

Ah, I see. They're admission passes. I should have guessed. They do the same thing over at Camden Peoples' Theatre. Except their ones are new and avoided the laminator in favour of a hole punch. Still, same idea. And very neat.

"And here's a free programme," adds the box officer, handing over a pair of freesheets. I turn mine over to look at it. No cheap photocopies here, oh no. This has been professionally printed. Satin finish. With the artwork on one said and all the credits on the other. Slick. I like it.

We go out into the corridor, passing the loos, and heading towards the entrance to the auditorium. As promised, there is someone on the door to take our cards from us. And then we're in.

It's a big room. Bigger than I expected given there can't be more than fifty-two seats in here. Not unless they added a couple of jokers to the pack.

The stage is floor level. The seats are all lined up on a raked platform. The type of seats that you'd expect to see at a wedding reception. With gold frames and velvet backs.

"Where do you want to sit?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know!"

I start climbing. There are two aisles going on. Three seats on one side. A huge middle section. And then two seats on the far end.

"Shall we sit over there?" I suggest, already making my way over to the other end. Over here, I won't have to sit next to anyone but Allison. I'm hoping that will help with the whole crowding thing.

The seats fill up.

I think we're going to get way past sixty-two percent.

Someone comes out. The director. We're starting out the evening with some piano.

Oh dear.

This does not bode well for my lungs.

Four hands, two pianists, one piano.

It sounds like the beginning of some dodgy YouTube video.

One of the pianists steps forward. Mark Stringer. Who from the looks of the freesheet actually composed the piece too. "As you can tell, I've lost my voice," he says in a quite rasp.

Allison looks round and nudges me. "Like you!" she whispers.

Yeah, like me.

"The producer said 'at least you're not singing tonight!'" Stringer goes on, and we all giggle along with him.

He takes his seat.

The page turner slides forward on hers.

They're ready.

I force a quick cough, hoping that will see me through, but as the four hands hit the one piano, I can tell it's going to be a tough evening.

I look around.

There's only one exit, and that's on the other side. There's no way I can escape without crossing the stage.

Shit.

It's fine.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

I've got my cough sweet. That'll last a good fifteen minutes. The freesheet said this bit of the evening was only half-an-hour long. Fifteen minutes with a cough sweet. And a bottle of water to take me through the rest. I can do that.

I can do that...

I can...

Nope. Nope. I can't.

I'm already coughing.

I bury my face in my scarf, hoping to smoother what noise I can, but Allison sympathetic hand on my shoulder is telling me that I'm not doing a very good job of it.

I reach into my bag and pull out my water bottle, chugging a good half of it before the cough subsides once more.

There. I made it. That wasn't so bad.

And someone else just coughed too. Someone sitting in the back. It's just that time of year, isn't it.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

Except it's not fine and a few minutes later it's starting again.

I dig my nails into the back of my hand, hoping the pain will distract my from the desperation of my lungs.

I doesn't.

I jerk in my seat as my body fights against me, desperate to cough.

My stomach muscles clench. My ribs contract. My face grows hot.

I can't keep it in any more.

I cough.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Loud and deep and rasping.

I sound like I'm dying.

Allison clutches at her neck, clearly horrified at what is happening next to her.

I try to sip water, but it only takes the edge off. Putting off the next bout for a few short minutes.

Over onstage, the page turner looks over at me, giving my the filthiest look I've ever received in my life..

I keep chugging water.

At last, the music comes to a halt and Springer stands up. "That was the end of the first piece," he tells us.

The audience dutifully applauds and I use the time to get out as many coughs as I can.

"The next one has three movements," he goes on. "Like this one, as you may have noticed."

Three movements.

Okay.

I can do that.

I take off the lid of my water bottle. There's no time to be dealing with that now. That's precious seconds wasted between me and hydration right there.

I sip slowly and constantly as the pianists jump back into action with a fast and jaunty piece.

The page turner removes a section of pages and sets it to one side. That's the first movement done.

I hold my entire body taught, every muscle clenched, tiny expulsions escaping from between my pursed lips.

The page turner sets aside another section.

Allison looks over to me and holds up a single finger.

One movement left.

I'm holding my stomach so rigid I'm almost bent over. I'm getting a killer core workout over here. Pity I won't live long enough to appreciate it.

And then it's over.

I curl over, the fit taking hold.

The lady sitting in front of my turns around. I want to apologise to her but I can't talk.

"Shall we go fill up your water bottle?" asks Allison.

I nod. I've drained the poor thing dry.

We go back out into the bar.

There's a table with big glass bottles of water on it.

"Sorry, excuse me," I say to two people standing right in the way. As I refill my bottle I realise the person I just asked to move is the director.

Oh dear.

He can't be very happy with me.

Allison finds an empty table for us.

Still unable to form words, I pull out a Crosstown bag and offer her a doughnut. Strawberry and champagne for her. Spiced pumpkin for me. I instantly feel better.

"It's just men's voices," says Allison, as we enjoy our carb-fest.

She's reading the freesheet.

"Hopefully loud ones," I say, taking a break from my doughnut to cough again. My voice is so raspy now I can barely understand myself.

Conversation out, I settle for reading the freesheet. All of the freesheet. Even the line of thanks.

"Is that...?" I say pointing at a name. "Isn't she a ballerina?"

We both look at the name.

"I don't know..." says Allison.

I get out my phone and google it.

Yup. A ballerina. A Canadian one. Which pleases Allison, who is also one of that tribe.

A bell rings. It's time to go back in.

Forks scrap against plates as the audience members who ordered proper hearty meals for the interval try to finish up.

We go back to our seats.

I ready the water bottle in my lap. Lid off.

The piano has been moved over to the side, and there's the page turner ready to do her bit.

I duck down a little in my chair, hoping she can't see me.

The cast comes out.

Army of Lovers, here we go.

The opera, for four voices, is about an army. Of lovers.

Does what it says on the tin, really. Everyone is coupled off. Which makes them unbeatable. Except of course one bloke has to be difficult and is refusing to get himself a boyfriend. So then they lose.

Sucks.

"You didn't cough!" says Allison as we start to applaud.

"I know!" I say proudly. Or at least try to say, because my voice has entirely gone now. "I tried really hard."

"Thirty-five minutes, you deserve applause."

I do. I really do.

We escape back out into the night air, and I let Allison lead the way. I've got a lot of coughing I need to catch up on.

"I didn't come this way," I say, suddenly noticing that we are now investigating the wrong side of an underpass. "Where are you taking me?”

"It's really dodgy," says Allison. "At least there's two of us. Two women are safer than one."

"I'll protect you," I say, striking a fighting pose before dissolving into another coughing fit.

A man walks past, and gives me a look of disgust.

Well, I never said how I'd protecting her. Being a walking plague is certainly effective.

We turn a corner. And there it is again. Grenfell.

"Christ," I say, somehow caught unawares by it again.

We both stop to look at it.

"It's awful," says Allison after a long moment.

Yeah...

Let's leave it there before I end up saying something trite.

Does an angel contemplate my fate

Turns out, even puppet theatres obey my law of creepy locations.

I've told you about this before. The more dark and dangerous an alleyway, industrial estate, canal, or whatever other deserted and foreboding place you can think of, the more likely it is to contain a fringe theatre. And will you look at this right here. The Little Angel Theatre is tucked away down the bottom of a very dark and shadow-filled Dagmar Passage. And yeah, there might be Georgian buildings with lovely sash windows hugging it along both sides, and I might be walking across wide flagstones, but that's because we're in Islington. It doesn't change the fact that I am definitely about to be murdered. I mean, let's be real, sash windows and wide flagstones didn't put Jack the Ripper off now, did it?

I make it through though, and am not actually murdered. Which is good. I suppose.

The alley opens up into a wide square, with more smart Georgian houses and their sash windows. And off to one side, looking for all the world like a village church hall, is the Little Angel Theatre.

I've already been to their studios just a little down the road, and now it's time to check out the mothership. They finally, finally, have a show for grown ups. Which is a relief. Means I don't have to spend my evening surrounded by a bunch of six year olds that I'm not related to. I'm sure they are pretty stoked about not having to spend their evening with a mardy old lady.

Yeah, as if you couldn't tell, I'm not in the best of moods right now.

I'm ill.

Again.

Barely got over the last grot-fest before succumbing to this one.

What with starting my new job and all, it's no surprise that I'm a bit run down. But still. It would have been nice if I could have got a bit of a breather. A few weeks to recover. Catch up on the blog and all that. I'm already running two weeks behind. At this rate, I won't get this published until March.

Oh well, best crack on.

I go inside.

And stop.

I can't move.

It is absolutely packed in here.

I can see the box office counter just off to one side, but there's no way I can get anywhere close to it.

People are just standing arond. Some of them over by the bar, slightly futher in. A few, like me, trying to pick up their tickets.

But mostly, they're just chatting. Standing and nattering. Loudly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser over the din. "This is your five minute warning. The show will be beginning. Please take your seats."

I brace myself for the surge of people that will be pouring in my direction, but if this lot have heard the nice lady's warning, they have no intention of actually listening to it.

The chatter continues.

Great.

Looks like I'm going to have to dive head on into this mess.

I pushed forward, knocking elbows and bags as I squeeze myself forward towards the box office.

I find myself standing behind someone for a full two minutes before I realise he's already got his tickets and is just standing there for his own personal reasons.

I side-step him, avoiding any nearby toes as much as I can, and push myself into the sole scrap of empty space nearby. Which is thankfully located right in front of the box office.

"Hi!" I say, fighting to draw out what is left of my voice. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Yup!" says the box officer, looking down at her lists. There are three of them. Two handwritten. One printed. She finds me on the printed list and marks off my name. Looks like muggins here was one of the few people who actually paid to be here tonight.

I thought that was it. I was dismissed. But nope. The box officer starts picking up a pile of printed tickets and looks through them until she finds the one that belongs to me.

Gosh. I was not expecting that. It was all laminated admission passes at their studio. Things are done on a different level in the theatre.

I look around.

People still aren't moving.

Seems like it's down to me to set the example and show this lot how it's done.

I aim myself at the door to the theatre and go for it full force, almost falling out of the crowd on the other side.

"We're totally full tonight," says the ticket checker, trying not to look shocked at my dramatic appearance. "You can sit where ever you like, so please squash up."

A full house.

Oh dear.

One thing my cough does not like, is feeling crowded.

Well, not much I can do about that now.

I go in.

And gosh, it's all rather pretty in here. Reminds me of Jackson's Lane. Sort of.

The bare brick walls are painted a deep shade of green. The ceiling is vaulted with wooden beams and dotted with paper lanterns. There's bunting. Long wooden benches are covered in patchworked cushions.

It's charming as fuck.

I spot an empty bench near the back and head straight to it, tucking myself up at the far end.

As I sit down, my arm grazes against something hard, warm, and very knobbly.

I appear to have picked a radiator to be my neighbour.

I set about preparing myself for a warm evening. Jacket: off. Cardigan: off. Sleeves: rolled up.

There, that should do it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the show will begin in a few minutes. So please take your seats. Thank you."

That got them.

People are coming in now.

"Can we move up?" asks a woman settling herself in my row.

"Yeah... sorry. There's a radiator," I say, making a show of touching it with my fingertips and instantly regretting it. "Sorry. I'll burn myself. It's really hot."

Besides that, I'm right on the end of the bench. There's no where for me to go.

The front of houser comes in and starts chivying us all to move down.

"But the radiator," says the woman in my row, gesturing over to me.

The front of houser retreats.

"The wanted us to make room for two people," says the woman turning to me with a look a horror.

I give an equally horrified look back. These benches aren't that long. And there are already four of us in here. One more, fine. But two... well, that's too much.

All suitably squeezed in, the front of houser stomps down to the front of the auditorium. There's some housekeeping rules she needs to tell us. Phones on silent, of course. The running time is one hour and fifteen minutes, but that does include an interval. "I think I said this to each of you on the way in," she goes on. "But if you have a wine glass, keep hold of them! The floor is raked so if you put the down, they will topple over and disturb the show."

"What was that about the floor?" whispers a man in my row.

"It's raked," says the horrified woman. "That means it has a slope to it." She demonstrates the slopped nature of the floor with a skiing hard gesture.

And that's it. We're ready to begin.

Can't remember what we're seeing, to be honest. I didn't get a freesheet.

I look around, sitting up tall in my seat to aid with my quest. Yeah, no one else has one either.

I rummage around in my bag and pull out the ticket. Roll Over Atlantic. That's the name of the show.

I wonder if it has puppets.

I hope it has puppets.

We are in a puppet theatre after all.

A man comes out.

He doesn't have any puppets.

He does have a rather wonderful Christopher Columbus costume though,

I know it's Christopher Columbus because he tells us it is.

"You can boo!" he tells us as we all dutifully clap at this announcement.

A few people attempt a panto-boo.

And so it goes on. Ole Columbo takes us with him on his adventures, in what feels like a low-budget Horrible Histories episode, despite this being, apparently, a show for adults.

A few scenes in, and Columbus isn't the only one in trouble. My cough is starting up again. The packed benches. The radiator. My lungs are not happy.

I reach down into my bag and grab my water bottle, chucking down as much as I can. It's not helping.

I try to time my coughs for the applause. For the loud bits. For anything that will help cover this atrocious hacking cough. But there aren't enough of them.

One man talking is not enough to compete with the mighty sound of my cough.

I shift on my bench, trying to get comfortable. But the backs are so low I can't even lean back without falling into a void.

It's no good. I have to get out of here.

Not now.

There is no way I'm escaping from this bench.

Just got to hold off until the interval. It can't be long. The entire show is barely more than an hour.

Columbus disappears behind the back curtain. I hold myself tight, willing him not to return, But nope, there he is again, popping out from the other side.

He waves his arms about, trying to encouage us to join in. "Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!" he says, for reasons that I can't work out because I'm too busy cough-cough-coughing.

He ducks behind the curtain once more and the theatre gods take pity on my, raising the house lights.

I lean forward and make a grab for my scarf and jacket.

"Do you want to get out?" asks the woman in my row, readying herself to stand up. "Cool off?"

"Yeah..." I say, winding the scarf around my neck and hefting up my bag. "I don't think a cough quite goes with this show. I think I'm going to make my escape."

"Awww," she says, sounding genuinely sorry for me. "Get well."

I slip out the row, stopping in the foyer just long enough to pull on my jacket and snap a photo of the box office, before escaping into the night.

There, in the freezing solitude of the square, I cough and cough and cough until my stomach aches and my throat is raw.

And then I begin the slow walk back to the tube station.

Back to BAC

Brrr. It's freezing out here on Lavender Hill. It feels like all the winds have come raging over the Thames to come terrorise south London tonight.

I bounce around on the pavement, willing the traffic lights to change.

This is my last trip to Battersea Arts Centre of the marathon and I don't want to be late. Or freeze to death before I even get there.

Now, I know you. And I can tell that you've been counting up all my BAC trips on your fingers, and you're gearing up to lecture me about all the other venue space they've got which I haven't been to yet. But I'm going to stop you right there. Have you seen Battersea Arts Centre? I mean, obviously you have. But have you really taken note of how many rooms they got going on in that place? Hundreds. And any one of them is a potential theatre. It's impossible. You could do a year-long theatre marathon in that building alone. So, this is it. I've done the Grand Hall. That's the biggie. And the Council Chamber. And the Recreation Room. And I'm on my way to see something in the Members’ Bar. That's four theatres. And I think that's enough. The whole point of this marathon was to experience the different theatres, and I think after tonight I'll have the BAC experience down.

So yeah, don't be coming at me because I didn't go to the Porter's Room or whatever. Because, I totally tried. I've been keeping tabs on where all their shows have been for ten months now. And I haven't seen anything come up.

With relief I spot the bright lights of the BAC shining out in the darkness and I skuttle up the stone steps and through the wooden doors into the lobby.

I pause, looking around.

Last time I was here there was a desk set up against that wall for the box office, but it's empty tonight.

I pass through the next set of doors, into the main foyer, with its glorious bee-patterned mosaic floor.

It's quiet tongiht. There's a group in the corner, chatting around a table, and there's a bit of buzz going on in the bar, but otherwise, it's almost deserted.

I can see the box office though. A small desk tucked up next to that grand staircase.

"Hi!" I say, pulling off my gloves with relief. It's lovely and warm in here. "The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer opens her mouth to say something, but I get there first.

"It's for A Haunted Experience," I tell her.

"That's brilliant," she says with a nod, looking through the ticket box. I notice she's wearing a great big badge, asking me to ask her about a free drink. That's weird. "What's the first name please?"

I tell her. Should I ask her about the drink?

"Great! That's your ticket and your card receipt. The house is opening soon. You're upstairs."

I decide not to pursue the drink angle.

I don't even go to the bar. I probably should. What with it being my last trip to BAC and my last opportunity to write about it. But honestly, what I want is to to sit on one of those wooden school chairs and just... not talk to anyone for a few minutes.

It's so warm, and quiet, and cosy, I feel myself getting dozy and I have to stifle a yawn.

I know how this place works. When the house opens, the usher standing on the stairs will make an announcement and we'll all traipse up. All I have to do is settle down and wait.

Above the staircase there's a sign. It says hope.

All the lights are out.

That better not be a metaphor.

It's five to eight.

A woman sitting near me gets up and goes to talk to the usher on the stairs.

"Yeah, it hasn't opened yet," says the usher brightly. "But it's up the stairs and to the left."

The left, eh? That's exciting. I haven't been to any of the rooms on the left. Good thing I decided to pay this place one more visit.

A few minuts later, the annoucement comes.

"The house is now open for A Haunted Experience."

People emerge from every corner, and we start to make our way up the stairs, turning left, then right, and heading down to the end of the corridor.

I'm glad all this lot know where they're going, because I have no idea.

Right at the end, there's a table set up with stacks of plastic cups ready for drinks to be poured into.

And a front of houser, a pile of freesheets slung over her arms, ready to check tickets.

"Can I get one of those?" I say, indicating the freesheets.

"Sure you can," she says. She tries to pull one free, but they're all clinging together. "If I can get one loose," she laughs. She manages to peel one apart though and hands it to me.

Freesheet acquired, I go through the door. There's a ticket checker waiting on the other side. "That's grand," she says as I show mine to her. "You're in the second row. That's round the stage and up the stairs, and you're on the end there." She points at my seat, which, as it happens, is right by where we're standing.

I need to go round the long way though. There's a bit of a railing situation going on.

The seats are a single raked bank. Set within a large room displaying the kind of decayed elegance that is very chic at the moment in the world of theatre. The walls are a collage of paint jobs-past, speckled with missing plaster. Large windows have been bordered up with heavy-duty shutters involving wooden planks and metal rods. These are the kind of shutters a vampire would install in his holiday home. Not a scrap of sunlight would dare attempt to get in past those.

As the usher cheerfully guides the rest of the audience to their seat, I get comfy in mine.

Three record players line up in front of us, glowing in their individual spotlights. A black cloth has been hung up behind them.

I don't know what to make of any of it.

I'll admit I have no idea what I booked for, just the title was intriguing and the venue required.

I look at the freesheet.

There's a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. The heading is: A Pestilence. It's about the surprising number of "homosexual crimes" being brought before the assizes.

Something tells me we're not going to get a cheeky ghost story tonight.

The lights dim.

Tom Marshman appears behind the black curtain, made sheer by the lighting.

He stands with his back to us, his arms outstretched into semaphore as letters are projected onto the black cloth. The alphabet of inadequate language.

When we reach z, he steps out, all smiles and welcoming.

He's going to be using the record players. He's not an expert on them. But he wants to be. We all giggle at that.

And so it begins. Marshman setting up records as he tells us the story of a seventeen-year-old boy, on a train in 1953, who propositions an undercover policeman, and then goes on to name other homosexual men. He's not ashamed. He's almost blase about the situation.

"You may find these things morally wrong," he tells them. "But I do not."

Going off to one side, Marshman sets up a slide projector, to show us the translations of a secret language, Polari, spoken by gay men.

The young man sitting next to me reaches forward and pulls a pale pink notebook from his bag. Flicking through it to the next free page, he writes something down. "Clobber," he writes in black felt tip. "Clothes," in Polari.

Marshman sets up more records, dances around, even gives us a couple of headstands. All the while delving into what it meant to be a gay man before the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967.

By the end, the young man next to me is crying.

"Don't say I never take you to anything," he says to his date as the lights go up. His cheeks are bright red with tears. He wipes them with the back of his hands and gives us a great big sniff.

I can't blame him. That was traumatic.

But Marshman isn't done yet. He has three things to tell us. The first is that there is a trip to Wandsworth archives if anyone wants to join. The second is that he's selling pewter mugs. He holds one up for us to see and smiles sheepishly. Twenty quid and they say "you may find these things morally wrong, but I do not," on them. They're rather tasty. I wouldn't mind getting my hands on one of those.

"What's the other thing?" says Marshman, placing down the cup. "I know I had three things to tell you... ah yes!" We're to tell our friends. And if they could come on Saturday that would be great, because it's rather quiet.

That would be a shame. Marshman is one hell of an engaging performer.

Now, who can I convince to buy me a pewter mug for Christmas?

Nuestra casa es mi casa

"Can I check your bag?" asks the bag checker as I struggle with my umbrella outside the doors to The Other Palace.

I shove the wet umbrella under my arm and open the bag for him.

For once, it's not bursting to the brim with spare shoes and the results of various shopping trips. I'm almost not embarrased to have someone looking inside. Until I spot the constellation of cough sweet wrappers floating on wave of the general mess going on in there.

Oh well.

The cough sweet wrappers don't seem to bother him, and he waves me inside.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for Reputation," says a disembodied voice.

Gosh. That was good timing. No hanging around here tonight.

I make my way over to the small podium that serves as the box office.

Yup. I actually invested my coin in getting a proper paper ticket this time around. I may have baulked at the fee for receiving such an honour when I was here for the main house, but as it's my final trip to this place, I figured I should see what one pound fifty actually buys me.

A queue forms for the stairwell down to the studio, and the box officer steps back from her podium in order to check tickets.

I wait, ready to launch myself into any gap in the line, but if anything, it keeps growing.

I stand there, awkwardly, wondering what I should do.

"No rush!" calls out a front of houser. "Plenty of seats for everyone."

That immediately sends me into a fit of anxiety. I can see full well that it's not going to be an empty house down there. And while I don't mind sitting at the back for my marathon trips, I don't like be slotted into random empty spaces at the last moment.

"They'll scan your tickets downstairs, so don't put them away!" continues the front of houser.

That's all very well, but I still haven't got mine.

As a group arrives, with a ream of tickets so long it reaches the floor, I take my chance and step in.

"I'm collecting?" I say.

The box officer turns to me for the first time. "For Reputation?"

"Yes. The surname's Smiles."

"Yeah! I saw that!"

A give a humble shrug, playing the celebrity that just got recognised while doing her weekly shop.

"Do you know the postcode?" she goes on.

I do.

"Lovely. There you go," she says handing me the ticket.

It's nice enough, I guess. White with a black border, like Victorian mourning stationery. There's The Other Palace logo in the corner and on the tab. And a stern warning that patrons with standing tickets will be required to be on their feet for the duration.

I do not have a standing ticket, so I'm not required to do shit.

I turn around and join the back of the queue, flashing my ticket to the box officer when I pass her. She nods, without the tiniest hint of recognition in her features to demonstrate that we talked all of ten seconds ago. I get it. You got to play it cool and let celebs get on with their daily lives.

Down the stairs I go. There are a lot of them. Every time we turn a corner more of them appear. The walls are lined with black and white photos of glamorous looking people.

But we finally make it to the bottom, and there's the promised ticket checker, waiting on the door.

"Head to the left, please," she intructs.

Inside there's a smart bar. And right in front of it, rows of seating.

Ah. I see what they're going for here. A kind of cabaret space.

I keep heading left, not sure how far left I'm supposed to go.

I pass a corner settee, all set up with tables and reserved signs.

"Mummmm," cries a small child crawling over the sofa. "I can't believe you got the worst view in here.... I can't believe.... Mummmmm. You got the worst seats. I can't believe! Mum!"

I don't know what he's on about. They look pretty darn cosy to me. Much better than the tight-packed rows of chairs.

Past the comfy corner there's another set of chairs. And an empty aisle seat. I hurry over to it.

"Is this free?" I ask the next person in the row.

"Yes, there's one left," she says. I pause. What a strange way to word it. As if she has claimed the row, and now has a spare chair she doesn't mind getting rid of.

An old man sitting in the row behind grabs the back of the chair and starts inching it away from its neighbours.

"I don't know why they put them so close. There's plenty of space," he grumbles as he, quite literally, rearranges the furniture.

I sit down before he can shift me any further along, but that doesn't stop him faffing.

"I'm just going to pull my chair back," he announces. "No one's behind me yet."

What may happen when someone does arrive does not appear to bother him.

A bloke comes along and starts closing up the vents in the ceiling above us. Halfway through he stops and spots the moved chairs.

"Sorry," he says. "I have a minimum area I have to keep clear." He starts to move the chairs back to where they were, to an accompaniment of grumbling from those sitting in them.

One old lady insists she cannot see. He tells her she's free to move. But the chair needs to stay where it is.

She grumbles a bit more.

More people arrive. It's really full now. They look at the reserved signs sitting on a couple of chairs. They pick them up and move them, before turning around in their seats to greet the people sitting behind them.

Oh yes. I'm at one of those shows. Where everyone knows everyone, and they are all connected with someone in the show.

No wonder they feel they have the right to treat this place like their living room.

A man with a silk scarf looped around his neck steps forward, holding a mobile phone aloft. He turns in a slow circle before going back to his seat.

I'm not quite sure what to make of that. Did he, like, find a mobile in the toilets or something? Is this how they do lost and found at The Other Palace? I'm baffled.

A few minutes later he's back, doing the rounds, chatting to all the old dears who are "very excited, so very excited," about the show.

Something tells me he's the composer.

Eventually he gets his fill of attention and we can get on with the show.

We're in some sort of girls' finishing school, and all the students are super excited because one of their number has just finished writing their novel. Which, if you ask me, shows a distinct lack of understanding about girls' schools, or writers' friends, but there you go. She's written a book about a mafia boss, and yet we are still asked to believe that she is naive enough to send in her novel, with a twenty-dollar fee I might add, to some rando guy who advertised in Variety.

Obviously he steals her story, because that's a thing that totally happens in real life, and cross-continental hijinks ensue.

It's the interval.

"I love it," coos an old lady as the suspected-composer returns on his rounds. "I love it. I love it."

"It needs to be in a bigger venue," she goes on after he's left. "It needs a big stage."

That's not a criticism that would ever have occurred to me. I mean... Wicked needs a big stage. Les Mis needs a big stage. A story about a bunch of boarding school girls does not strike me as needing a big stage. Unless she means it needs more room for the pillow fights.

The moving-chair man is back. This time he wants to finish closing those vents. He bashes against my knees as he squeezes himself into my row, and leans right over me as he thwacks at the vents with his rolled-up programme.

I cringe at the way he's treating that poor booklet. No programme has ever deserved such punishment.

By the sounds of it, the back row has been having a very good time at the bar. They're giggling and laughing and chatting, and have no intention of stopping even when the lights go down for act two. They whisper and snort their way through each song, only stopping when one of their phones goes off.

"Sorry!" the owner of the misbehaving phone announces loudly to the room in general.

A few numbers later, when another phone goes off, it's allowed to ring and ring and ring.

We all twist around in our chairs, trying to find the source, but no-one’s owning up.

Up on stage, the girl wins an Oscar and everyone congratulates her for winning her case and no one rolls their eyes at her being such a damn fool. Not even once. Which is nice. I guess.

Anyway, it's over now.

I make a break for it, racing up those stairs before someone tries to move them.

Elbows at Dawn

I'm off to the Bush Theatre tonight. A place I love. Although I'm fairly confident I've thrown a lot of shit over the years, complaining that they are hard to get to just because they're lurking all the way down at the end of the Circle line.

Yeah, well. My tolerance of hard-to-get-to-ness has been raised this year. I've shivered on platforms for twenty minutes waiting for trains that would never come. I've walked miles. I've had nice ladies on trains offer me sweets to stop me from fainting in overheated carriages. The Bush Theatre is not hard to get to. It's right opposite Shepherds Bush Market, for gawd's sake. I admit it. I was precious as fuck at the start of this year. But I have had my consciousness raised. And I think we can agree that I'm the better for it.

Anyway, as I was saying, I do love the Bush Theatre. It's so nice. And homey. And warm. And welcoming. And shiny. Let's not forget that. It's looks hella swish, with its bright yellow signage and fine red brick walls.

I don't think there could even be a more welcome sight than that of the warm light pouring out of the Bush's glass frontage after you've just battled against the Hammersmith and City line to get there.

Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop talking about trains now. I am. I promise.

I scoot through the little courtyard area that the Bush has going on, and through the automatic doors.

It's packed. I'm late. And everyone is busy getting their drink orders in before going in.

I join the queue at the box office. It moves fast, and soon enough I'm at the front giving my surname.

"Pardon?" says the box officer, leaning in.

"Smiles? S. M. I-"

He's already off, looking through the ticket box, and yup. He's found them.

"Your tickets are here," he says, handing them over. "It's seventy minutes straight through. No readmission."

That has to be the most perfect sentence in the English language. Seventy minutes straight through. The absolute dream.

As I double back the way I came, I find myself practically having to step over people as they pour through the door.

I know I should have avoided all this by looping my way around the box office and past the bar in order to get to the auditorium, but there's a chalkboard here that I want to get a photo of.

Yes, there it is.

"Baby Reindeer," it reads in pretty purple letters.

"70 minutes. No interval."

Oh bliss. I read that again just to revel in the sheer joy of it.

"No readmittance."

Yup. Love it.

"Contains haze." Cool. "Strong language." Fuck yeah. "References to sexual abuse, violence, stalking & transphobia." Oh. Shit. Well, guess you can't have everything in life. Here I was thinking I was getting a nice play about Rudolph from before he got famous.

"Hello and welcome to the Bush Theatre. For tonight's performance, Baby Reindeer, please take your seats. It'll be starting in five minutes."

Right then. Looks like I've going in.

I go through the strange stairwell that the Bush has in the middle of their foyer.

Over on the other side is the entrance to the newly named Holloway Theatre.

I had forgotten about that. And the near heart attack that the announcement had given me. I don't want any theatres tweeting out about their 'new theatres' between now and New Year. I'm calling time on openings, reopenings, renamings, and anything else until the clock hits midnight on 31 December. Then they can do what they want. Open pop-ups in their gender-neutral loos if that's what they want to do.

But some of us have marathons that we're still pretending are possible to finish. And I don't want any more nonsense before it's over. My heart cannot take it.

On the bar is a huge dispenser of cucumber water. A woman stops to pull out a water bottle and fills it up with spa-goodness before rejoining the queue.

The ticket checker is selling playtexts.

Fuck yeah.

You know how much I love programmes. And playtexts? Well, they are just another level on top of that. You get to take the entire play home with you, for four quid! That's epic. As is the knowledge these fuckers are going to cost the best part of a tenner when they hit the theatre section of Foyles.

"Can I get a playtext?" I ask the ticket checker.

"Of course!" she says with suggests that people here don't know what a damn bargain they're getting. "That's four pounds."

I get out my purse, but the queue behind me isn't going away.

I step back and wave the next person forward.

"Oh sorry," they say, as if it was them getting in my way. They dither for a second, but then, with the more embarrassed expression ever, step forward.

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask the very patient ticket checker. The queue is growing bigger by the minute, and I'm not sure there's enough cucumber water left to keep these people going while I start searching for four pound coins.

Turns out she does, and we do that awkward hand shuffle as we trade currency and balance a playtext between the both of us.

Inside, another front of houser waits for us. I shove my purse back in my bag and show him my ticket.

"B11? Over there, second row," he says, pointing across the stage to the opposite block of seating.

I pause to look around.

You never know what you are going to find in the Bush.

Tonight we're in the round. Or rather, in the square. With seating on four sides.

An almost Gothic arched architecture has been sculpted out of the space with cloth sails stung up between pillars.

In the centre is a circle of light.

I make my way around to what the sign tells me, is block D.

I find my seat. Second row. Right on the aisle.

Nice.

A group of girls come over. One of them is pointing to the empty seats next to me.

I get up to let them pass.

"That's not us," one of them says with the type of disdain that can only be levelled against someone you are really good friends with.

"Oh, sorry," says the pointer to me, with a hand motion for me to sit back down. She squints at the seats. "No! It is! Look! Sorry, that is us."

The two girls thank me as they pass.

A third, silent one, follows on behind. She doesn't say anything, but does give me a good jab with her elbows as she takes her jacket off, which I'm sure you can agree, is almost as good.

As I nurse my bruised arm, I look around.

It's a very young crowd in here. Lots of cool-looking people. Even the usher is wearing a beanie with his t-shirt.

Strange pits have been sunk into the floor, and the people sitting in them manage to not "oof" as they climb into them. That's the level of youth we're talking here.

As the lights dim, projections whizz around us on the gothic sails, and Richard Gadd appears to tell us the tale of his stalker.

It's great.

Like, it's really great.

Like, properly fucking amazing.

I'm not the only one to think so.

Across the way from me is a young woman with red hair, watching rapt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with horror at Gadd's story.

She winces and gasps and clutches her wine glass to her chest.

I can't stop staring at her.

It's getting embarrassing. But I have never in all my life seen such an expressive face.

Just as I realise that I'm quick becoming the stalker in this room, the man sitting in front of my rams his elbow back, right into my knee.

I wince and shift away as his arm retreats.

But a second later, he does it again. His elbow rising up as his rummages around in his trouser pocket.

Then a third time.

Gawd knows what he's keeping in there.

I add my knee to my list of bruised limbs.

Honestly, there must be some point-based game going on at the Bush tonight. How many times can the audience elbow the person in B11?

Four times.

That's how many.

Gadd finishes his tale, leaving a cuddly toy reindeer on the stage behind him as he retreats from our applause, only returning to give the room a general thumbs-up.

We head for the exit, crowding it as four different blocks of seats aim for a single door.

"I like the space," says someone standing behind me.

"Great space," their companion agrees.

"You'd never been to the old space though," says the first, with the smugness of a true Bush-hipster.

As I wait, I turn airplane mode on my phone off.

There's a notification.

A general election has been called.

Oh, what fun.

At least I don't have to get on the tube now. I can walk to Hammersmith from here. That's something...

The next day I'm still thinking about Baby Reindeer.

Fuck, that play is intense. Seventy minutes of pure heart-pounding fear. And it was funny too.

There's a level of talent there, that I just can't process. I don't understand how people like that manage to exist. I can't even say I'm jealous, because we exist on entirely different levels of reality.

I scroll through Twitter, half to read about what people more intelligent than I am are saying about the election, and half to distract myself from thoughts of Martha the stalker.

And then I see her.

That girl.

The one with the red hair.

I stop scrolling, picking up the phone to so at it closely.

Yup, that's definitely her. She's even wearing the same jumper I saw her in last night. Black. With roses.

She's only bloody in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. That's Emma May Uden!

Fuck's sake. I told you she had an expressive face. She's a frickin' actor.

I very carefully do not follow her on Twitter before shutting down the app, putting away my phone, and deciding to take a break from social media.

A Nightmare on New Cross Road

I'm a little bit nervous about going to tonight's theatre. I've never been there before, but I've seen it. Many times, Back when I was a post-grad student, I used to walk past it all the time.

It lurked. Underground. Just off to the side of the pavement. Only a black board covered in rain-soaked flyers hinting at its existence.

I've told you before about my theory on finding fringe theatre venues when you are a bit lost. The trick is to always head in the direction that looks most likely to contain your inevitable death. The darker and more narrow the alleyway, the more likely it is to have a sixty-seater venue specialising in diverse new writers. I'm telling you. You could plot those points on a graph and get yourself a very tasty sigmoid curve going on.

And so it is with The London Theatre, luring us down beneath New Cross Road for the most nefarious purpose of all: theatre.

I should say, so it was with The London Theatre.

Because it's not called The London Theatre anymore.

Perhaps they had one too many confused tourists come in thinking they were going to get their weep on at a big-budget performance of War Horse, and decided to switch to a slightly less misleading name: The Ale Room.

Whether the theatre will live up to the promise of its new name, I guess I'm going to find out.

Soon.

I pause on the pavement and take my usual exterior photos. But they are taking forever. I tell myself it's because it's dark, and that my camera is struggling with the reflections from the street lights. But both you and I know that this is all a crock of shit. I'm dithering. Not wanting to go inside. Putting it off for as long as possible.

An old man laden down with shopping passes by and gives me a funny look.

I should get a move on, before people start thinking that I'm casing the joint.

Down the stairs I go, and through the door.

Inside is a very small corridor. Brightly lit and painted white. It doesn't look like it belongs to a theatre. It doesn't look like it belongs to anything. What it looks like, is a mistake.

Over on the wall is a small gap. More of a hole, really.

A woman peers out at me from behind it.

"Box office?" I ask doubtfully.

"Yup?" she says, confused at my confusion.

I slide over. "The surname is Smiles?"

She runs her pen down the list of names in front of her. "Yup! Enjoy," she says with a finality that suggests that our exchange is over.

Well, okay then.

I guess I just go through.

There isn't any signage, so it with some trepidation that I follow the corridor around a corner.

But it isn't a man wearing a ski mask and wielding a samurai sword waiting for me on the other side. Oh no. Instead, I find a small room, with a bar taking up one wall, and a large mirror over on the other. The space in between is rammed with a chaise longue and various other seating arrangements.

I appear to have just stepped into the smallest pub in all the world. And while the crowd over by the bar is too dense for me to actually get a good look at what's on offer, I'm sure they have a very fine selection of ales going on back there.

I don't really fancy asking the girls sharing the chaise longue whether they mind squishing up to make room for me, so I go through to the second room to investigate what's going on in there.

In here, there's a long wooden table with an equally long wooden bench, which I immediately claim as my own.

And from this angle, I can see that there's a set of dog bowls down on the floor. They're empty, but they're there. I look around for the corresponding hundry dog, but if there is the scamper of four paws going on anywhere in this place, I can't find it.

There is a poster though. Stuck up at dog-height. "Mutt Stop," it says, with an arrow pointing down at the empty bowls.

I'm not sure what to make of that.

Nor of the aeroplane seating I've just spotted over at the back of the room. There's even an oxygen mask hanging down from the ceiling.

Nice to know that we'll be looked after in the event of The Ale Room going down, I suppose.

And then I remember the empty dog bowls.

That oxygen mask probably isn't even hooked up to an air supply.

"And The London Theatre...?" asks someone, who is isn't me, but probably should have been, over at the bar. Bless them, tackling the hard-hitting questions I want to know the answer to, but am prevented from asking because of my crippling social anxiety,

"Yeah," says the guy behind the bar, with the tones of someone who has had to answer this question a lot. "Basically, The London Theatre was sold..."

I don't hear the rest of his explanation because I am immediately distracted by a group talking about the play.

"Did they tell you anything?" asks the person in the group who clearly knows everything there is to know about this work.

"It's comfort girls?" comes the tentative reply.

"Yeah," says the first person, nodding regally. "Pretty much. I saw it last night and it's... harrowing."

Oh good.

That's what I really wanted tonight. A harrowing play in a basement theatre in New Cross.

I can't claim to be surprised through. I knew full well what I was booking.

Joy Division. Not the post-punk band that features heavily on my Spotify playlists, unfortunately. But the name for the Nazi sex slaves kept to service the officers.

I did consider wearing my band t-shirt today but thought better of it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it's fucking freezing. But also, perhaps more importantly, no front of houser deserves to be confronted by some who so clearly misunderstood the nature of the show they were attending. Even if they do work in a creepy basement. I can see them now, their poor little faces, all scrunched up as they try to work out how to explain the situation. Oof. Even I'm not that cruel.

The line of people at the bar shifts and I manage to catch a glimpse of a huge glass jar crammed with what looks like dog treats.

That's a relief.

The dog bowl is ready to be filled when the moment comes. Even if this audience does remain disappointingly human.

A young woman comes in and takes a seat on the bench next to me.

It sinks alarmingly under our combined weights and I brace my feet against the ground, sending up a short prayer to the theatre gods that we won't need that oxygen mask.

I check the time.

It's ten past eight. Ten whole minutes past the start time, with no sign of the house opening. There's a door in the opposite room, a black curtain and metal chain keeping us out. I presume that's the entrance to the theatre, and not just where they keep the bodies.

It's packed in here, but I can't help but think they must be stalling while they wait for latecomers to arrive.

Plenty of small venues do it. And it's not like I disapprove of the practice. But, it's now twelve whole minutes past eight. On a Monday. And I kinda want to get on with things so that I can either go home or get murdered. Either way, I want to be sleeping before midnight.

The music cuts out.

"Right guys," says a man stepping through the crowd towards the dark door. "If you want to come through!"

I'm not sure I do, but I fall in line with everyone else just the same.

Beyound the black curtain, is a small black room.

With a dead body on the ground.

A guiding hand points me towards the front row.

"Can I go in the back?" I say, keeping a careful eye on the body.

It's a woman. Lying face down on the floor. She's dressed in a shift, except so boxy it might as well be a hospital gown. It's filthy with blood and grime.

The man hesitates "There's so much action," he says, waving in the general direction of the dead body, "we're trying to fill up the front."

Oh.

I glance at the body. Her feet at bare. The soles pointed towards the front row. They look vulnerable and sad, and I really don't want to be staring right at them.

"Can I sit over there?" I say, pointing at the small group of seats on the short wall by the door.

I can, so I tuck myself into the corner.

I look around.

It's a small room. Long and quite narrow. The walls are painted black.

There are two rows of chairs, on two side of the room. With a few extra tucked under a window in the corner. I can't quite make it out, but I suspect the tech desk is on the other side of that glass.

Behind me is a clock. You don't often get those in theatres. They tend to take the casino approach, in that it's better for audiences not to know how long they've been in there.

Not that it matters. It's showing entirely the wrong time.

Below it, behind the last row of chairs, is a model railway. A small one. But even so. That's weird. Like, super weird. Like, serial killer level of weird.

I twist back in my chair and try to pretend that I've haven't even seen it.

More people come in and they fill in the seats around me.

"Go in the front, you'll see more," is the constant advice.

I watch the body down on the floor carefully. If that's an actor regulating her breathing, she is damn good at it.

Disconcertingly good.

We are definitely all about to get murdered.

Although when it comes to it, the last people through the door have to plonk themselves in the second, and only other, row.

I'm slightly jealous.

Even more so when the play starts.

Things are not going well for the woman on the floor. She's not dead, but that's hardly an upgrade given the circumstances. As the other girls in the camp discover her, sympathy is not first on their list of priorities. And it's left to the new girl to look after her.

Everyone is frightened. Terrified.

They live in a prison where three mistakes will have them taken out back and shot.

They're jealous of the Jewish Poles over at the other camp. They only have to do factory work. They don't have the constant threat of bad reports hanging over them.

There are compensations though. Stockings and sweets from one of their regulars.

That is, until he finds out that the beautiful newcomer is Jewish.

Reminding us that now, although the camps are nothing more than a tourist destination to take selfies, the crimes they perpetuated are still happening all over the world, the cast returns, stumbling in too high heels as they gyrate under the red lights.

The men in the front row squirm, embarrassed, not sure where to look.

"Can I ask everyone to go to the main room, as the actors are coming out."

We file out, past the model railway and the clock saying the wrong time, and back into the smallest pub in the world.

A queue forms at the bar. I'm not surprised. You need a drink after that.

But I make a break for it. Up the stairs and back into the cold night air, glad I got away with my life.

Blood on the Dance Floor

When you are walking down a dark, covered, alleyway, what you really want it is to be overtaken by someone wearing a floor-length red cape.

If I wasn't already feeling like I was stepping into some other realm, possibly one with trolls and ogres and villains with fantastic eyeliner, I definitely am now.

At the end of the tunnel, the pathway opens up into a small courtyard, lined with diamond-paned windows.

Above the gothic arches however, is a very modern neon sign, all jumbled letteres spelling out: Toynbee Studios.

It's taken a while to get here.

They don't have much of a theatre programme.

And even when they do, there's no guartentee that it will go ahead.

I had a show booked in months ago. All the way back in May, I think it was.

But it got cancelled. The artist pulled out. There was some controversy going on. I'm not sure exactly what it was. The cancellation email didn't fully explain it. It was all apologetic, but what it was apologising for remained unsaid. From what I could gather, there was a transphobic incident. But whether it was against staff, or artists, or an audience member, I could not tell.

Whatever, the result was the same: the artist pulled out, and I've had to wait five long months to find another show to book into.

And that was not easy.

Not the actual booking. That was fine. All online. Click, click, click, done.

It was the giving up on another venue that made it tricky.

I wasn't planning on being in E1 tonight. I was supposed to be in Edmonton. And quite another theatre. Another hard to book theatre. Another rarely-programmed theatre. And I had to choose between the two of them, knowing either one would result in my failing the marathon.

In the end, I chose Toynbee. Mainly because the show sounded more interesting.

I hope they appreciate that.

l go inside.

And there's a merch desk. Right there by the box office. It has t-shirts. And a crowd of people looking at them.

I stop to have a look.

I hadn't even heard of this guy, Ron Athey, but clearly he's a thing because most merch desks I see on my marathon travels are deserted. No one wants to be spending money at the theatre. But here they are, the fans, all queueing up and having serious discussions about designs and sizing.

I sneak around the queue and join the considerably shorter one at the box office counter.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say to one of the two box officers crowded behind it.

"Yup! Sure," he says, grabbing a clipboard and looking down the list. "Is that Maxine?"

It is.

The other box officer fetches something and holds it out. Into my palm she pours a single wooden ball.

I stare at it.

It looks like the kind of thing you put in your sock drawer to keep the moths away.

"If you hand that to the steward on your way in," says the first officer, pointing the way into a bar that is so packed all I can see is a shifting wall of people.

I'm not very good with crowds, so I go in the opposite direction, back through the door and out into the quiet courtyard.

I find a wall to lean against and breath in the cold night air.

Within seconds, I'm trapped by a queue full of people trying to make it into the building. There's no room for them in the box office. So they're pouring at the door. Pinning me to my wall.

Not overly keen on this, but at least it gives me the opportunity to inspect all their outfits from up close. Because these people are serving up looks.

Red cloak lady was only the start.

We've got mohawks and backcombing and leather and eyeliner. So much eyeliner.

The post-punk crowd as come to Toynbee and I am here for it.

Introductions pour out around me as groups of friends collide.

"Do you know...?

"Oh yeah. I think we met a few years back..."

"Have you been to one of his shows before?"

But as the line grows, I begin to feel insecure about my medicore gothiness, so I find somewhere else in the courtyard to stand. Somewhere with an excellent view of the bar. Somewhere we I can get all my fashion inspo while being a creeper in the distance, which, I'm going to be honest, is what I've always wanted.

Except, by the looks of it, the crowd is starting to thin.

They're going in.

I should probably go too.

I squeeze past the line, apologising and hope they don't think I'm just queue barging. I hold my wooden ball like a talisman, ready to show it off to anyone who questions me.

Through the bar, and up towards the door on the opposite side.

There's a sign listing trigger warnings which I skim over. Beneath them is a notice saying there's a quiet room to escape to, and that the pink lanyarded staff can help if we need anything.

That gives me pause.

I go back to the warnings.

BDSM. Violence. Ritual beheadings. Nudity. Blood.

Live blood.

Live bloodletting.

That's... concerning.

I mean, I don't mind blood. What woman does? But I do have a very particular blood thing that I am super not into, which makes me feel queasy when I see it on TV or whatever. A live demonstration of that very particular thing is going to have me throw up. Or faint. Or quite possibly both.

There's a corridor out here and front of housers are busy handing out branded plastic cups to those bringing in drinks.

"Go ahead if you have your ball," says one of them, spotting my lack of drink.

Something tells me the Toynbee front of housers really enjoy saying that.

Down the hallway and there's another usher by the door to the auditorium. She's carrying a canvas sack.

"Just put your balls in the bag," she says cheerfully.

Yup. The Toynbee staff love their balls.

I drop mine in, and go in.

And stop.

Okay, so like. I saw the courtyard. I saw the paned windows.

And yet somehow, I didn't see this venue coming.

It's big. And red. With a massive stage. And is doling out some serious music hall vibes. Or perhaps art deco cinema. One of those.

They should have dance performances in here. That stage looks made for it. Wide and deep. Lots of room for jetes.

The nearest block of seats is empty and I make my way over to them.

But the front of houser in here is directing people over to the other side.

"Sorry, did you say the centre or the far side?" I ask him.

"Yes," he says, turning to me. "Otherwise the view is a bit restricted from over here."

I look over at the stage.

It's really deep.

That thing goes back for ever.

And right at the back, on the wall, is a projection. With words. Lots of them. A whole block of text. Only half of which is visible from where I am.

Far side it is then.

All the seats on the aisle are filled up, but I ask some nice girls if I can get past and they stand up to let me through. I leave a seat spare between us. Just to be polite.

But people keep pouring in.

The show is sold out.

A couple are inching their way into our row.

I stand up to let them past.

The guy goes on ahead, but the girl plonks herself into the skipped seat next to me.

"Oh..." I say, confused.

"Nah, it's okay," says the guy.

"Do you want to switch seats," I ask the girl. "So you can sit together?"

"Sure!" says the girl.

I look to the guy, but he isn't moving.

"Which way do you want to go?" I ask, more than happy to move further away from the aisle, well aware that I am the interloper here and I should be giving up my superior seat to true fans.

But the girl isn't having it. "You can have this seat," she says. "They're not assigned."

Well, okay then.

We switch.

I lean back, and look around, trying to get a sense of this place. It's massive. And yet only has one theatre show in an entire year. What on earth do they do with it the rest of the time?

"Have you seen him before?" someone asks their neighbour in the row in front.

"Yahhhh!" comes the enthusiastic reply.

"Oh, you know him?"

He confirms that he is familiar with Ron Athey's work.

"That's okay then." 

Is it? I'm not so sure.

"I hope it's not as dark as last time..."

I eye up the exit. Wherever the quiet room is, it's one hell of a journey from here, involving climbing over four knees and walking right in front of the stage.

"What are you doing for Halloween this weekend?" someone asks.

"Halloween is next week," comes the reply.

"No?"

"It's Thursday!"

If these people are really Goths, then they are terrible at it.

Not that they aren't rocking it all the same. I am digging this person sitting just over there, with eyeliner right up to their hairline. That is a look and I am into it.

As the lights go down, the audience roars. I think they're excited.

Ron Athey appears. I mean, I presume that's him, given how the audience is jumping around excitedly in their chairs and giggling at everything he does. They laugh as he walks. They laugh as he counts. They laugh as he miscounts. As he sips water. Pauses in his speeches. Everything he does sets them off.

Not quite sure I get it myself. I feel I'm missing something. Like the first part in the series that sets up all these jokes.

Between each scene, the projection at the back changes to show what I can only presume is a type of chapter title.

Everyone on my side of the room leans over, craning their necks to read what it says before whispering it to their neighbours with a seriousness that confirms I am definitely not getting whatever they are telling me.

I'm just not high brow enough for all this. It's all big complicated words and I don't understand a thing he's saying.

As for the films... they're uncomfortable making. I'll give them that.

And then the blood letting starts and yup... not into that. Blood leaks down his chest from the slimmest of cuts. His assistant… co-star… whatever he is, applies bandages, pressing them against the wound.

It's... kinda gross.

But it's over now. Time to go.

As we file out past the stage, a young woman walks over to look at the bloody rags, hanging like flags at a tournament. Or laundry day at Sweeney Todd's.

On a wave of excited chatter, I hurry back out into the courtyard. It's freezing out here. Where's the nearest tube station? Aldgate East. Right. Let's go.

"The best thing about that show was the video of the man walking," says a doubtful sounding woman at the traffic lights.

Yeah, that was... something.

Sneaking Feels

"Taxi!"

I'm not a taxi, but I look round all the same.

We're at the traffic lights on Waterloo Road and a man is hanging out of the window of his car, waving at the black cab next to him.

"What's that building called?" he hollers at the black cab. With a huge sweeping gesture, he motions over to big building opposite us.

I feel like shouting back that it's The Old Vic, but I think the cab driver has it sorted.

I cross the road and peel away. I'm not going to The Old Vic tonight. I've already been to The Old Vic. So, unless The Old Vic decides it's opening a new studio theatre, which wouldn't surprise me given that all the other theatres seem to be doing it at the moment, I have no business in the place before 2020.

Instead, I slip down Cornwall Road, away from all the cafes and restaurants and general bustle of the area, to a road that looks like it got lost on its way to an industrial estate.

There, little more than a door in the wall, is the Waterloo East Theatre.

And it's packed.

I can barely make it through that door in the wall, the corridor inside is so crowded.

Pushing through into the foyer area doesn't help. If anything, the press of people is even more, well, pressing, in here.

Through the jam of backs and elbows and shoulders, I can just about see a sign indicating the presence of a box office and I make my way towards it. Only through careful examination of who are holding tickets do I manage to work out the existence of a queue. I join it.

A minute later, it's my turn.

I give my surname.

"Ah yes!" says the box officer, turning to reach for the ticket box. "I was marvelling at that earlier. I had a wager with myself about whether you'd be really glum. But you're not!" he adds hurriedly.

"Well, with everyone saying how great my name is the whole time, it's hard to be glum." Which is true.

I spot something on the counter. A sign advertising programmes for two quid. Well, it's advertising ‘programs’ for two quid because apparently we're American here in the Waterloo East Theatre. That or they're actually shifting some really niche computer software. I decide not to point this out. Don't want the nice box officer thinking I'm letting my surname down.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"Yes, but they're over at the bar, actually."

Somehow I manage to make it over to the bar on the opposite side of this miniature-sized foyer.

Past the loos and a ladder leading up to a terrifying-looking balcony.

At least, I think they're the loos.

The gendered signage in the forms of dancing silhouettes is a little confusing.

As for the ladder.

"That convenient door," says someone. "I'm sure that's the entrance, and not rather up those inconvenient stairs."

"The stairs do look very inconvenient," comes the reply.

"I wouldn't want to try them."

Nor would I. I'm very glad to here that we will be accessing the space through a door. At ground level.

I reach the bar, and pay my two pounds. Getting a handsome programme in return.

I have a flick through.

More American spelling. Theaters instead of theatres abound. They should rename this place the Waterloo Iowa Theater.

I wouldn't mind so much if they didn't flip-flop between the two throughout. Theatre or theater. Doesn't matter which. They need to pick one and own it.

The cover is very much on-trend, in that you would know you were seeing a gay play without ever having to read the marketing copy. Lots of abs. Lots of soft purple lighting. I'm beginning to think of it as the Above the Stag aesthetic.

Judging by the fire code violation that is this overstuffed foyer, it's clearly doing the job.

The men are out in force for Afterglow. And a couple of women. And by a couple I mean literally two. Me and another girl. She's over by the bar, buying herself a very small glass of wine.

The man behind the bar retreats through the convenient door, reappearing a few minutes later. "Apologies for the delay," he says to us all. "We had a slight technical problem which is now solved, so we'll be opening in a few minutes."

"Thank you!" someone in the crowd replies.

I use the time to look around.

Brick walls alternate with corrugated iron. All coated with a layer of framed playbills, and what looks like drawings of actors. There's Alan Rickman as Snape. And Carrie Fisher with her big bunned Princess Leia. And Charlie Chaplin as... Charlie Chaplin? Literally can't name any of his roles.

A chalkboard advertises the price list for the Wet Bar, which is a term I know the meaning of, but will never understand.

The front of houser reappears. "We are about to open the house. It's very busy tonight so please sit in your allocated seats," he says, in what must be a first for this marathon. I've encountered a fair few seat-swappers along the way, but never enough to warrant that kind of announcement. Apparently, at the Waterloo East, seat numbers are only a suggestion.

"No phones inside the auditorium," he goes on. "Under any circumstances at all."

Shit. Well, that's okay. I'll just have to be super sneaky about my auditorium photos.

"Anyone spotted with a phone will be removed."

Double shit.

"Switch off social media and enjoy live performance."

Okay, Grandad.

I put my phone away in my bag. I don't want to get kicked out. I'll figure the photo problem out later.

The box officer is on the door now, and I show him my ticket as I pass through.

We file into the auditorium, the ceiling curving over our heads. We're in a railway arch. The natural home of fringe theatre in London.

The stage is tucked in at one end. With a proper, full on set.

Rising away from it is a very narrow block of seating. So that we're not just sitting inside a railway arch, we actually get the experience of sitting within the close confines of a train.

I climb the stairs until I reach my row, but am left blinking at the seats, not knowing where to go.

There are seat numbers. I can see them. But they've been stuck on the backs of the seats. Am I supposed to lean over to find out if I'm in the right chair? That sounds way more acrobatic than I am capable of on a Sunday night.

I look at the row in front. We're starting at 'one' on the aisle. That's simple enough.

I decide to count my way into my seat, and hope for the best.

"There's no seat numbers?" says a bloke staring out my row.

"They're here," says his companion.

They both stare at the numbers, before deciding to sit next to me.

I now understand why there's a pre-show announcement telling us to sit in our allocated seats. It really is more complicated then it sounds.

A second later, they are getting up and leaving the row.

They stand awkwardly in the aisle and a group of young women squeeze in.

"Shall I get out?" I ask, standing up to let them through, and realising there isn't much room for passing.

"No, it's okay," says one of them and they press on, my leaning as far back as I can and them side-stepping their way to their seats.

This must be what they mean by intimate theatre.

And then the play starts, and... I mean. I'd heard that things were rather... But this is very...

They are naked. They are all naked.

And it's fine. Because I am a grown up. At the theatre. And it's actually a rather good play. With excellent actors. Who just happen to be naked.

And... hey. I just got elbowed. The man sitting in front of my just elbowed me! Stuck his pointy arse elbow in between the seats and rammed it back into my knee. And... hey! He just did it again.

What a twat.

No matter. He seems to have got control of himself now. Back to the play.

I love all these characters. Even when they are awful And I swear if this ends badly, I am going to be very upset.

They've really got to stop having shower scenes though. I'm not sure I can handle any more.

Gasps ring out and there's a quiet moan of "noooooo," as one of them does something awful. Bastard.

The girl sitting next to me starts to sniff.

First a delicate one, but then a great big snotty one. She's crying.

Oh gawd.

She's not the only one.

Sniffs and sobs surround me on all sides.

Those bastards drew us in with well-lit abs, and now they making feels explode all over the place.

That's not fair.

Blackout.

We sit in stunned silence.

Then the applause starts.

The girl next to me sniffs and claps, sniffs and claps. The guys on the other side jump to their feet in full ovation mode.

Then it's time to leave.

I get out my phone and sneak a photo.

Well, it's not like they can kick me out now.

Plus, that's the least they can do after pummeling my heart.