It's behind you!

We're in the dregs of the year now.

Christmas is over, and we've all turned into walking zombies as we wait for the year to run out.

Me too, by the way. I managed to get out of London for a few days, and coming back has felt like being plunged into cloudy ditch water.

At least I know where I'm going. A return visit to Harrow, to get into the main bit of the Harrow Arts Centre after visiting the studio space in June. This time I don't make the mistake of walking through the gardens, instead nipping past the Morrisons and aiming myself to where I remember the front door to be.

I must be going in the right direction because there's a huge banner for the show I'm seeing strung up next to the road.

Aladdin.

It looks very... ummm.

I mean, it's not just me, is it? Like, I know I'm a lefty liberal and all that. But this isn't just me being all PC is it?

And it's not like we're in, I don't know, rural Oxfordshire or something.

We're in Harrow.

Last time I was here I was literally the only white person in the audience.

And now they've gone and cast a white Aladdin.

That doesn't seem right to me.

I hurry over the crossing and make my way past the huge sundial.

With the light dimming fast, the tall stone walls of the main building look very dramatic. The sort of building where you can expect to find a first wife tearing up the attic.

I step through the arched doorway and make my way into the foyer, ignoring the sign for the box office. I know it's a tricksy sign which only points towards a locked door. I keep on going until I reach the corridor. An usher is talking to a family. He's wearing a Santa hat.

Christmas still be going strong in Harrow.

Round the corner, I find the actual box office. A room which looks for all the world like I should be making a dentist appointment at the counter.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say to the lady behind the counter, trying hard not to worry about the last time I flossed.

She dives for the ticket box and starts flicking through the letter tabs.

"Sorry," she says when her search reaches the embarrassing 2.3 second mark.

"There are a lot of Ss... Ah! There you are!" She stares at the ticket. "Do you have the reference number? It doesn't have your postcode."

That's strange. I booked online. I would have thought that the postcode was attached to my order, but never mind. I pull out my phone and find the confirmation email. It doesn't take long. I only booked this morning.

"Is it the order number?" I ask, spotting the string of numbers and letters up near the top.

She says that it is, so I read it out to her. All of it.

"Yup," she says, as I finish up. She hands me the ticket.

Back in the corridor, a father waits patiently as his little girl examines the rack of flyers for this afternoon's performance of Aladdin.

"That's not Jasmine!" she announces suddenly, flapping the flyer in front of her father's face. "Jasmine has black hair!"

Now, while I would usually roll my eyes at this Disneyfication of faerie-tales, she's Princess Badroulbadour in the 'original' story, she's right. Jasmine or Badroulbadour should probably have black hair.

The little girl dips her own black-haired head and stares at the blonde princess, the one panto heroine who should probably look, well, just like the little girl holding the flyer.

I keep on going.

There's a gallery just off the foyer that I'd like to have a look at.

It's filled with portraits.

And the vestiges of pantos past. Broken flashy toys nestle up to discarded flyers on the ledges. A memory of the earlier matinee.

I go outside.

Families make their way over in dribs and drabs. The children bouncing around in excitement.

Behind me, I hear a strange tearing sound. Like fabric ripping.

A family stops, hovering near the entrance as they wait for the way to clear.

Someone is bending over, applying tape to the ground. Twenty minutes before a performance starts. Primetime for people wanting to enter the building.

Building Services people never rest. Even when they probably should.

Floor thoroughly stuck, and way clear, I go back in. There's no use putting it off any more. I've got to see this damn panto.

I follow the signs for seats numbered 13 to 23.

Down a corridor, and towards the door.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," comes a voice over the sound system. "Welcome to the Harrow Arts Centre. Please take your seats, because the performance will start in just under fifteen minutes. Enjoy the show!"

Yeah, yeah. I'm going. I'm going.

I'm not going. I'm standing in the corridor. Dithering.

It may be my last panto of the year, but I'm not feeling the joy. Even with Slade banging out of the speakers.

But it's no use being a grim-faced arse with kids around. You just go to grit your teeth, and pretend to enjoy the damn panto.

The ticket checker looks happy. It's her last panto too. The last performance of the run. And she's grinning.

"Row S!" she says, looking at my ticket. "You're just there, darling." She points up the side aisle and I go in.

And this is it. Elliot Hall.

Quite the place.

High windows are blocked off by thick curtains. Wood panelling surrounds us and carved arches are almost hidden behind the heavy lighting rig.

Over the other side is a dark portrait. I can't make it out. But it seems to be of a rather stern looking man.

I climb up the stairs towards my row. Near the back. Because this is panto after all.

I count down the chairs until I reach mine. Or at least, the one that should be mine. As there appears to be someone sitting in it right now.

"Hi?" I say, to the person who is in what I am fairly confident is meant to be my seat. "Are you S14?"

He pulls out a pile of tickets and paws through them. "No. I'm S11 to S13," he says, before turning around to see the number written on the back of his seat.

"I'm in the wrong seat," he announces cheerfully.

Yes he is.

He gets up and plonks himself down in the free seat next to him. "No I'm not!"

His wife looks over and laughs. "Are you in the wrong seat?” she giggles.

"Not anymore!"

Glad we got that sorted. It would have been awful if I couldn't get a seat in the final show of this run and had to go home...

A small child is coming through, clutching a booster seat against his chest which is almost as big as him.

I struggle to my feet to let him past.

"You have to say excuse me!" says his seat-stealing dad.

"Ex'coos me," whispers the small child, scooting past to return his booster to the usher by the door.

He may be small, but he's too much of a big boy for such props.

It's then I realise I'm missing my own prop.

The usher on the door may have a stack of booster seats to hand out, but she seems to be lacking on the programme-front. In fact, I don't remember seeing programmes for sale anywhere. And looking around this audience, no one else has either.

That's the second panto of the run that hasn't offered me my quota of papery goodness. And the second of the larger outer-London affairs that I've been to.

That must surely not be a coincidence.

On either side of the auditorium, the doors close. I check my phone. It's 4.27pm.

They don't believe in latecomers at the Harrow Arts Centre.

"What time does it startttt?!" cries the small boy now returned from his booster seat adventure.

Dad checks the time. "4.30," he says. "Now."

But we have a few more minutes to wait before the house lights come down and the villain comes out.

Here we go.

My last panto of the marathon. Last panto of the year. And if I have anything to say about it, the last panto of my life.

"What's up crew?" calls out Wishy Washy, who is apparently a real character in this story.

"What's up Wishy?" we call back, exactly as instructed.

But it's not enough.

It's never enough.

We have to do it again. Louder.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?"

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?"

Still not good enough. Someone is not playing along, and Wishy Washy is determined to find them out. He splits the room in half, with a hand drawing a zig-zagging line down the middle of the auditorium.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?" screams Wishy.

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?" scream the other side of the room.

Wishy bounces over to my side."WHAT'S UP CREW?" screams Wishy.

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?"

He's found he problem. It's in the first three rows.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?"

"WHAT'S UP WISHY!?"

He's found the culprit now. It's a man in the front row.

He's called Rob.

Rob has to stand up. Turn around. And when Wishy Washy does the call, Rob has to reply all by himself.

He does well. But it doesn't end there for him.,

The Dame has got her hands on that name and she's not afraid to use it. Every flirtatious joke is directed towards Rob in the front row, with the shrugged message that if you sit in the front row at a panto, you're asking for it.

In all fairness to them, this lot are taking the brunt of the jokes. Taking the piss out of their own lines with an exhausted roll of the eyes every time the audience fails to react to a terrible joke.

A Super Soaker chase and Haribo-throw later, it's the interval.

Kids skitter around, pushing themselves through the rows in a reenactment of Aladdin's run around the auditorium that took place minutes before.

The children next to me return with some new found friends, who they proudly introduce to their parents.

One pair return bearing ice cream.

A single, solitary, tub.

"We got ice cream for you and grandad," they announce to their mother. "To share. So maybe you should sit next to each other?"

Mum laughs. "Did you? Maybe grandad should eat half and then pass it over?"

But the pair aren't having it, and seats are rearranged so that mum and grandad can sit next to each other and share the ice cream.

The visiting kids return to their seats, and soon it's time for act two.

Now I've been to so many damn pantos, I'm finding myself a connoisseur of all the classic elements.

Harrow's update of the Ghost Bench scene has us shouting "Behind you," about a bandage-wrapped Egyptian mummy on the rampage. That works well.

The choice of Jingle Bells as the singalong works slightly less well.

Especially when it the repetitions start to resemble a hearing test for the cast, with the room split in half once again.

Even poor Rob is picked on to sing, but it was just a joke. "Your face!" laugh the cast as Rob, no-doubt, wills murder on them all.

Finally, finally, we get to the end. The ensemble rushes off stage to fetch bouquets for the main cast members, leading to much confusion in the ranks as they pass them around.

Something tells me those flowers aren't going to make it home.

This cast is straight off to the pub, and won't be coming out until they the memories of panto are far behind them.

A Beastly Panto

"Just to warn you," I type out slowly on my phone, careful not to make any typos. "I'm a little bit drunk."

In truth, I'm a lot bit drunk.

I'm still at my work Christmas lunch and people keep on bringing me drinks. A Brandy Alexander has just landed next to my plate. It's disgustingly sweet.

I want another one.

It's a good thing I have to leave early. Only six hours after the drinking started.

I can still walk though. Which is good. And type. I think.

Pretty sure I can get to my next theatre in one piece too.

On the train a woman leans over to me.

"Does this train go to Catford?" she asks.

I blink at her. "Yes?" I say. I hope it's going to Catford. Because that's where I need to be.

I get out my phone, hoping she doesn't have a follow-up question for me.

There's a message from Rosie.

"I'm very much here. I'm a queue."

I read that again.

Did she just say she was a queue?

"Sorry I'm in a queue.

"I'm not A queue."

Oh good.

I was beginning to think those Brandy Alexanders had gone to my head.

I type back. "Im on the train. About ten minutes out. Wanna pick up the tickets?"

I stare at it. I can't remember how to do apostrophes.

Fuck it. I hit ‘send.’

"Yes! Under 'Smiles?'"

"That's the one!"

I keep my head bowed, trying very hard not to make eye contact with the Catford-bound lady.

"Got em!"

Thank goodness. I was worrying that I might have to slur my postcode over some poor box officer.

Now, I know what you're thinking. That if I do insist on getting drunk and going to the theatre, then I should by rights be slurring over box officers, if for no other reason than to tell you about it.

But here's the thing, I'm going to the Broadway Theatre, and I've already done the box office thing the last time I was here, so I know they are housed off in their own little room down the road. And I know it looks like it's the set of a touring version of one of Agatha Christie's lesser-known Poirot novels. I don't need to repeat the experience. Much to the relief of box officers everywhere, who no doubt have already had too many lushs breathing alcohol fumes over their counters this panto season.

On the short walk from the station I suck in as much cold air as my lungs can stand, but all that means is that by the time I spot Rosie standing outside the entrance to the Gothic horror castle that is the Broadway, my head is feeling more than a touch woozy.

"I'm just going to take a photo," I tell her, diving across the road towards the slim island in the middle of two streaming rows of traffic.

This is not going to go well for me.

From my position on the island, I can see all the children cramming themselves through the doors for a night of pre-Christmas fun.

I really need to get my act together.

A couple of photos.

A couple of deep breaths.

Back into the breach I go.

"Sorry," I apologise to Rosie. "I'm feeling a bit out of it at the moment."

I get the feeling I'm going to have to do a lot of apologising tonight.

We go in.

The foyer is packed.

Rosie goes off to find the loos and I turn around, trying to make sense of this chaos.

A little girl in wellington boots is bouncing up and down, treading an avalanche of spilt popcorn into the carpet.

Behind me, the bar as been turned into a sweet shop. The shelves that you'd expect to be laden with bottles of spirits, are now playing host to a tower of plastic tubs, filled with pastel clouds of candyfloss.

The queue is long.

But down the other end, is a large water dispenser, and two stacks of cups.

I head towards it.

A small boy is struggling with the tap and the dispenser wobbles dangerously. His dad jumps in to help, holding the dispenser steady as the boy stands on tiptoe to fill up his cup.

Cup filled, I grab one for myself. One of those big pint size ones that lairy men wave about at festivals.

I fill it to the brim, then manage to drain half of it by the time Rosie comes back.

"Want some?" I say, lifting the cup to show her.

"Straight gin, is it?"

I probably shouldn't tell her I was on the gin at noon. And that was after the morning mimosas.

We go upstairs.

Usually, when I'm taking someone to a show, I do try and get good seats. Down in the stalls, if I can afford it. Even for bloody panto.

But the stalls were all sold out, so off into the circle we go.

Shame.

"Christ," I say, sitting down. "Look at this shit legroom."

I point at my legs, which do not even slightly fit in this row.

I try twisting to one side, and manage to get myself in, but that will only work as long as no one sits next to me.

Rosie twists in the opposite direction, towards the aisle.

"Did you get a programme?" asks Rosie as we pivot away from one another.

"Shit," I say, the horror stopping me while I'm still fighting off my coat.

I had totally forgotten about programmes.

I am a lot drunker than I thought.

I wriggle out of my sleeve and dump my coat down next to me.

Although we are technically in the circle, we're not in a balcony. There's a clear line of seats going down all the way to the stage. The only differentiation, a long tech desk cutting across the auditorium.

So from our perch at the back, I have a clear view of the audience.

Little kids wave around light-up roses, for Beauty and the Beast rie-in value, and miscellaneous flashing knickknacks that don't have any apparent connection to the show. But no one has a programme.

"No one has programmes?"

"Maybe they don't have any?" says Rosie. "What kinda of panto doesn't have programmes?"

Even the amateur panto I saw last night managed to pull together a programme. Even the tiny Portobello Panto had a programme.

If the light-up rose sales figures are anything to go by, shifting a few thousand programmes shouldn't be too hard in this joint.

The lack of programmes is not a good sign.

Rosie senses my distress and asks about the other pantos I've seen.

I give a run down, finishing with a sigh. "I hate panto." I mean, I did kind of enjoy last night’s, but even so, the sentiment runs deep and can’t be dammed by a single positive example of the genre.

"Why? I love panto!"

Oh dear.

I give her my theory: if performers have to work so hard to get a response from the crowd, then maybe it's their show that needs more work, and not the audience.

"Welcome to the Broadway Theatre and to our 2019 panto," comes a voice over the sound system. Down by the tech desk I can see a woman speaking into the microphone. She gives a few of the standard rules, but then follows them up with: "to the front row, do not leave your seats in the middle of the show, due to pyrotechnics."

Ooo.

Well!

Things are looking up.

Who needs programmes when you've got fireworks!

And on that happy thought: we're off.

Silly Billy doesn't take his time teaching us his whole call and response deal.

I shrug at Rosie, but do my best to join in.

Rosie leans down and pulls something out of her bag and offers it to me.

I blink at it, trying to make out what it is in the darkness.

"What are they?" I ask, giving up.

"Macarons!"

Ooo!

I take one.

"Way too sophisticated for this show," I say, waving vaguely at the stage and spraying crumbs everywhere.

But even that doesn't manage to lower the tone.

I watch, stony-faced. Even by panto standards, this seems terrible.

As three cast members finish their barrel through a low-rent version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, involving the chucking of five bog-rolls into the audience on multiple occasions, I turn to Rosie.

"Did that actually happen?" I ask. I'm still fairly drunk. It could well have been just my imagination.

She looks at me in confusion.

"Hasn't that happened at your other pantos?"

"No!?"

"The Twelve Days with toilet roll has happened at every panto I've ever been too!" she counters.

Blimey.

Clearly, I'm sat amongst hundreds of other panto connoisseurs, because the second the Dame and Silly Billy come out with Super Soakers, people are reaching for their coats and hiding under them, ready for the liquid onslaught.

"Kinda glad we're not sitting in the front row now," says Rosie.

I nod in agreement.

December is not the month I want to be walking home in damp clothes.

An usher walks through the aisle carrying a tray of ice cream and sets herself up in the corner.

It must be the interval soon.

Thank gawd.

I'm not sure my sodden brain or tortured knees can take much more of this.

One scene stretches out after the other. So long that I fear for the ice cream that must surely be melting away in this overheated space.

But eventually, it comes. The interval.

"Being drunk does not help," I say.

To my surprise, Rosie agrees: this is not a good panto.

"Because we're in Catford, I really thought they'd be more jokes about cats."

I snort. That is by far the best joke of the night.

"It's just all impressions!" Rosie goes on.

This is true. Silly Billy is too busy showing off his catalogue of celebrities to be the sweet sidekick I'd encountered elsewhere. Instead of being simple but steadfast, Silly Billy is actually a bit of an arsehole.

"Has there at least been a slosh scene in the other pantos you've seen?"

What? "What?"

Rosie looks at me in shock. "Where they throw gunge...?" she says slowly. "It usually happens before the interval, so they have time to clean up."

Oh.

Crikey.

I shake my head sadly. There has been no throwing of gunge at any of the pantos I've seen.

Usually, I would not class myself as, well, pro-gunge, but if ever a show needed a bit of intentional mess, this is it.

Half-way through act two, Rosie perks up, clapping her hands in excitement as the Dame suggests making a cake.

But she is left disappointed as the gunge fails to make an appearance, and instead we get a return visit from the Super Soakers.

Later, it's my turn to perk up when Super Soakers are replaced by swords, wielded by some actors in very tight trousers. Which is the sort of high-quality art that could make me convert to the panto cause. But too soon, it is over, and Silly Billy is back, waving up a pile of kids onto the stage who absolutely do not want to be there.

"This is excruciating," I whisper as Silly Billy asks a small boy whether he likes the look of an equally small girl.

"This is awful," agrees Rosie. "I think I'm broken. I thought I liked panto!"

"I'm so sorry," I say, meaning it.

"You ruined panto for me, Max."

I bristle. It wasn't me! I just bought the tickets.

I had no hand in this... monstrosity of a show. And I will not be held complicit in this nonsense.

I will the curtain to go down, but I fear we are stuck here forever. The show will never end.

Kids rush down the aisle to the front, to dance by the stage.

They don't get long.

The announcer I spotted at the beginning rushes in and shoos them back down the aisle. She crouches at the end, blocking off the front of the stage. The kids carry on dancing as twin foundations of fireworks explode on stage.

And that's the end.

We're free to go.

I pause on the stairs to take a photo.

“Sorry,” I tell Rosie as she waits for me. “I just really like that window.”

“Oh! I thought you were taking a photo of the exit sign!”

Rosie is savage.

"It was long," sighs a yawning child in the foyer.

"Three hours," replies her mum.

I look at the time.

Holy shit, she's right. It's ten o'clock.

I tell Rosie this. "Three hours for panto? That's way too long for a family show. What about the children's bedtimes?" she says, scandalised.

What about my bedtime, more like.

I slump into my seat on the tube home. Not even caring as a full-blown scuffle breaks out in my carriage.

"Don't want to back down? Let's go. Let's go right now!" shouts one guy, standing up.

"Oh, you fucking Tory wanker!" shouts the second, aiming a palm at the first guy's shoulder.

The shoulder-push is returned, with an added collar grab from the first guy. "Get out of the country!"

Those sitting close by shift down a few seats.

The young woman sitting opposite me twists around to place her legs up over her boyfriend's so she can get a better view of what's going on.

"I'm here. We're all right here! Let's go!"

"Can you shut the fuck up mate? You're being very aggressive. Very aggressive. On the tube. Some people are terrified! Absolutely terrified!" he shouts, waving his arm around to indicate the rest of us, watching them sleepily.

Honestly, fighting is so much more entertaining with swords and tight trousers involved.

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.

My Dangerous Obsession

"Bromley doesn't count, does it?" asks one of my new coworkers when I tell here where it's going tonight.

Well, Bromley does count. So much so that I'm heading back for my fourth, and hopefully, final visit of the marathon. 

The Churchill Theatre looks different in the dark. The tall grey walls are lit up with turquoise lights, but veering off the high street and into the little square that the Churchill calls home I find that the scaffolding is still up.

Not much of a surprise that, I was only here last month.

And there's still an usher on the door. Two of them this time.

Except this time they're not just welcoming people in. Oh no. 

"Hello loves!" says one of them with a wide grin at to a couple of old ladies rocking up ahead of me. "Dangerous Obsession?"

They nod and giggle and confirm that they are indeed there to watch Dangerous Obsession. 

He presses on, still in full cheeky chappy mode. "Would you like a programme?" 

Turns out they don't. But I would.

I go over to the other usher and ask if I can get one.

"Of course! That's three pounds."

I reach into my bag, trying to find my purse. Not overly keen on getting cash out while we are still, effectively, standing in the street, but if that's the way things are played in Bromley, who am I to question it?

"Sorry, big bag," I apologise, as the whereabouts of my purse continues to allude me.

"I love your coat!" says the programme seller, a compliment borne more of a need to fill the awkward silence than genuine admiration, I'm sure. But I appreciate it all the same.

I do rather like this coat. It's massive. And fur. And the sleeves have tiger stripes on them. It makes one hell of a statement, although exactly what it's saying, I'm not too sure. "Don't sit next to this woman," probably. Unless you want to be squashed, of course. I am rather large while I'm wearing it.

"Thanks," I say, humbly. "It's very warm. I almost fainted on the train. Do you have change for a tenner?"

"A ten? Yes. Better to be too warm than cold."

"That's true," I say as I feed a ten-pound note in between her fingers.

She hands me a programme. "It'll be coins," she warns, bringing out her plastic wallet of change.

"That's okay," I say, trying not to show my excitement. "I need coins." Especially in the form of pound coins. I fucking love pound coins.

She counts of the change and pours it into my waiting palm.

"Thanks!"

"Enjoy the show!"

And with that done, I'm inside.

No need to stop at box office. I already have my ticket. They gave it to me the last time I was here. Little bit annoyed by that, to be honest. I don't go asking for tickets to be 'care of box office' just for me to be given one early, which I then have to care for myself, for an entire month, through a damn house move, no less, and then bring it right back to Bromley, when it could have stayed here quite nicely.

Plus, and I'm being really real here, I was kinda hoping for an upgrade. By the looks of things, the circle ain't too sold tonight. The kind of not sold that would usually have a circle closed off and everyone bumped down to the stalls. But hey, sometimes when you play that game, you lose.

I look around for which door I need, and I find it, pressed right up against the box office.

There's no ushers inside by the looks of it, which might go some way to explaining why this place has no qualms with keeping an empty circle open.

There's a bit of a platform right at the back, which I imagine is space dedicated to wheelchair users, but I use the opportunity to survey the auditorium.

It's red. Not the classic theatre red of, say, the Bromley Little Theatre. Or even the glossy expensive red of last night's theatre, the Prince Edward. But a brownish sort of red that I feel could only have been dreamt up in the seventies.

I traipse my way down the steps to the front row. Row AA, as it happens.

Never seen that before in a circle.

Not one with fixed seating anyway.

AAs and BBs and the like tend to be reserved for the slips, or assigned to extra rows when they are added for, I don't know, when the orchestra pit isn't in use.

Perhaps the person charged with labelling the rows up here just got overexcited.

I'll give them this though. The legroom is amazing. Got space for my oversized coat and my oversized bag and my awkward legs. Doesn't look like I'll be needing it though.

The front row looks pretty empty. Just me and a group of three ladies sitting further in.

I decide to make full use of this and spread out, putting my bag on one seat, my coat on another, and me in the middle.

Elbows on armrests, slouch down: bliss.

And from this angle, the railing that should by rights be restricting my view is no problem at all.

I don't think I've ever been so comfy in a theatre this entire marathon.

But before I let myself drift off into a theatre coma, I should probably take some photos. I lean forward to see what's happening down in the stalls. it looks filled enough with people.

Bunch of mugs.

They may have the superior viewpoint, but look at them all crowded together, fighting over who gets the armrest, and with nowhere to put their coat.

The ladies down in my row have slung their jackets up over the railing.

Up here the seats come with built-in coat racks.

Just as I'm about to sink into my own smugness forevermore, the house lights go down, and the huge red velvet curtain rises.

We're in a conservatory.

Angie Smith's Sally Driscoll appears, wearing a rather fetching swimsuit.

The audience stirs. Someone lets out a loud breath which might have been an attempt at a wolf whistle.

As she potters around, I marvel at her ability to wear a towering set of wedges when there is literally no one else around to show off to. If I'm ever wearing heels I make damn sure I have an audience around me. The thought of falling over and embarrassing myself is the only thing that can keep me upright.

But she's not alone for long. Michael Sherwin's John Barnett soon comes knocking, unannounced and unexpected. The pair of them met once at a conference thing. And now he's turned up. For reasons.

Reasons that don't even come to light when Mark Huckett's Mark Driscoll comes home. Nor when the gun is brought out, complete with dumdum bullets, which are apparently, like, super dangerous.

Anyway, despite the run time behind hella short, and the second act following on directly after the first (yes, I read the programme), they manage to put a twenty-minute interval in the middle of it all. A decision I'm not wholly behind, considering I've got to get back to Finchley after all this.

I'm too comfy to move. I stay in my seat for the interval.

Almost everyone else does too.

This is not an audience that is keen to run off to the bar anytime soon.

The twenty minutes count down.

Doom-laden music fills the auditorium, and we are sent back to the conservatory, exactly where we left off.

Somewhere outside, down at stalls level, I can hear voices. They're definitely coming from outside. I can tell, because they sound young, and enthusiastic. Not like anyone in this theatre tonight.

The young people whoop and call out to each other, unhindered by any thought as to who can hear them.

Up on stage the actors press on, and eventually, the young people disappear off to do their young people things, which clearly does not involve hanging around the Churchill Theatre on a Tuesday night.

The walls of this place must be super thin. Last time I was here, down in the studio, I spent my interval listening to what was happening in the main house.

And now I'm getting the reverse.

I think of that lady I got talking to on my last visit, and how she said it wasn't usually like that at the Churchill.

Clearly the shenanigans are kept down in the studio.

All the serious business happens in the main house.

Even if they do give the seat rows weird names.

The audience gasps as we're treated to get another plot twist. They're coming faster every time. Barely giving us the chance to recover before the next one is launched at us. And just before we're twisted out, it's over, and we're applauding.

The house lights are up, and I am back up the stairs before the rest of my circle-dwellers have even got their coats on.

The usher on the front door hurries forward to open it for us quick-footed folks.

"Good night, sir," he says to the eldery gentlemen who just managed to beat me.

I scoot out behind him, clutching my massive coat tight around me hurry through the square, checking train times as I go. It's barely 9.30pm. With any luck, I'll be in bed before eleven.

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.

OK Boomer

I have exactly seven minutes to get off this train, navigate my way through the station, get myself over to the theatre, pick up my ticket, and find my seat.

It's fine. It's all totally fine.

And so not my fault. How dare you.

I left a good hour ago. For a journey that Citymapper assured me could be done in thirty-eight minutes. So you see, I was being responsible. Leaving extra time. Just in case the District line was being... well, it's usual District line self.

What Citymapper failed to account for, was me getting on the Westbound train, instead of the Eastbound one which I should have got on. Because I just started a new job and I'm a little sleep-deprived at the moment and pretty much working solely on autopilot right now.

So you see: not my fault.

It's pelting it down as we pull into Richmond.

The exit to the station is clogged by crowds trying to escape the downpour.

"Oh for gawd's SAKE," I growl at a group of shoppers blocking me in and forcing me to climb over their mountain of bags.

But I'm out.

Shaking my umbrella into life with one hand and bringing up Google Maps with the other, I splash my way through the puddles, not waiting for the lights to change before crossing the road. I duck and dive between slow-moving pedestrians, and jump over a very small dog who is too busy delicately sniffing a lamppost to notice the woman in a too-short velvet dress and a grim-expression baring down on him.

Round the corner. And the next one.

Is this it?

That's a fucking fancy building over there. All red stone pillars and carvings everywhere. Definitely a Frank Matcham building if ever I saw one. There can't of been two architects like that. The whole city would have collapsed under the strain of excessive twiddly-bits.

Just time for the quickest of photos then I'm running up the stairs.

A front of housers steps out, blocking my way with a smile.

"Do you have your ticket on you?" she asks, her cheerful expression only faltering slightly at the sight of my red and puffy one.

"No, I'm collecting," I tell her.

"Just this way please," she says, pointing the way down to a sunken box office.

I trot down the steps and go over to the counter.

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

He finds my ticket in the ticket box and looks at it carefully.

"We put you in the Dress Circle," he tells me.

"Great!" I say enthuasitically.

"We've closed the Upper Circle today."

Oh. Well, that's not so great. But between you and me, I was rather counting on it. When I booked my ticket, the seat plan didn't look all that full, so I took a punt and bought myself the cheapest ticket I cound find. Twelve quid. Well, sixteen and a bit once you add all of ATG's outrageous fees on top. But still, not bad for third row in the Dress Circle if you've got the nerves to play that game.

He hands me a pile of tickets. My original one, with the receipt and all that attached. And the new one. Comped through, with my name handwritten across the top.

Back into the little foyer and up towards the stairs. No time to stop off at the merch desk. Go directly to your seat. Do not investigate the existence of programmes. Do not pass go.

"Just this way please," says one of the front of housers positioned on the stairs when I show her my ticket.

She has the poshest voice I've ever heard in my life and I feel my legs processing the instruction before my head has even got a handle on them.

Up more stairs and then into the auditorium.

I have a general impression of... Edwardian exuberance. But there's no time to take any of it in. Down to row C, and an apology to the woman sitting at the end.

"I knew there'd be another one," she sniffs disapprovingly as if she'd been waiting for me to turn up.

"Sorry," I say again. "I got caught out in the rain."

I have no idea what that excuses, but it's what I had so I went with it.

I move along the row and find my seat, dumping my bag and umbrella in relief.

The man sitting near me dives forward and grabs the glass of beer I'd nearly toppled.

"Oh, sorry," I say.

"No, no. It's all me," he says.

I don't argue. It is kinda all him. We have a whole seat acting as buffer between us. There was no need for his beer glass to be sitting there.

Finally, I can sit down and catch my breath.

I look around me.

Usually when I'm in a Matcham theatre, I fall to the cliche simile of saying the place looks like a wedding cake. But ain't no-one getting a cake like this made for them unless they have HRH in their name. There isn't a single inch of wall that isn't covered in decoration.

Fat babies line up above the curtain swags to hold up garlands of flowers.

The boxes either side are topped by chubby faces sprouting wings out of their necks.

Ladies who haven't quite mastered the art of pinning their togas also demonstrate a lack of understanding as to how to play a tambourine, lifting up their arms in very elegant, almost balletic gestures, while their instrument sits uselessly at waist level.

Elsewhere, a skinny bearded man wearing a crown, stares at a woman's arse, which I'm sure is a reference to some myth or other, and not just Matcham getting overexcited.

All of this is topped by a stone plaque proclaiming "To wake the soul by tender strokes of art," which if you ask me, doesn't explain anything. What on earth is doing the stroking? Is it theatre? Or the skinny bearded man? The plaque does not say.

The lights flicker around the auditorium, and then go out.

It's starting.

It's 1947 and sadness snaps at the heels of everyone who made it through the war.

"Can you see?" a man whispers in the row behind me.

"Yes," comes the reply. "Can you see?"

"Yes, yes. I can see."

As if this exchange wasn't pointless enough, the man then leans over to the next person in their group. "Can you see?"

After a bit of back and forth, it's established that they can all see, and we can get on with the business of being stroked with art.

From what I understand, Night Watch is an adaptation of a Sarah Waters novel, so I'm sat here waiting for the gay to start and... yup. There we go.

You know, thinking about it, I haven't seen many lesbian scenes on this marathon. This might well be my first. Even when going to plays that are specifically pitched as 'gay' it's always been of the male variety. There just doesn't seem to be that much lesbian-action happening in theatre. Which is a shame.

Down my row, there's a great rumble. A snore.

I look over.

The lady who was all pissy about my turning up not-late is asleep. Hands clasped in her lap. Her head drooping forward. Snoring.

Once. Twice.

The third one is a snort so loud she wakes herself up, her head and shoulders shaking as she pulls herself back into consciousness.

Just in time for the interval.

I suppose I better go find the programmes.

I head back out to the foyer.

The merch desk is covered in piles of Waters' book. Eight pounds, according to the sign. There are also mugs, and a teddy. For reasons.

"Hi! Are there programmes?" I ask, looking down at this packed table.

"There are programmes," says the merch desker. "They're just here." From behind a stack of books, she points to a small pile of programmes. "They're four pounds."

Half the price of the original text. Honestly, when you say it like that, you realise how expensive my programme habit is.

"Brilliant!" I say, ignoring the screams coming from inside my purse. "Can I pay by card."

"Of course you can! There's a card machine just in front of you. Would you like a receipt?"

I would not.

There doesn't seem to be much else happening down here.

I go back to into the auditorium. Not many people have left. A few have made it to the back to get themselves an ice cream, but for the most part everyone is still in their seat.

My end-of-rower has got herself an icecream. I hope the sugar will keep her energy up for the second half as we are plunged back in time to 1943.

Soon enough. The snore returns.

First from the end-of-rower, and then my beer drinking neighbour.

They bat their snorts from one to the other, like a sleepy game of ping-pong.

My neighbour is the first to awake.

"Sorry, sorry," he announces to the theastre in general before slumping further into his seat.

The end-of-rower's head quivers then sinks back down into her chest.

Not sure how either of them could be sleeping. Yes, it's very warm in here. And the seats are well comfy. And it's mid-afternoon on a rainy and miserable day. But there are frickin' bombs going off on stage! Of both the literal, and emotional kind.

Good thing this lot are all a fraction too young to have served in the war. They'd have snoozed their way through every air raid.

As the applause dies, I pull on my cardie, and my jacket, and get my umbrella ready for action.

The end-of-rower has already stormed her back up the steps to the back of the Dress Circle and has fallen into conversation with one of the ushers.

"You haven't seen it?" she asks, incredulous.

The usher explains that, no, she hasn't been posted inside the auditorium during the show as yet.

"You must!" the end-of-rower goes on. "It's very good."

I mean... it's a fine story, but I'm not sure I'd be trusting this lady to provide criticism of it. If she was tenderly stroked by art, it was only to soothe her dreams.

I stop in the foyer to make some notes on my phone. Through the doors I can see the downpour and I have no desire to step out into it quite yet.

"Thank you!" calls the merch desker over to me.

Okay, I guess that's my prompt to leave.

Umbrella up, here I go.

Is there anyone out there?

I'm in Kingston for my second show of the day. There's the Rose Theatre up ahead. After my long trek from Bromley, I'm looking forward to a bit of a sit down. Might even buy myself a cup of tea.

I stand on the opposite corner and get my phone out to take a picture of the outside. Bit of an odd angle this, but never mind.

At least there aren't too many people walking around.

There aren't many people at all.

I lower my phone and peer at the building.

It looks deserted.

I follow the road around the building and look through the windows.

The cafe, which had been packed full on my trip here last week, is now entirely empty. The shutters on the counter are down. It's closed.

That's... odd.

You'd think on a Saturday night they'd be doing a roaring trade. All those pre-show glasses of wine won't drink themselves after all.

Unless, of course, it's not pre-show.

Oh gawd.

I get out my phone and after a few stress-filled seconds, find the confirmation email. No, there is it. Out Of The Dark on Saturday 02 November 2019 at 20:00 in Rose Studio.

20:00.

8pm.

Shit.

What time is it?

Not even half past seven.

I'm far too early.

Double shit.

Okay then. No need to panic. Better to be early than late. At least that gives me time to explore the delights of Kingston.

I turn around and walk back to the centre. I could buy myself that cup of tea. Scrap that, I could buy myself a hot chocolate. Yeah. I'm going to give me an upgrade on this miserable day.

Trouble is, everything is closed. The people of Kingston have all gone home. Every cafe I pass is busy stacking up their chairs. Aproned baristas carry out large bags of rubbish and pile them up on the pavement. Shutters are being lowered all around me.

I walk through a silent arcade, marvelling how dead things can get so early in the evening.

I forgot what it was like living in the countryside.

Okay, I kid. You know I grew up in the proper countryside. The type of countryside where you have to walk a half mile just to reach a payphone, and there's only one bus a week.

But also... not really.

Even the Costa in Finchley manages to eek it out until 8pm, and that's in zone bloody four.

What zone is Kingston in?

Six.

There you go. The bloody countryside.

I keep on walking, looping around and weaving back and forth through the streets.

Eventually, on my third rotation, I figure that I've killed enough time and make my way back to the theatre.

There are people here now. Queuing at the box office.

"Have you got any cash? Two pounds?" asks a woman.

"Yeah," comes the reply. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for me."

"Same again?" asks the box officer as the next person takes their turn.

I'm beginning to think these people must be members of some kind of audience club.

Oh well. I paid full price to be here. So that's okay.

As I reach the front of the queue, the box office is busy filling out some paperwork.

It takes him a minute to see me. I occupy myself by looking around and trying to warm up my hands.

"Oh, sorry!" he says as he spots me waiting.

"Don't worry," I tell him, still rubbing life back into my fingers. "It's nice just to be out of the cold. The surname's Smiles?"

He finds the ticket.

"What's the postcode?" he asks.

I tell him.

"That's the one!" he says cheerfully. It must be on my record that postcodes are a bit of a challenge for me.

There's no show in the main house. Not tonight. The Lovely Bones has closed.

A sign tells us that the Rose Cafe is closed.

Bummer.

Another sign indicates that the Circle Bar is open. Not really what I was after, but okay...

A front of houser smiles at me.

"Is the Circle Bar up here?" I ask, pointing to the nearest staircase.

"Up the stairs and the bar is open," she says, pointing in the complete opposite direction. Towards the cafe.

There isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe. Okay, I mean, caged animals and starving children, sure. But apart from that: there isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe.

At least they haven't stacked the chairs.

I walk around the dramatic staircase that takes up the central point of this space and go up.

There's a lot of people here. Turns out there really isn't anywhere else to go in Kingston tonight.

I look around and spot the loos. Ah. I should probably see what's happening in there. For investigative purposes. And not at all because the loos in Bromley were grim and I kinda need to pee quite badly now.

I go through the door just to the side of the bar, down a long corridor, and find them.

They're nice enough. Clean. Whatever. Don't really have anything further to say.

Back in the bar, and it is a proper bar. A little tray of citrus sits out alongside a procession of different sized measures.

Somehow I don't think asking for a hot chocolate would go down all that well.

Over by the windows is something far more interesting. A water station. Two jugs. A stack of cups. Perfect.

I go over and pour myself a glass, taking it over to the little ledge that surrounds the staircase and claiming a spot.

This is a great vantage point. I can see all the people walking over from the box office, inspecting their long reams of tickets as they head for the stairs.

I can also keep an eye on the entrance to the studio.

The door bangs open and someone comes out to give the nod.

"Good evening," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Welcome to the Rose Theatre. The Studio is now open for this performance of Out Of The Dark. The Studio is now open. You can now take your seats."

We all slowly stir, and make out way round the mezzanine, lining up to go inside.

As we inch our way forward, I spot something on the ledge. A pile of freesheets. At least I think they're freesheets. They have the show artwork on them, so they might just be really lousy flyers.

Not sure if they're up for the taking.

I grab one all the same and folding it up, stuff it safely into my bag before slipping into the auditorium.

You know, you can never guess what you're going to get with studio theatres. Main houses tend to look the same. Oh sure, some might be fancier than others. Some have all that Edwardian splendour and others are all stripped back wood and steel. But for the most part, they follow a general design. Studios however, are all over the fucking place.

Some of them are proper little theatres, just miniaturised. Just this afternoon, I was in one which was really, when it came down to it, a well-lit storage room.

This one is a school gymnasium.

Breeze-block walls. Floor level stage. And a block of seating, which, let's be real, is just bleachers with cushioning.

I go over to the far end, and set up just in front of the tech desk which has taken up residence on the end of the back row.

We're got those double-wide flip down seats that they also have in the main house, but it doesn't look like I'll have to share. Most people are choosing to sit further forward. Some so far forward that they're actually in a row of chairs either side of the stage. Rows that are raised on short little platforms. Not sure why. It's not like anyone is sitting in front of them. It does add a certain regalness to their position though.

A couple of ushers are whispering to each other.

"They're on the bar," one says.

The other goes off, returning a few seconds later with the freesheets.

"Would anyone like a free programme?" he calls out, holding up the pile so that we can see. And yup, that's the pile I pilfered from earlier. "Free programme, anyone?"

He walks along the seats, handing them out to anyone who raises their hand.

More people are coming in. They try to sit in the front row, but the usher on that side isn't having it. "We're trying to save these seats," she tells them. "For latecomers. Otherwise we'll desturb you."

They meekly go and sit further back.

Another tannoy message plays. This one inside the auditorium. A reminder to turn off our phones.

And then the lights are dimming and it's time to begin.

Two cast members. A couple. They're having a baby.

They speak in stilted sentences. Repeating themselves and each other, forming patterns with their words.

It feels awkward at first, and hard to grasp onto. But I soon settle into the rhythm and am swept away on the tidal wave of the characters’ desperation.

We're very quiet on the way out.

Groups form on the mezzanine and long held breaths are let out in puffing sighs.

"Oof."

I slip down the stairs and down the corridor.

"Goodnight!" I say as cheerfully as I can, wrapping my arms around myself to keep away the chill, and the heartache.

Oof.

Musical Chairs

A teenage boy leans out the train doors. He looks both ways and then desides to make a break for it, leaping out onto the platform and sprinting down to the next carriage.

Behind him, the doors beep and begin to close.

He turns around, his features twisting into a grimace of horror. "Noooo," he shouts, turning back just as the doors close in his face.

We're off.

To Bromley.

Again.

A couple of weeks ago, I didn't even know the Churchill Theatre existed and now I'm spending my Saturday afternoon squashed onto a train to go see a show there.

That's worrisome.

Not that I'm on a train, although, that has its own set of concerns. More that I could go through an entire ten months of theatre-hunting, and still manage to discover new places I need to visit.

And it's not like I even found it on a listing site or in a review or anything like that. I literally saw it. With my eyes. As I was walking though Bromley the last time I was here. That's seriously scary. I can't be spending the next two months walking around the streets of London. It's cold!

The wind is screaming down the streets. Trains are being delayed and cancelled all over the place.

It's amazing I even got here.

I pause in the middle of the shopping district and look up. The Churchill Theatre looks a good deal larger in the daylight. It fairly looms over all the shops below.

It's also covered in scaffolding. They must be doing some serious work to it at the moment.

I follow the signs, through a little alleyway and out into a wide courtyard.

The posters are out for this Christmas' panto: Aladdin.

That's not what I've here to see though. Thank goodness. I'm already booked into an alarming number of them. More pantos then I've seen in my entire life. Or could possibly want to.

I go in.

It's a big theatre.

Like, there's a dedicated merch desk going on here, and signs pointing out a restaurant.

How this place managed to escape my radar for ten whole fucking months... what are they doing here? They must be blowing all their marketing budget advertising on... I don't know... the back of health food packets... for me not to have come across this place before.

"Hi!" says the lady on the door. "Can I see your tickets please."

"I'm picking up?" I say.

"Just join the queue over there," she says, pointing over at the curved box office counter.

I do.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

There are two box officers, but both of them are busy. Selling tickets.

After a few minutes, the lady from the door comes over.

"Are you collecting for a current show?" she asks.

Well, yes. It's 2pm on a Saturday afternoon. I ain't here for panto tickets. I don't say that though. "Yes, the matinee," I tell her.

"What's the name?"

"Smiles."

She goes over to the counter and has a look through the few remaining tickets lined up and waiting to be collected.

"Hmmm," she says. "I can't see you there. So you'll have to wait anyway."

One of the box officers puts down her phone.

"This lady is collecting for the matinee?" says the door lady.

"Which one?"

That's a good question. I bring up my confirmation email. "Understanding Susan?" I say.

The box officer taps an a ticket box. "That's this box here," she says.

The door lady makes a grab for it. "What's the surname again?" she asks.

"Smiles."

"Yes, that's in there," says the box office lady.

"Unforgettable, that's me," I say, half to myself.

My ticket is found, and handed over.

"Where am I going?" I ask.

My show is in the studio, and I don't see any signs for it anywhere.

"Just round there, down the stairs to a half-floor," says the door lady.

Okay then.

"Don't worry, you have seven minutes. Plenty of time."

Sure is.

There's a sign over the stairwell. "Stalls & The Lounge," it says. With an arrow pointing down. No mention of a Studio.

Down the stairs, round the corner, down some more stairs. Is this the half level? There's a door. And a front of houser.

"Is this the studio?" I ask her.

"Yes," she says. "That's lovely," she adds as she spots my ticket.

And through I go, into an antechamber and to the next door.

This studio is packed. Rows and rows of chairs filled up.

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, wondering where on earth I'm going to fit myself in.

A man in evening dress comes over. "Hang on," he says, waving to an equally dressed-up lady standing at the back. "Is there a seat?"

There is. It has a fur coat slung over the back, but no one sitting in it.

"I don't want to move you," I tell the elegant lady.

She laughs and removes her coat. "I have to move anyway," she tells me. "Would you like a programme?"

"I'd love a programme!" I tell her, reaching for my purse.

Programmes are one pound and as I deal with that the lady inspects me.

"Do you know someone in the show?" she asks.

I cannot tell you how many times I've been asked a variation of this question on my marathon. Sometimes they ask how I'm connected with the show, others prod me on how I heard about it. But we both know, what they're really asking is: what are you doing here?

"No..." I say, still not sure, after ten months, how to explain my presence.

"Well, it's good of you to come." She hands me a programme, but I can still see the curiosity eating away at her. "How did you find us?" she asks.

With an internal sigh, I surrender to the inevitable and come clean. I'm doing a challenge. Trying to visit every theatre in London. "So here I am!" I say, throwing up my arms to demonstrate my presence.

"Are you a drama student?" she asks.

Oh lord... That's not the first time I've been accused of that this year, and I still can't get over it.

"No, but I do work in a drama school," I tell her.

This isn't true.

It is slightly true. Or at least, it will be true. Next week. I haven't technically started yet. But as I've already left my old job, I think it's true enough.

That done, our programme seller disappears into the crowd.

My neighbour leans over to me. "It's not usually like this," she laughs, before asking me about my blog. I get the impression she's worried I'm going to give the Churchill a bad review.

"Well, I'm going to the main house soon," I tell her. "So I'll get the full Churchill experience."

More people turn up and there's nowhere for them to sit.

Chairs are brought in, groups split up.

"I booked my tickets weeks and weeks ago," mutters one woman.

"It's first come first served," says her friend.

"But you shouldn't oversell!" comes the biting reply.

She's not wrong.

I scrap my chair along as more seats are carried in.

The black-tie ushers test walk through us. "Yes," says one. "Centre aisle is okay."

My neighbour spots something under her seat and reaches down. It's a stack of flyers. "These aren't yours?" she asks me.

"They're not." I may love print, but I draw the line at carrying around flyers on the weekend.

"They were here when you arrived?"

"Yes?" I mean... they must have been.

We look at them. They're not even advertising a show.

A man comes on stage.

"Apologies for the delay," he says. "We had technical issues due to... chairs."

And so we begin. Understanding Susan. We're in the thirties and a West End star returns home to cause chaos. It's funny enough and the first act zips along. Fast. Perhaps a little too fast.

We sit there, in our chairs. Not knowing what to do. Are we supposed to clap?

"We're now having a twenty-minute interval, ladies and gentlemen," comes the announcement.

Okay then.

I check my phone.

Half an hour has passed.

No wonder it felt fast.

I go out into the stairwell thinking I should probably get some more photos, but find myself just hanging out, listening to the sounds of the show in the main house buzzing on the other side of the walls.

A cast member appears.

"Can you hear me when I'm singing or not?" they ask a tech person.

"I can't."

"Shit," says the cast member.

I decide to go to the loo.

There's a queue inside. Not a long one. I stand around, waiting.

One of the stalls frees up.

"It's not flushing!" announces the lady as she steps out.

My stomach turns.

Yeah. No.

I decide I don't need to pee that badly, and return to the studio.

"The first half is very short," someone is explaining to my neighbour. "But the second is a bit longer. Scene changes," she explains apologetically.

The second act is a bit longer. And involves a lot of me leaning forward in order to avoid various cast members as they escape down the aisle and round the back of the room.

But we get through it.

Once the applause is done, it's my turn to make my escape. This is a two-show day and I was rather hoping to get some food before making my way to Kingston for my second venue.

"Have a safe journey home!" calls out an usher cheerily as I pass.

If only that's where I was going...

Umbrella up. Jacket buttoned. I step into the storm.

Ghosts of the past

I'm unemployed!

Yup, had my last day yesterday. Cleaned my desk. Spent an absolute age shifting all my programmes down to the print room in the basement. Said all my goodbyes. Got a speech. Couldn't make one. The threat of tears was too great. But got some lovely presents. And drunk. I got very, very drunk.

No matter. I'm paying for it today.

Hangover of the century happening right now.

But that's alright, because I'm getting on a train. To Romford.

I feel I could have planned this better, but honestly don't know how.

Where even is Romford?

I lean forward to look at the sign over the door.

Zone six! I'm going to zone six! I didn't even know there was a zone six, but there it is. With Romford in it. And soon enough: me.

The website for the Brookside Theatre says they're located opposite the Kenneth Elliott & Rowe Solicitors offices, which is not the most promising set of directions I've ever read.

When I find it, I stand there on the pavement and look at the building critically. It's brick. With a huge blue garage door on the front. And despite the lights being on upstairs, it looks deserted.

Oh dear. Have I got the day wrong?

I get out my phone and check my confirmation email.

"Thank you for booking your tickets for the upcoming event..." blah blah blah, it goes on, with details about printing at home, and collecting of tickets. I go through the entire thing searching for a date. Nothing.

Except for the order number up in the subject line, it is entirely generic.

I begin to worry that perhaps I've been scammed. That the Brookside Theatre is nothing more than this building with the lights on upstairs.

I cross the road to get a closer look.

There really is no one here.

I'm looking at it so hard I almost walk into the chains looping off the carpark.

I follow them to the end, and look up. There, on the fence, is a sign. Brookside Theatre, it says, with an arrow pointing away from the road.

I turn, and follow it. Down past the brick building, Through a car park.

And there, hiding at the back, is a little grotto. Paned windows overlook a garden filled with reeds. There's even a little bridge leading up to the front door. A front door topped with a pitched portico. It's like Snow White moved to Romford and set up house at the back of a car park.

Since the mines closed, the dwarves must have all got jobs at Kenneth Elliott & Rowe

"Programmes, three pounds!" comes a call as I step through the entrance into a dark blue foyer.

It's so dim in here I have to blink just to work out where I am.

"Raffle tickets!" calls another voice. "Two pounds to win tickets to any show here. Two pounds a strip."

Okay. I see it now. Lots of posing tables. Little merch kiosk on one side. Equally little box office window on the other. And... is that a Zoltar machine? They have a Zoltar machine.

I can't believe they have a Zoltar machine.

My second Zoltar machine of the marathon.

Of all the trends, I never thought I'd be seeing multiple Zoltar machines in London's theatres.

I can't handle this.

I'm going to pick up my ticket.

Might as well, I paid an extra one pound fifty for the privilege.

I go over to the window. "Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

"You booked today, didn't you?" says the box officer on the other side.

Yeah... I did book today. I think. It's so hard to tell. I might have still been a bit drunk at the time.

"I remember because I almost printed them early," he goes on. "Do you have ID on you? The card you paid with, or a passport, driving license, anything."

I want to tell him that while Romford may be in zone 6, I didn't need a passport to get here. But his smile is so earnest, I hold myself back.

I do have the card I paid with, so I show it to him, marvelling at the Hamilton-level security they've got going on here.

"That's so cool!" says the box officer looking down at my purse. I laugh. Yeah. It's pretty great. My elephant friend always gets attention.

"That's perfect," he says, checking my card. "So, you're in K8. That's the left side... or maybe the right... or..."

I laugh. "Don't worry," I tell him. "I'll figure it out."

Tonight is my 262nd theatre of the year. Excluding repeat visits. If I can't work out where my seat is by this point, there really is no hope for me.

Ticket thus acquired, I go in search of a programme.

The programme seller, with his three-pound programmes, has disappeared. I can't see him anywhere.

No matter. The kiosk has a sign advertising them. I just get one from there.

"Err," says the lady behind the counter when I ask for a programme.

"Are they on the move?" I ask, turning around just in case the programme seller has returned.

"Yeah," says the kiosk lady. "And the annoying thing is he was just here."

"Don't worry," I tell her, moving away to hunt down this roving programme seller.

"Wait!" She calls me back, grinning. "I've got one. Here you are. Three pounds."

"So you have change for a fiver?"

Her face falls once more. "Err. Sorry. I'm being really unhelpful. He has all the change."

"Don't worry, I think..." I rummage around in my elephant. "Two pounds, three. There you go."

"Perfect. Here's your programme. Enjoy the show!"

I turn, almost bumping into the programme seller as he takes another circuit of the room. "Programmes for three pounds!" Would anyone like a programme."

"Ladies and gentlemen. The house is now open. You can go in and take your seats."

Thank gawd. I need a sit down after all that.

I flash my ticket to the ticket checker and go inside. There's some steps, leading up to the back of the seats.

The ceiling is low. The walls are painted blue. And it's dark. Really dark. So dark that I cannot see the letters telling us what each row is. I have to lean right down. Which is tricky, because I'm wearing a mini dress. I mean, yes. I put shorts underneath. It's cold out there. But still. No one wants to see my lacy hot pants in here.

"What row is this?" asks the woman behind me. "If you can see!"

I laugh. "This is K... I think," I tell her. It better be K because I'm sitting in it.

The programme seller comes in. "I've only got three left! Programmes! Three pounds!"

A man gets his phone out and switches the torch on in order to navigate his party to their seats.

People fumble, and grip onto the seats as they make their way down the stairs.

The candle-shaped bulbs on the wall brackets offer the barest of assistance.

I try to have a read of the programme, but I can't make out anything on the pages. I give up. I wonder if this is an attempt to offer up an immersive atmosphere for tonight's show: The Canterville Ghost.

"Programmes! Three pounds! Only two left. No? Going, going, gone!"

Our town cryer disappears.

"A. B. C. D," says a man, counting from the back row.

We all look at one another, shocked to the core. In all my years of theatre-going...

"This is L," says a lady to him kindly. "A is right at the front?"

"Oh..."

He trudges down to the front row and eventually finds his seat in row B.

What little light we have disappears with a bang.

I jump. Audience members squeal.

And then we have to sit through minutes' worth of incidental music.

What a waste of a jump scare.

Oh well. At least we've started. With an 8pm curtain in Romford, I just hope I can get back to Hammersmith before midnight.

With the curtain now up, I can see that the Brookside has a nice little stage. And the set is very impressive for such a short run. They have even special effects. All very naice.

The story zips along with the cast running up and down the aisle as they escape from the ghost, and soon we are plunged into the interval.

"I haven't been here before. Have you?" asks a lady sitting in front of me.

Her companion shakes their head.

"We were shocked!" goes on the lady. "We thought that brick building at the front was it. It's cute where you go down here though."

Exactly what I was thinking, lady in the row in front!

"Ladies and gentleman," comes a voice from out in the foyer. "If you'd like to take your seats, the next act is about to begin."

With another flash and a crash, we are back in Canterville Castle, and the little girl of the family is determined to set all this family nonsense right.

It's all very cute and we applaud mightily at the end.

And then, that awkward pause which stretches out way too long as you sense one of the cast members has something to say.

The clapping stills.

Our housekeeper steps forward. "An extra round of applause for this one," she says pointing to the little girl.

We happily give it. It's quite something to carry a story like that.

I've sat through a lot of post-show speeches this year, and this one isn't bad. The building we're sitting in is a world war two memorial. When the theatre moved in, it was a leaking bingo hall for the old people. And they need money.

"A little girl with puppy dog eyes will be waiting with a bucket," she tells us. "As well as my very strange onstage husband. Any spare change would be much appreciated. Just it up and pop it in."

I've heard that one before, but I laugh all the same.

The cast disappears down the aisle, and sure enough, as I emerge into the foyer, there is the little girl with the puppy dog eyes, and the strange onstage husband. Both holding buckets.

I keep my head down as I run the gauntlet.

It's not that I think that they don't deserve the money, it's just... well, as I've said. I've sat through a lot of those post-show speeches.

After the Marathoner has Bolted

I'm back in Ruislip. Down on Manor Farm.

It's All Hallow's Eve Eve, and I'm going to watch a play about witch trials in a seven hundred-year-old barn, because that's how I roll.

And if you were ever in doubt about my dedication to this marathon, let me tell you, that in order to go to this event, and get this venue checked off my list, I extended the notice period at my job by an entire extra day.

Yup.

That's real.

I was supposed to have finished up my job today. Six weeks notice, ending at 6pm this evening.

But then I'd have to go and see this show. Which would mean missing out on the whole leaving do thing. Something that my grand-boss was not going to allow me to do. Oh no. I'm getting a party, whether I like it or not. Which means tomorrow, I'm going back into work. And I'm getting the full works: speeches, fizz, presents probably, I don't know. And then the traditional decamp at the pub.

On Halloween.

Which I am not unhappy about.

Walking out for the final time on 31 October is very me.

Good thing Brexit's been postponed though. That would have been awkward. One of our visiting companies already started calling my departure "Maxit." Which is super annoying. Because I didn't think of it first. Dammit.

Anyway, I'm here. I just hope they're grateful.

Just need to figure how where I'm supposed to be going.

It's so damn dark here.

I trudge up the drive, squinting at every sign I can see.

That's the library. It's not there.

Then there's the Cow Byre. I don't know what that is, but I know it's not that either.

I keep going.

Until I reach a hedge. A hedge I remember from the first time around because I freaked the hell out the last time I was here when a couple of adorable terriers were playing around it.

I double back. It has to be here somewhere.

There's no one around.

Not even a terrifying terrier.

Between the Cow Byre and the library there's a path. I follow it.

It the blackness, I spot a long, low, silhouette.

Is that the Great Barn? It's certainly great.

At the far end there's a square of yellow light.

I crunch my way along the path towards it.

The wooden doors to the probably-the-Great-Barn have been thrown open. And inside, there are some decidedly more modern looking glass doors. I push one open.

Warm air floods over me in a great wave.

The room is filled with chatter, and the roar of heaters.

There are three tables. One covered in CDs. Another in bottles. And a third with paper.

Merch, bar, and box office.

The trifecta of every decent theatre.

I go over to the papery one and give my name.

"Ah," says the box officer, pulling the last remaining ticket free from under the money box. "Help yourself to a glass of wine," she says, indicating the table behind her.

She sees me hesitate.

"It's free!" she says.

"Umm."

Look, here's the thing. I'm not really into wine. Even if it's free. It just doesn't do anything for me. I mean, sure I'll drink it. At like, an event, if I'm handed a glass. To be polite, you know. But I'm not going out my way for it.

"Or a soft drink," says the box officer, sensing the direction my thoughts are going in.

"Well, alright then. Thanks," I say. Might as well. It is free, after all.

I go over to the bar.

Wine is ready poured, but I spot a carton hiding behind them.

"Could I get an orange juice?" I ask.

The lady behind the bar looks down.

"Let me just grab you a clean glass," she says, disappearing into the back of the barn and out a side door.

I stand around, and take a few photos.

It is pretty spectacular in here. Those 13th-century barn builders know how to vault a ceiling.

Not sure they would have appreciated it much in 12-whatever-year-it-was. You wouldn't have been able to see them for shit. But the looks of it, there's only one window, set high in the wall on the far side. Even with the barn doors open, the main crop this place would have been storing is shadows.

"There you are," says the bar lady returning with two damp wine glasses in her hand. "Freshly washed," she adds, proudly. "Just in case."

"I feel honoured," I say, meaning it.

"You shouldn't," she laughs. "It's all part of the service."

And with that, she hands me my orange juice and I go off to explore the space.

A stage has been set up down the other end, under the window.

Seats run in narrow rows in between the rough pillars holding up that vaulted roof.

I look up.

It really is quite something.

And must be a total bitch to clean.

Look, over there. A blue balloon is caught in the rafters. It's streamer trailing sadly behind it. And further along... I pause and get out my glasses.

It's a man. Or perhaps more accurately, a guy. A stuffed figure. Straddling one of the beams.

That's... well, okay then.

I go to find a seat.

It's pretty full in here. Surprisingly full. The people of Ruislip are well up for witch trials in barns.

And by the looks of it, there's a surprising amount of Goths living locally. Black eyeliner is being rocked all over the place. And one sweet young man has got a Slytherin scarf slung around his neck. Bless. I do love to see my house represented out in the wild.

"Is there anyone on the end here?" I ask a family taking up the remainder of a row. Mum and two young girls.

She shakes her head. "Nope." It's all mine.

There's a freesheet waiting for me on the seat. It's black. Professionally printed. With a very Blair Witchy style title treatment.

I'm well excited now.

I spend my time happily alternating between sipping orange juice and taking photos. I like it in here. It's creepy and cool and cosy. The three Cs.

And then the heaters go off.

We must be ready to start.

A front of houser comes forward. Turns out, she runs this place. Fire exits are pointed out, including the one hiding behind the stage.

I look around. It has just occurred to me that we are sitting in a very old, wooden building.

Good thing we've been getting plenty of rain recently.

There's no stage lighting to speak of, so when the play starts, it's within a shared light environment. Very true to the period. Although the blinding electrics in this place would have been more light then any of these characters saw in their entire lives.

We're in the 16th century, and Mark Norman's Sir William Tyrell is called upon when Sam Burns' Thomas Latimer accuses Tracey Norman's Margery Scrope of witchcraft.

We follow the accusations, as Norman scribbles away making notes to the distant sound of church bells pealing away.

And I have to admit, even with the ecclesiastical soundscape, it's not quite doing it for me.

It feels like we've been dropped into the end of the story. We're watching Poirot's wrapup without ever getting to witness the murders. And I can totally see why its done this way, but... yeah. Not for me.

It doesn't help that it's freezing cold. Without the heaters on blast, we are basically sitting in a old barn. Even cows are given hay and stuff to keep out the chill.

As the cast comes out to receive their applause, we launch straight into a Q&A. With Norman still wiping the tears of desperate anguish from her face as they do so.

But it's the actors asking questions of the audience.

What did we think? Was she guilty?

Honestly, debating the possible guilt of a fictional character is not something I’m bothered by. They tell us that the story is meant to be balanced. That you are not meant to know. And that's enough for me.

But then Norman starts talking about the historical background of it all, and I suddenly get interested.

And yes, there's the usual twat in the audience who feels the need to show off that they know what year the poor laws were codified, but on the whole, this a fucking great discussion.

If they were all like this, I might actually start staying for them willingly.

Questions done, we're invited to hang around, talk to the cast, sign the guest book.

I'm not having with any of that, even with the assurance that the heaters are going back on. I am the first one out the door.

This is my third trip to Ruislip, and I'll be damned if I'll be spending another evening shivering on a platform. Sending up a prayer and a promise of a thousand offering to each of the theatre gods, I half-run down the hill towards the train station.

As I beep through the turnstiles, I can hear the sound of a train approaching.

Now that's real witchcraft for you.

Curtains for Bromley

I'm dying. Literally.

I mean, not literally literally. Unless we're talking in the sense that everyone is on an unstoppable march to meet the grim reaper. I mean figuratively literally.

I'm just, like, really sick.

After spending the entire day trying to find the perfect napping-position that would not set off either my cough or the slop-bucket that is my stomach, I gave up, got dressed, and headed out into the night.

And just because the world hates me, I'm off to Bromley again tonight.

Not that I hate Bromley, you understand. I just hate going to Bromley.

There's a difference.

I stumble my way to the tube station, my arms crossed, my head down.

"Oy!" comes a voice as it whizzes past my ear.

It's a cyclist, and I seem to be in the middle of the road.

"Sorry!" I call after him.

"Learn the Green Cross Code!" he shouts back. "You're old enough."

I sigh. I want to tell him that I grew up in rural Somerset. They don't teach you the Green Cross Code in rural Somerset. They tell you not to cross a field with cows in it. That's what they teach you.

He twists around to look at me. "I'm only joking!" he shouts before riding off.

He must have seen the vacant stare, the drawn face, the pinched mouth.

I really am dying.

At Victoria I find myself pelting it across the main concourse towards platform two. One minute before the train leaves. It's packed. It takes five whole carriages to find one that I can squeeze myself into. But I'm on. And the doors are closing. And if I can just hang on for the sixteen minutes it will take to get to Bromley South, and I'll be fine.

It's very warm on this train.

I unwind my scarf. It doesn't help.

I pull the scarf free and shove it in my bag.

It's not enough.

Apologising to the person standing behind me I put down my bag and struggle my way out of my jacket.

There.

Except the carriage seems to have grown even hotter. I know I've been telling theatres they need to put the heating on, but I didn't mean for that to extend to crowded commuter trains.

My skin is clammy. My head is beginning to spin.

How much longer?

Ten minutes.

I can do that.

I try to distract myself with some mental admin, plotting out all the theatres I'm visiting this week and making a note of all the ones I still need to arrange tickets for.

That takes a while.

We must be nearly there now.

I check my phone.

Nine minutes.

I feel my shoulders slump. I tug at the collar of my t-shirt. There's no air in this place. I can't breathe.

"I'm so sorry," I say. Outloud. On this packed train. "Could I get a seat? I think I'm about to faint..."

The woman sitting next to me bursts out of her seat.

The man sitting next to her leans over to lift the arm rest.

I fall into the vacated space, spewing out thanks in every direction.

"Would you like this as a fan?" asks the man, offering up his newspaper.

"Do you want a sweet?" asks the lady across the aisle. "For energy."

Yes. That's exactly what I want. A kindly lady offering me a sweet.

"I'll take anything going," I say, sinking my elbows onto the table in front of me and trying to think cooling thoughts.

The mint does wonders, and by the time we role into Bromley South, that last station Oyster cards are accepted on this line, I'm almost feeling human again.

"Thank you so much," I tell the sweet lady.

"Don't worry, darling," she says as she packs up her bag. "Keep well." And with that, she disappears into the crowd.

I pause, finding an empty space, and start piling my clothes back on. It's a cold night and I've got a bit of a walk ahead of me.

Citymapper tells me it's a fifteen-minute journey, but as it senses my dazed dawdle it quickly recalculates and adds on an extra five minutes.

I don't mind.

I have time. And the walk's not too bad.

Bromley has a surprisingly swish shopping centre. A wide boulevard surrounded by Apples and Hotel Chocolats, and most pleasingly of all, a Steiff right next to a place called Bare Necessities. That later place sells fashion accessories, but if they don't have a line dedicated to the teddy bears next door, I will be very upset.

I can't investigate further, as it's closed. So I keep on walking. Down a dark street, and round a corner.

It all looks very different to the last time I was here, but I had to march my way up a very steep hill to get to the theatre.

I hope after all this, I'm heading to the right place.

With relief, I spot the sign for Bromley Little Theatre shining out from behind some pub's bunting. There it is.

And as I make my way around, I spot the funny shaped building that I remember so well.

Under the overhang, into the courtyard, through the narrow doorway, and up the even narrower stairs.

This time there isn't a person poised at the top to take names.

I turn into the bar, which had served as the theatre space on my last visit, and make my way over to the actual box office.

There's a short queue in front of me. Someone buying tickets. Trying to buy tickets, I should say, as by the sounds of it, the card reader isn't playing along.

Somehow, the pair of them manage to negotiate these difficulties and it's my turn.

"Sorry, my machine's broken!" says the box officer, staring down at her card reader in distress.

"Don't worry, take your time," I tell her, relieved just to have made it here in one piece. I'm really not feeling good. My throat is so clogged I'm amazed I'm even able to speak. I hate this feeling. This kind of sick grogginess. Trust me to manage to get food poisoning on the same night a cold hits. That'll teach me for popping into the Chinatown Bakery for some pre-show taiyaki to make myself feel better. Not that I blame the taiyaki, you understand. It's the open display counter and tong system that bakery has going on that's the cause of all my woes. Well, that's what I think anyway.

"Ah!" she says, her face brightening. "There we are. How can I help you?"

"I'm collecting? The surname's Smiles?"

She turns to her computer screen and starts checking. "Yup. Let me print that for you," she says.

As she does that, I look down at the counter. There are neat piles of programmes laid out across it. "And can I get a programme?" I ask as she tears away the ticket from the printer.

"Of course! That's one pound."

"Bargain!" I say, meaning it. I do appreciate a one pound programme, I really do.

"There you go," she says, laying the ticket on top of a programme.

Perfect. Programmes and printed tickets. It doesn't get much better than that.

Well, there is one thing that could make it better. The box office is right next to the bar. And I can spot those little dishes on the counter which bars keep citrus slices in. And man, could I do with something sour to clear my throat.

There's a man ahead of me being served, but one of the bar people smiles to indicate that she's free and I slide around him.

"Could I get some ice water with lemon?"

Turns out I absolutely can. And it's free.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

She is.

I thank her. "You're a lifesaver, I was desperate for something sharp." Being ill always makes me feel pathetically grateful. Or perhaps it is just: pathetic. Either way, I'm glad of my icy water. And lemon.

"Are there hot drinks available?" asks the next person.

"Yeah, there's a set up on the counter over there. Help yourself."

There's also a table laden with water jugs and cups.

The BLT are not letting anyone get dehydrated. Not under their roof.

On the wall a screen rotates through all the theatre's messaging. Apparently the Little Theatre is now available to everyone, with even non-members now able to buy tickets to shows in the main auditorium. Which, considering one of the rules of the marathon is that performances need to be accessible to the public, is just super.

A couple come in.

"Do you want coffee?" he asks, indicating the counter.

She goes over to investigate, putting a cup under one of the machines and turning it on. "No, I can't," she says with a cry of despair and leaves.

It's only a few minutes later that I realise that machine is still boiling. I look over. The counter is flooded with hot water.

I leap over.

Boiling water is pouring into the overflowing cup.

I grab the dial and turn it off.

Everything is soaked.

Including the pile of napkins.

Behind the counter is a kitchen. I can see a tea towel hanging, just out of reach.

I should probably tell someone... but the theatre bell is ringing, and I am so tired. And so ill.

I leave it all and go in.

For a venue that goes around calling itself a little theatre, it ain't all that little. Rows and rows of seats line up in front of a proper proscenium arched stage. The walls are painted theatre-corridor red, which is a dramatic choice. Wooden rafters crisscross over our heads. The whole place is giving me Red Barn vibes.

I hope we're not here for a horror tonight. I'm way too fragile for that.

I look at the programme.

It's a play by David Hare.

I mean, that isn't not terrifying.

But at least it's not set in a barn.

I find my seat, right by the door, thank goodness, and have a proper look at the programme. Looks like we're watching Stuff Happens tonight. About the build up to the Iraq war.

That's good.

I mean, not the war. Or even the subject matter. Just in my delicate state it's probably a good idea that I'm at a play based on events I vaguely remember. The time between the Twin Towers coming down and the bombs raining on Baghdad coincide pretty much exactly with me attending a school that insisted we watch the news every night before dinner.

"G? Row G?" someone mutters behind me.

"G?" is the reply from their companion.

"G!"

"Did you say G?"

Yup, they definitely said 'G'.

"A. B. C. D. E. F... Geeeee!" sings out the first person as she finds row G.

There's a lot of energy in this room.

I slump in my seat and pray to the theatre gods that I don't have to move.

A few minutes later, we're all settled, the play starts, and I'm relieved to note that I still do remember who Colin Powell is. Kinda.

It soon becomes apart that my daily 6 o'clock news conditoning cannot really compete with the fog that has settled inside my skull, and soon I'm struggling. Who was that person again? He has a British accent but I could have sworn he was some American defence dude five minutes ago. It takes my dying brain way too long to realise their all role-swapping.

"Excuse me," says a dude, creeping along the row.

I twist my knees around, letting him pass, too weak to stand up.

As he disappears out the door I look over and see there's only one other person in our row. And no one in the row in front. He could easily have gone round. But that would have meant asking his wife to stand up. Instead of me. I will never, ever, understand why people would rather disturb strangers over the people they are with. Especially when those strangers are clearly dying. And watching a David Hare play. In Bromley.

Come on now.

A few minutes later he touches my shoulder, requesting entrance back into the row. Ignoring the entirely vacant second row.

And then it's the interval.

I stumble out, more out of fear that I will fall asleep in that chair than anything else.

The audience divides, peeling off to opposite ends. Those in search of caffeine heading in one direction. Those in need of a stronger pick me up in the other.

I find a bench to sit on. Not sure bench is the right descriptor here. It's more like a church pew. But lined with a red cushion. The kind of benches that you find in the outbuildings of old Tudor cottages, that have been there so long no one remembers how they got there, but everyone suspects that their great-great-grandfather probably knocked it while helping to fix the local church's roof.

A front of houser rings the bell.

"Did you hear ther bell?" someone asks. "I heard the bell!"

"The bells have tolled!" replies some wag.

"Take your seats please, ladies and gentlemen."

I heave myself off the bench and stagger back in.

Act two starts, and I think I've got the hang of all this now. Hans Blix is director of the CIA, the deputy secretary of the defence in the US is also acting as the head of MI6, and the French ambassador to the US is an Iraqi exile. Got it.

We make it to the end, and as everyone heads back to the bar I make my escape.

I cross my arms over my jacket and stumble through Bromley. Everything is closed. Apart from the Five Guys, staffed by one lonely looking boy cleaning a countertop.

I trudge on, peering into the darkened shop windows as I pass.

I see a sign. Advertising a play. Or a musical rather. Curtains. Huh. I wonder what theatre that's in. It doesn't say.

I get out my phone and Google it. The Churchill Theatre. That's weird. You'd think we'd be a bit far from Ruislip to be advertising musicals. I keep on scrolling. I don't make it ten steps before I stop. My feet refusing to move under me. Curtains isn't at the Winstone Churchill Theatre in Ruislip. Oh no. It's at the Churchill Theatre in Bromley. A theatre I didn't even know existed until this exact moment.

With shaking fingers I click on their website and scroll through their listings.

Main Auditorium.

Studio.

They have two theatres.

Two more theatres.

Two more theatres in Bromley.

I look back over my shoulder, back at the large sign which I swear is now glinting evilly under the street lamps.

That's it. I can't do it. Marathon over. I can't make this journey again, let alone twice more. It'll kill me.

I want to throw up.

No, like, I really want to throw up.

I take a few deep breathes of ice cold air until the nausea settles.

Right. That's better. Two more theatres. It's fine. I can do this. Plenty of time. It's fine.

It's fine.

It's...

The Pajama Game

“This is the final station where a TFL validated rail card or Oyster card can be used,” comes a voice over the tannoy as we approach Watford Junction. 

And so I reach the very edge of the London Theatre Marathon. My Oyster card will take me here and no further.  

Thank fucking gawd. 

I’ve never been to Watford before. 

Not even when there was a James Graham play in the Watford Palace. Which is quite the statement as I love me some James Graham. 

But apparently even this love has limits. And that limit is Watford. 

The play actually ended up transferring to the Bush, and I saw it there, so it all worked out just fine. But there’s no escape this time around. It’s now or never. I’m going to fucking Watford. 

“Stay behind the yellow line,” shouts a station worker as we make our way down the platform. “Please! We all want to go home.” 

And with that, I head towards the exit. 

Outside, the pavements are empty. But the roads are clogged with cars. 

I end up having the pick my way through a traffic jam just to cross a junction. 

But there it is, up ahead. It’s sign blazing out red in the darkness. “PALACE.” The Watford part presumably not requiring the neon, as we are, as I have said, in Watford. 

I stand on the opposite side of the road, trying not to get run over by a reversing van, to take my exterior shots. 

No one goes in. No one comes out. And through the windows I can’t make out the tiniest shred of movement. 

I begin to worry that I perhaps got the wrong day. That they are completely dark on this chilly Tuesday evening. But no, there’s someone, coming down the road. I keep a close eye on her, standing in the shadows like the creepy lurker that I am. 

She pauses in front of the doors. 

I hold my breath. 

She carries on walking. 

Dammit. 

I hold back, scanning the pavement for any signs of life. 

Eventually a man arrives, walking with purpose if not exactly speed. 

I wait for him, glancing down at my phone in order to pretend that I’m not a weird stalker. I’m just reading a text. From a friend I definitely have. 

He’s approaching the doors.

He’s slowing down. 

He’s reaching out.

He’s grasping the handle. 

This is it. He’s going in! 

And so am I! 

I skitter across the road and slip my way through the doors before the man has even managed to get himself up the short flight of steps in the foyer. 

An usher spots me. “Hello!” he says, spotting me looking around, trying to get my bearings. 

“Err, box office?” 

“Just this way.” He points down the corridor towards the large desk tucked away right at the end.  

“Hello there!” says the box officer as I approach. 

Everyone is very friendly this evening. 

“Hi!” I say, attempting to equal his enthusiasm. I don’t think I’m quite pulling it off. “The surname’s Smiles?” 

He jumps into action, diving into the ticket box to pull out my ticket. 

“Is there a programme?” I ask, spotting something large and programmey-looking at the end of the counter. 

“Err,” he says, taken by surprise. This is clearly not a question he gets called upon to answer all that often. “No there isn’t a programme, errr…” He visablly pulls himself together. “Let me get my words out. Um. The people on the door should have a… crew sheet?” He pauses, puzzling over that term. 

I think he means a cast sheet, but I’m not correcting him. 

“I don’t think there is an actual programme,” he finishes. 

“Even better!” I say, meaning it. Cast sheets are better than programmes because cast sheets are free. I mean, yes, they lack the brilliantly commissioned programme notes, the glossy double page spreads showing off beautiful production photos, the scrupulously edited biographies, but, eh, it’s still a piece of paper to take home at the end of the night. And I repeat: it’s free. 

And by the looks of it, the front of housers are busy getting them all sorted. 

They’ve taken over a long bench, and are sorting through various papery elements. 

“There’s more coming out of the printer,” says one. 

“Are we giving everyone both?” is the reply. 

“Yup!” 

Excellent. It looks like I won’t be walking away with just one piece of paper tonight. I’ll have two! 

I begin to realise that the front of housers probably don’t appreciate me looming over them as they sort the handouts into different piles. 

I take a stroll to see what the other end of the corridor can offer me. Turns out, it’s the cafe. And everyone’s in here! 

I find an empty spot on one of the high chairs by the counter on the side, and try very hard not to think about how much of a berk I must look like with my legs swinging limply, two feet off the ground. 

Tables and chairs fill up rapidly, and by twenty past this corner of the building is pretty darn full. 

“She said everything is like the original,” says a woman, showing her group the freesheet. “Except for this bit.” She points to a paragraph. 

“But otherwise it’s like the play?” 

“That’s what she said. Just this is different.” 

“How does that work then?” 

“She didn’t say.” 

How frustrating. I guess we’ll all just have to watch it then. 

A voice comes over the sound system. “Please take your seats, the performance will begin in three minutes. The performance will begin in three minutes.” 

My ticket says to take the door on the left. So I head to the door on the left. Well, the door that says it’s on the left. We both know that I’m still figuring out the whole left-right thing.  

“Lovely,” says the ticket checker as she checks my ticket. “Let me-“ 

“Could I get one of those?” I ask, rudely interrupting her in my desperation to get my hands on the freesheet action. 

She hesitates. “Yeah, of course,” she says, regaining her flow. She plucks a card and a sheet of paper from her pile and hands it to me. 

With that accomplished, I head inside the auditorium. 

And will you look at that. It’s full of proper old-school twirly bits. There are boxes. And gilding. And mouldings.  

No chandelier though. 

Or rather, there is, but it isn’t a glittery crystal fountain, but a snake-like coil of neon pressed against the more traditionally Edwardian ceiling. 

I’m in the front row. Which is not my preferred seating choice, but the proscenium arch makes me feel safe. 

I dump my bag in my seat and snap a few pictures of the auditorium. 

It’s very sparse in the whole audience thing. 

Turns out, what can fill a cafe is not nearly enough to fill a theatre. 

By the looks of it, both the circle and the balcony have been shut off. 

It looks like a Gaslight revival on a freezing cold Tuesday evening in Watford is not that much of a draw.  

I’m surprised by that. 

No, seriously. I am. 

I am well excited for this production. And have been ever since it was announced. I’ve had this trip planned for months. Months! 

Although, to be fair, if I hadn't been prepared to make the journey for a new James Graham…  

Anyway, the play starts. We’re in a women’s refuge and the residents are putting on a play. Gaslight. 

They’re in their own clothes. Hannah Hutch’s Nancy seems to be in her duper comfy-looking jammies already, while Sandra James-Young's Elizabeth has opted for some sort of nightdress and house coat combo. And they are all working through some personal shit as they take on the roles of the residents of the Manningham household. With its disappearing paintings, and dimming lights. 

And it’s like, super intense. And a little bit distressing. I find myself wincing as Jasmine Jones’ Jack chews over a muffin, watching Sally Tatum’s Bella with calculating eyes as he plots his next move to torment and upend her. 

As Tricia Kelly, acting as both the master of ceremonies and Inspector Rough, calls time on the action, she sends both the actors and us off for a tea and tissue break. 

The curtain decends. We are left in darkness. The house lights aren’t coming up. I look around, wondering if this was part of the play. Was Jack wondering around above us, messing with the gaslight? But no, a few seconds later, the house lights come up and the auditorium is filled with music as Kesha tells us she don’t need a man to be holding her too tight and the members of Little Mix demand we listen up because they’re looking for recruits. 

I have a look at the freesheets. 

One is just a scrappy thing run off the photocopier, explaining how the cast have worked with the team from the Watford Women’s Centre Plus. The other is much fancier. All glossy and professional, with the cast list and headshots and whatnot. But both have a note at the bottom. 

“This show touches on potentially distressing themes around domestic abuse and specifically gaslighting. If you are affected by the themes in today’s production please talk to a member of our staff.” 

I’m almost tempted to go ask an usher what happens when someone comes to them, but I fear that might set off alarm bells, and I don’t want to be the cause of any of that.  

The second half starts. We’re back in the Manningham household and things are kicking the fuck off.  

Somewhere at the back a phone goes off, and is hastely silenced. 

Honestly, I’m glad of the distraction. My heart was beating at a thousand beats per second. 

That thot Nancy is playing games and I am not able to deal with it. 

At the end, the women of the refuge all gather for a group hug. And I kinda feel I want in on that action. I’m really in need of having someone pat my head and tell me it’ll all be okay. 

Instead I have to venture back out into the freezing cold and get myself out of Watford. 

Still, I did get something out of this. I found out I’m a lot stronger than I thought. If James Graham brings another play here... I might not even wait for the transfer. 

Getting Your Hot Chocolate Rations

“We need to get as many people in as possible,” shouts the TFLer on the Metropolitan line platform at Farringdon. 

Those still outside the doors make a push to get in, but nothing’s moving.

We’re tightly packed and there isn’t any more room. Not that this stops the TFLer at Great Portland Street from having a go.

“Move right down!” he orders. “There’s no need to be shy.” 

We’ve long moved past shyness inside this train. If we get any closer, Mettie is going to be the surprise popular baby name of 2020. 

As we leave central London far behind us, the carriage begins to empty. I even get a seat. 

Eventually, we roll into Ickenham. A little frazzled, but still in one piece. Just about. 

It’s dark out here. And freezing. I feel like I’ve spent at least a year underground, so I’m just glad to be outside and breathing in fresh air. 

According to Citymapper I need to take the Car Park exit out and loop around to get to my theatre for the evening. 

There’s a sign on the wall in the station. “Pedestrians using this route as a short cut do so at their own risk.” With that soothing thought in mind, I make my way out to the empty car park, clutching my bag and eyeing up all the shadows with a suspicious glare.

It’s only when I’m slipping past the barriers that I realise that the risk they were referring to was probably getting run over, and not scary murders, as I had, of course, presumed.  

Oh well. Either way, I’ve got out alive. 

Only problem, I’m now being sent down a lane. And it’s even darker than the car park, if that’s possible. There are definitely murderers lurking down here. 

I hurry along, peering through the gloom, trying to make sense of where I am. Is this even London anymore? It doesn’t look like London. London isn’t as empty as this. 

Just as I manage to convince myself that I’m being led to some abandoned farmhouse full of dead bodies, I see a sign. 

“Compass Theatre,” it says. As if that was a perfectly normal thing to state in the absolute middle of nowhere. 

Beyond the sign is another car park. I look around. At the far end is a low building. It’s full of light and warmth.  

Just as I’m wondering where the box office is, I spot a sign saying “Box Office,” above the door. 

The Compass Theatre is coming in strong on the signage angle. I like it. 

In I go. And follow even more signs until I reach the box office desk at the far side. 

“Hello!” says the box officer on duty as I approach. I give him my surname and he has a look at the ticket pile. “On the top!” he says, picking up the first one. “All waiting for you.” 

Nice. 

Ticket acquired, I wander off to see what else the Compass has on offer. 

Lots of lots of poster space, by the looks of it. The walls are covered with a mosaic of frames, advertising all the upcoming shows, bar prices, volunteering opportunities, panto auditions, and… a notice stating that due to staff sickness, wardrobe is not on offer that evening. 

Oh dear.

I hope the cast took their costumes home with them last night. 

Around the corner, there’s a cafe. People sit around flicking through programmes. I realise I need to get me one of those. I look around. There’s a table nearby, covered with an odd arrangement of items which suggest there's a raffle going on, and, more importantly, a small pile of red booklets. 

“Are you selling programmes?” I ask one of the young women standing nearby. 

“Yup! I am.” 

“How much are they?” 

“Three pounds!” she answers cheerfully. 

“Oh, I have a fiver for once,” I say as I wrestle with the zip on my purse. Thanks to the good programme seller at the Duchess Theatre for that. “Do you have change?” 

She does. 

Transaction done, I find an empty table to sit at and watch as people investigate the prize-items and decide if they want to invest in a raffle ticket. 

An announcement comes over the sound system. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Compass Theatre. This evening’s performance will begin in ten minutes. This house is now open if you’d like to take your seats.” 

My fingers are already behind trying to transcribe the voice, but he keeps on going, taking about phones and whatnot, ending with a dark warning about not taking photos in the auditorium. I freeze. Ah. That’s going to be tricky. I hate it when theatres don’t allow photography inside the actual theatre. Got my back right up when The Old Vic banned me from doing it when I was there in August. Seriously irritating. Let’s just hope that the Compass doesn’t have as many ushers inside the auditorium so I can grab a sneaky shot. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes the voice again. “The performance will begin in five minutes. Please take your seats.” 

Well, looks like it’s time to analyse the staffing situation. 

Back round towards the box office, and then off through a door on the side. Two ushers wait within a small vestibule, ready to check tickets. 

“C12?” I ask, showing my ticket to the nearest one. “Yup, just through there and…” she motions with her hand, first one way then the other. “Left? Right? … left? Sorry, I don’t know which way the seats go.” 

I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.” 

If I can’t work out seat numbers by now, my 235th theatre of the year, well, there really is no hope for me now, is there? 

I round the seating block, go through the nearest aisle and climb the steps to row C, then squint at the seat numbers. 

Fifteen… fourteen… thirteen… twelve. There. That was easy enough. 

The gentleman in seat eleven grabs the armrests and starts to heave himself up. 

“Don’t worry,” I say, lifting my hand to stop him. “I’m right next to you.” 

Jacket off. Glasses on. Phone out.  

I look around. There are no ushers in here. 

Right, a few quick photos of the space. 

Stage. Seats. Side-angle. Done. 

I can relax now. 

The band are already in place, in a makeshift pit, cordoned off behind a low black wall. 

Over on the far side, some bits of paper have been stuck on it. 

“Toilets,” “Bar,” “Exit,” they say in turn, with arrows pointing the way. 

That is some commitment to signage you got there, Compass Theatre. No space is exempt from direction-duty, not even the temporary orchestra pit. 

Okay, one more photo. Just for the signage. 

Now I’m done. 

The man sitting next to me twists around in his seat to look behind him. "I was so worried they wouldn't have enough people in tonight," he says. "It's such a shame that people don't support the community."

I slink down in my own seat. Not only am I very much not a member of this community, I'm barely a member of my own. I don't think I've ever seen an amdram performance in Finchley. And by 'think,' I mean: 'know.' Because I have definitely never seen an amdram performance in Finchley.

More people come on. A lady stops to touch the pianist on the shoulder as she passes. He jumps and looks round. A second later they're hugging and chatting and it's all rather adorable. 

A voice comes over the sound system.

We're about to begin and we need to switch our phones off. After all, this musical we're seeing tonight, is set in the second world war. "When they didn't have mobile phones. So switch them to silent so they don't think bombs are going off."

A woman in my row stabs wildly at her phone screen. "I don't know what I'm doing!" she hisses to her companion.

As the curtain rises, the frantic woman manages to disarm the phone and stow it safely away in her bag.  

We begin. Radio Times. A musical set in the Criterion Theatre, where I was, only last week. Except, instead of a slick comedy about a bank robbery (called, if I remember correctly: A Comedy About a Bank Robbery), we have the recording of a radio show, being broadcast live by the BBC as air raid sirens rage all around.

I certainly feel like I'm stuck in a bomb shelter, because it's freezing in here.

My shivering only stops long enough to half-jump out of my seat as my neighbour calls out: "More!" with the final notes of I took My Harp to a Party. "Go on, Marty!”

I manage to make it through to the interval without catching hypothermia, and rush out towards the cafe in search of warmth.

The usher on the door is holding an air raid hat.

"Seemed a good idea at the time," she says, looking at it bleakly.

"There are real ones upstairs you know," says someone else.

I don't hear her reply, but I imagine they are strong words referring him to the signs stating, quite clearly, that wardrobe is closed today.

I reclaim my seat by the window. It's no good. It's just as cold in here.

A young woman goes over to the vending machine to get herself a hot drink.

"Ergh," she growls, loud enough for people to look round. "I want a hot chocolate but it's out and there's no change!"

"What's the problem?" asks a bloke standing nearby, and she explains the situation again.

"Just ask for your money back," he says.

"There's no change!" She's sounding really quite stressed now. I can't blame her. To let yourself believe that you were seconds away from a hot chocolate on a cold night, and then to have that dream snatched away from you... I'd be raging.

"You have to speak to the cafe staff."

"That's really bad, isn't it?" steps in another bloke. He gives the machine a sneak-attack with his fist. It doesn't help.

A staff member appears. "What did you want?" he asks.

"A hot chocolate," she tells him.

"Yeah, there's none," he says, preparing to walk away.

"Yeah," says the girl. "But it's got my money."

"Nothing I can do about that." He pauses. "Oh... Hang on. I'll get someone."

He goes.

An announcement calling us back to our seats plays over the sound system but there's no way I'm moving when there's a whole three-act production playing out in the cafe.

As the audience makes it's way back to the auditorium, I am glued to my seat.

A key has been found. The machine is open.

"Right, how do I do this now?" says the machine opener, staring at the innards within.

"Is there any hot chocolate?" asks the girl, still intent on living her dream. "Like, at the back?"

"Nah," he says, cracking open the money bit. "Can you identify your fifty pee?"

"It's alright," says the girl, realising the dream is over. "I'll take that one."

And so I am released back the auditorium for the second act.

The usher is now wearing her air raid helmet, standing to attention by the wall and looking hella cute with it.

I snuggle back into my jacket, looking slightly less cute, but at least I'm warm.

The BBC gang are now on air. With spangly costumes and off-colour jokes flying all over the place. But the script hasn't been signed off and the only thing that will keep the plug from being pulled is a heartfelt speech aimed at the audience across the pond.

With the assurance that this speech as very definitely got the Americans on side and in the war, we are sent out into the night.

Pulling my jacket close around me I run across the road, through the car park, back into the station, and onto the platform... where I have to wait a full half-hour for a train. I huddle in the waiting room, close to a radiator that isn't even trying.

I get back to Hammersmith past midnight. And immediately make myself a hot chocolate.

I hope that girl got one too.

Offenbach Off

Well, this is rather worrying. Google Maps can’t seem to locate my next venue.

I type it in again. Blackheath Halls.

Nope. Nothing.

Great. Looks like I’m on my own.

From Blackheath station I turn right and start marching up the hill. I’ve never been to Blackheath before. It’s kinda cute, in that way that south London villages so often are. As if they’re always on the alert for any roaming film crews scouting for a period location. With ever street filled with shops that seem to exist solely to furnish old ladies’ front rooms with knick-knacks.

There’s a great big red brick building over there on the left which looks likely. And yup, I can see the signage now. Blackheath Halls.

Turns out it does exist. Which is a relief. I was beginning to think I might have made the place up. It does rather sound like the sort of name my brain would come up with. It’s the Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way of theatre names. I bet Charlotte Brontë only used Thornfield Hall because Blackheath was just a little too on the nose to be taken seriously.

Music pours out. Singing. The cast must be warming up. Although there is a touch of the football chant to their repertoire. I’m beginning to wonder what on earth I’ve let myself in for tonight.

I’m seeing La Belle Helene. Which I admit I know exactly nothing about.

Maybe it really does have a scene set at Old Trafford.

Lots of people are perching on the steps outside the bright red doors. Unfortunately, none of them are Mr Rochester. So I go inside.

There’s a nice foyer in here. Big and square, with the box office down on one end.

I join the queue. There are signs all over the place advertising the twin joys of programmes and ice cream. Both of them three quid. But when I get to the front, there are no programmes on sale at the desk.

There is a notice proudly promising that the show is sold out though. I wonder how much walk up business they get all the way down here…

Not sure what to do now. There’s a bar off to one side. It’s pretty big but it is absolutely rammed. I decide not to join the fray. I hang back, examining the boards full of children’s artwork.

There’s a front of houser in the foyer, carrying a stack of paper in her arms.

Freesheets! Fuck yeah!

“Sorry, is that the freesheet?” I ask her.

“It’s a synopsis for you,” she says, handing a copy to me.

“Amazing, thank you.”

I wander off to have a look at my prize. It’s exactly what she said. A synopsis of the opera and nothing more. A two page synopsis of the opera. The font is pretty big, but even so. Two pages. That’s worrying.

I decide not to read it. I’m a great believer in productions having to stand up by themselves without explanation.

Still… two frickin’ pages.

I’ve exhausted all the possibilities that the foyer has to offer. I should probably go and see what is happening in the bar.

I squeeze myself in, immediately getting bumped. First one way. Then the other. It’s impossible to move in here.

The doors to the auditorium are open and I consider going in, if only for the peace, but it’s far too early for that.

Instead I brace myself against a pillar and send a prayer to the theatre gods for their protection.

From my position, I have a good view of the door. “Great Hall. Door B,” it says. I check my ticket. There’s no mention of doors. I look back at the sign. No seat numbers. Right. It seems we’re just guessing our doors tonight then.

On the opposite side, there’s the bar.

It looks nice enough, but there are no programmes on display.

Where are the programmes? Do they even exist?

Just as I start getting rather stressed about the whole thing, a front of houser appears bearing a huge wodge of them which she passes off to the ticket checker at Door B.

Well thank the theatre gods for that.

I walk over, but someone else gets in there first.

Programmes are in high demand at Blackheath.

“Three pounds,” the ticket checker tells the man. I grab my purse and pull out the correct change while I’m waiting. I knew all those pound coins from the National would come in handy.

“Can I get one too?” I ask when the man ahead of me has gone inside.

“Of course!” she says. “Three pounds please.”

Transaction complete, I return to my pillar.

“Good evening and welcome to this evening’s performance of La Belle Helene,” comes a voice over the sound system. “The house is now open. Please take your seats as soon as possible.”

I check my phone. It’s 6.40pm. Fucking hell, calm down mate. We’ve got ages.

No one else in the bar seems to have noticed the time though, as soon there is a massive queue outside both doors and I have a nice procession of handbags to knock me as they pass by.

An old man decides to sit things out and pulls a chair away from one of the tables, ramming it into my knees as he sits down. He wriggles around, using his elbows to pummel me back into the pillar. What a twatting fucker.

“I wondered if you’d be here!”

I look up. It’s Ruth! I know Ruth. Do you know Ruth? She made a tiny uncredited cameo in my London Coliseum blog post. And here she is again!

“Have you been to any of the Blackheath Opera productions before?” she asks.

I have to admit that I haven’t. Between you are me, I don’t get on the train for opera. I don’t tell Ruth that. She is definitely the type of person to get on the train for opera.

“The soloists are professionals,” she explains. “The minor roles are Trinity students, and they have a massive community chorus.”

Well, that sounds good. I’ve seen the Trinity Laban students before, at Queen’s House, and that was… everything.

“They’ve just refurbished this place. Usually the productions are in the round, but they want to show off their fancy new raked seating on this one.”

“They even have it printed on the ticket!” I say, showing her mine.

“Raked Seating,” it says, just before the seat number.

“See you in the interval?” asks Ruth.

I nod.

It’s time to go in.

I try Door B first. “Am I at the right door?” I ask. Turns out I’m not.

Take two then.

The lady at Door A checks my ticket and waves me through into a very dark corridor. Round the corner, down past the fancy new raked seating and there we are: the Grand Hall.

“R20?” I ask the usher standing there.

“Yup, through here,” she says pointing to the nearest aisle. “And right to the back.”

She’s right. I am right at the back. The row behind is empty, being used by the tech desk. This is as far away as you can get at Blackheath Halls.

“It’s going to get really hot up here,” says someone in my row.

“Didn’t there used to be fans?” comes the reply.

“They were taken out in the restoration. They were supposed to be replaced by what they call, not air conditioning, but an air cooling system.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working!”

It really doesn’t. I get out my fan and try to move some of this thick air around, but it isn’t doing much good.

“I can feel a bit of air coming from somewhere!” says the first person.

Yeah. That’s me, love. You’re welcome.

One of the musicians in the orchestra waves at someone in the audience. Hugs and kisses and greetings are exchanged as the seats fill up. It’s going to be one of those nights. Where everyone knows everyone, and the rest are related to people in the cast. No wonder the run is sold out.

Lights dim. We begin.

It’s… ummm… what is this?

We seem to be doing the story of Helen of Troy. But it’s a comedy. And a rather tedious comedy at that.

All around me the audience is laughing. The kind of performative laughter you get at Shakespeare plays. The “I get this, I’m clever,” type of laughter. Well, I don’t get this. I’m not clever.

Ruth was right. There is a massive community cast. Every time I think the stage is full, more people keep on coming out. There’s a whole classroom’s worth of uniformed kids up on stage now.

And the heat is astonishing. At first it was merely unbearable. It is now a hell inferno. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest. I rub my collarbones, hoping to free them up. My skin is clammy and hot to the touch.

First act one hour thirty. Second act thirty minutes. I can do this. It’s fine. Just listen to the music.

But the music is terrible. The storyline ridiculous. The characters irritating.

I find myself rolling my eyes every time someone makes a joke. And there are a lot of them.

I can’t believe it’s only a few weeks since I saw that glorious, well-thought out programme at Queen’s House. And now I’m here. Watching this right pile of tut.

My eyes are beginning to hurt I’m rolling them so hard. I think I might have dislocated a retina.

There’s a light up board on the stage.

“1 ‘ere, 2 ‘eme, 3 ‘eme, Int,” it says. 1’ere has been lit up for a long time. I keep an eye on it. I was sure if was keeping track of what act we were in, but now I’m not convinced. It’s been stuck at 1 ’ere for ever. It must be broken.

Just as I’m debating whether the heaviness in my breathing is a precursor to me fainting or just throwing up, it switches to “Int.” I watch it hungrily, not even paying attention to what’s happening on stage anymore.

I have to get out of here.

A few minutes later, it switches again. “2 ‘eme.” Act two.

Oh my god. Only act two? Out of three?

No. Nope. Definitely not. I can’t do it. I can’t.

I will die. And throw up. And faint. In that order.

I look up, fixung my eyes on the intricate mouldings in the ceiling, willing myself to get through to the end.

Not long now. I can cool off in the interval. And then just thirty more minutes.

Thirty. More. Minutes.

I can’t do it.

Yes, I can.

I never leave in the interval. I hate leaving in the interval.

I’ve only done it once on this marathon. At an amateur performance when the room was swelteringly hot…

Oh.

Oh…

No. I’m staying.

Am I?

I mean, I don’t have to. I’m not on a press ticket. I paid to be here. With my own money. I’m under no obligation to stay.

I’ve given up on the performance entirely now. I don’t care what’s happening on stage. I’m thinking. A half hour interval. That’s time enough to go outside and sit in the shade for a bit, I tell myself. But half an hour though… in that time I could make it back to London Bridge. And be home by 10pm. And have an electric fan pointed directly at my face.

And who even programmes half-hour intervals? Followed by another half-hour act? That’s dragging on the evening a whole extra thirty minutes that we could be putting towards an early night.

Screw that.

I’ll see how I feel when the interval hits, I promise myself. If I want to go. I can go.

I try to focus back on the performance, but they are having some bizarre VR dream sequence now and if this goes on any longer I’m going to scream.

And then finally, finally. We make it. The stage lights darken. The house lights go up. We’re free. I burst out of my seat, grabbing my jacket and my coat and then… I’m stuck. The aisle is packed. There’s no way to get out.

I flick open my fan and try to cool myself, but it’s no good. I am going to faint.

“There’s a breeze coming from somewhere,” says a lady ahead of me.

“Yeah, it’s the woman with the fan,” says the man she’s with.

You’re welcome. Again.

But seriously, if you lot don’t shift yourselves, the pair of you are going to get yourself a vomit shower.

We creep out way down the rake, step by aching step.

“If the whole place went up in flames, it would take a long time to get out,” someone says wryly.

He means it as a joke, but I would willingly step into the heart of the fire right now if it got me out of this oven. Anything to end this agony.

Some front of housers open the side doors, and people start to pour out that way. The queue quickens.

I race down the corridor, back around the corner, squeezing myself through the bar, and the foyer, and I’m out.

Ruth spots me. Or more accurately, she spots my face.

“It is hot in there,” she says, as she’s confronted by the strawberry coloured woman in front of her.

“I’m making an escape,” I say. “I am going to faint.”

Ruth nods. “Fair enough. You head home.”

I don’t need telling twice. I’m gone. Back down the hill. Back to the station. My fan flapping the whole way.