Bel Panto

We've become close, you and me, over the past year. And during that time, I suspect that you may have noticed that I'm a bit of a worrier.

I worry.

I worry a lot.

I worry about everything.

I worry about being late while walking around a block three times to ensure that I'm not too early. During shows I'm trying to hold myself in a perpetual balance of not crying or laughing or rolling my eyes too much in front of fellow audience members, while also not wanting to be a mannequin for the performers. I get embarrassed telling people about my blog while at the same time knowing it is the one thing that would explain my presence at a small amateur show where I know no one.

It's exhausting.

So you can imagine, when I discovered that to get to the Greenwood Theatre before the year was out I would need to book myself onto an amateur panto, I didn't take it well. If there was a Venn diagram of all my anxieties, this would be the perfect spirograph of overlapping circles, with me sat squarely in the middle.

Can you tell I'm not looking forward to tonight's theatre trip?

Twelve months ago I avoided all panto.

Twelve months ago amateur theatre was something that happened to other people.

Twelve months ago, I didn't even know the Greenwood Theatre existed.

Someone had to tell me about it. And I was super duper happy to add it to the list.

Things didn't get any better when I was booking and I discovered that the most hateful of all theatre questions had made it onto the booking form.

There was a drop-down list. From which I had to admit that no, I don't know anyone connected to this show.

I'm just that weirdo who turns up for rando pantos.

Anyway, here I am. Wandering around the King's College buildings, looking for this place.

Turns out, it's literally around the corner from London Bridge. Which would have been super convenient if I hadn't walked here from Waterloo.

It's much bigger than I expected.

The hoarding over the door reads GREENWOOD THEATRE in fat capital letters.

The doorway is lit up with pink lights, streaming out of a square of bulbs which makes me feel like I'm walking under one of those old Hollywood mirrors as I make my way inside.

Inside there's a tiny little vestibule, with exactly nothing in it except for a dispenser offering up plastic bags to put your umbrella inside of.

I don't want my umbrella getting all mouldy so I ignore that.

Inside, it's packed.

Like, seriously.

There are people everywhere.

Even sitting on the floor.

I find this out a touch too late, as I almost trip over a guy's legs.

But I can't blame him. There's no where else to sit. All the chairs are taken.

Even standing room is limited.

The ceiling is lit up with green lights.

There's a Christmas tree going on somewhere at the back.

What there doesn't seem to be, is a box office.

I scan the walls, looking for a counter, a window. Anything.

Nope.

There is a desk though.

With a laptop.

And a money box.

I go over.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?" I say, still not sure I'm in the right place.

"Sorry?" says one of the ladies sitting behind the desk.

Shit. I'm not in the right place.

"Smiles?" I chance again. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

She types it into the laptop. "Lovely," she says, looking up and beaming at me. "That's great."

Oh. Okay. I think I'm signed in now.

I press into the crowd. I'm feeling a bit weirded out. Although whether that's due to a lack of physical proof of my ticket purchase in my hand, the fact that I've seen over three hundred shows within a year, or that I'm at a panto with an audience entirely composed of grown ups, I can't tell you.

I look around. There are, like, no children here.

And by no children, I mean there are two. But so small they barely count. I only spotted them because I had to dive out of the way as they pelted themselves in my direction.

Somehow, without me making any effort at all, a queue appears to have formed in the exact place where I'm standing. And I seem to be near the front of it.

This won't do at all.

I quickly hurry away.

I don't want to be first in the doors. If I'm in before everyone else, I won't be able to properly judge where the best seats are.

And by 'best seats' I, of course, mean ones that are near the back, but not so far back that the crowd begins to thin. I want to be in the last properly occupied row. Which means, I need to be going in after everyone else has chosen their seats.

"Programmes!"

My ears perk right the fuck up.

"Programmes! Over here!"

I follow the siren call.

"Programmes! Raffle tickets!"

There's a desk. It's covered in programmes and raffle prizes.

The programme seller spots her mark and beckons me over.

"Raffle ticket? Lovely prizes... Bottle of champagne?"

"Can I just get a programme?" I ask.

I may be going to amateur theatre now, but I'm not crossing that final line and buying their raffle tickets. That's a step too far.

"Here you go," she says holding one out. "Raffle tickets!"

I almost step back at that blasting call.

"Sorry…"

"Programmes!"

"Sorry..."

"Raffle tickets! Over here!"

"Sorry, howmucharetheprogrammes?"

She turns back to me.

"Two pounds."

"Great..."

I hand over the cash, grab my programme, and make a run for it.

Behind me, the queue is growing. It's got halfway across the foyer. Which means that some of the seats have been vacated. I find one and sit down.

The programme is pretty nice. Lots of notes from the creatives, which I always enjoy.

But something catches my eye in the one from the company's chair. "There's plenty of audience participation to get involved with so please listen out for direction from Buttons!"

Oh gawd.

A voice comes over the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for this evening's performance of Cinderella."

Right. No time to worry about that. We're going in.

I find the end of the queue right over by the entrance.

I seem to have found some more children. They've got themselves new sunglasses, and they are so enamoured with them they have lost all concept of how queues work.

"Come on boys," sighs their mother. "Look where you're going. You need to concentrate!"

Where we're going is through a very plain corridor, and through into the theatre.

Lights swirl over the red curtains.

On the other side are rows and rows of red seats, split into three banks by two aisles.

I eye them up. The front is pretty packed. People are wanting to be sitting near the stage tonight.

I start climbing until I find a row which is not entirely empty, but still has plenty of buffer seats. I don't want to be cosying up to anyone tonight. I looks like the sort of event where everyone knows everyone, and I don't want to be messing with any friendship dynamics going on.

I dump my coat and my bag.

There's plenty of space, even for my massive fur coat.

They ain't kidding around with the legroom in the Greenwood. I can cross my legs. I can stretch them out. I can sprawl.

I'm in heaven.

"Visitors to the Greenwood Theatre, please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will commence... shortly."

There's a small whoop from the audience.

That announcer knew what he was doing with his dramatic pause.

Someone comes to sit at the end of my row, sealing us in.

Thank the theatre gods, I've got my wall against any roving actors now.

Also, by the looks of it, he's also by himself.

I glance around, and amongst all the chattering friend groups, I manage to spot a fair few unaccompanied adults.

That's nice. I've been the only loner at the panto for far too long.

Friendless-theatre goers unite!... Separately!

The announcer is back on the microphone. "Good evening humble audience..."

The humble audience giggles, and the announcer warns us that we are, in fact, at a panto, and a certain level of enthusiasm is expected from us.

And now, here's the thing. The reason I don't like panto and never will. I kinda feel like, if a performer has to actually tell us they need more from us, like during the endless repeating of call and response to get us to scream louder, the "I can't hear youuuu....." and all that malarkey, then maybe, just maybe, their show is shit and we should all just go home.

Is that just me?

Okay, it's just me. Whatever.

Anyway, announcer-dude is asking as to give it up for the band, and like... okay. Fine. I can get on board with a bit of clapping for the musicians.

But then the curtain’s up, and the cast is singing, and Buttons is telling us how to say hello to him.

"Alright everybody!"

"Alright Buttons!"

Ergh.

Anyway, he's a postman and he has a parcel to deliver. To Becky.

"Where's Becky?"

Becky's friends all point to her while she covers her face and sinks down into her seat.

"It's a child! It's a child!" shouts a woman sitting behind me.

Which is obviously untrue because there are only four children in here and none of them are crying about being the forgotten Becky.

Buttons lobs a bag of Cadbury's Buttons at Becky.

She seems happy with that.

"Well, that was exciting, wasn't it?" announces the announcer. "There'll now be a fifteen-minute interval. See you again soon!"

I ain't going anywhere. I'm very comfy where I am. All this legroom... After spending so many nights in cramped seats, this feels like pure luxury. And while I'm not sure the dents in my shins will ever fill out again, I'm still feeling the benefit.

"It's good, isn't it?" says someone sitting behind me.

"So many children!" says her friend.

She means on stage. There are more little ones playing the role of Cinderella's mice friends then there are watching the show in the audience.

They are super cute though. All scurrying about being as extra as possible. One of them is dancing around so hard her ear-hat keeps on falling off and she has to spend the next two minutes sitting down on stage to put it back on. Only for it to fall off again moments later as she pretends to faint.

It's darling.

"Attention audience! Please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will continue shortly."

At this point, before we get started again, I should probably admit something to you: I am not hating this.

It could be that the singing is rather good, or possibly the constant stream of shoe-puns are doing it for me. Maybe I'm just enjoying the prince being an excellent trouser-role. These are all possibilities. But I suspect thevreal reason is that panto has simply just broken me.

One more and I'll be screaming "he's behind youuuuu!" with the kind of fervour you only find in American megachurches.

The whoop as the curtain rises once more is loud and long and I'm almost tempted to join in.

A young woman sitting in the row in front gets out her phone and starts filming. She knows what's she's doing. The screen is set to dim, the phone held low and aiming between the shoulders of the couple ahead of her.

Her friend spots what she's up to and tries to do the same, but he's got it all wrong. His screen is so bright he's illuminating himself as the prat he is, and he can't get the angle right.

After a few failed attempts to get a photo, he gives up.

Maybe he can get the footage off his friend's phone after.

The four kids in the audience are all screaming and laughing. They must have had a serious sugar fix during the interval, and the ghost roving around the back of the stage is sending them wild.

Unawares, the cast is having a pun-off of ghost-related song titles.

"Ghouls just want to have fun!" one says, swinging her hips and her arms in opposite directions.

"I believe I can floss!" shouts out a childish voice from the audience.

Uproar.

Complete and utter uproar.

Laughter drowns out any attempt from the cast to continue.

I spend the rest of the show giggling, and when Cinderella's wedding dress comes loose during the final number, and Buttons and the evil step-mother both grab on to her bodice to keep it closed, I realise I've actually rather enjoyed myself tonight.

Dear gawd.

What has become of me?

The beautiful people do Panto

I'm on my way to the Tabernacle.

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

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

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

In Russian.

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

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

I held out.

And held out.

And held out.

And eventually, the waiting paid off.

The Portobello Panto was in for Christmas. 

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I'm back.

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

Yes, I remember this.

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, it's my turn.

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

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles?"

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

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

I'm not there.

"You bought online?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And it's spelt…?"

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

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

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

"How many was it?" he asks.

"One."

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

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

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

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

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

The box officer is already handing out more wristbands.

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

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

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

I slip into the third row from the back.

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

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

She doesn't even look around.

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

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

So I take the seat next to her.

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

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

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

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

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

The boy let goes.

The mum falls heavily to the ground.

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

She's okay.

That excitement over, I inspect the set.

A sign marks out the presence of a Polling Station.

Something tells me this panto is going to get political.

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

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

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

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

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

The lights dim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are three of them. All tiny.

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

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

"So tiny!"

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

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

"Is she wet?" she asks.

"She just made," replies the dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Finchley. Don't forget Finchley.

I would rather forget Finchley.

"They hated Corbyn though."

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

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

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

Her mother doesn't seem to mind.

The second act starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wake Me Up When December Ends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honestly, this whole smiling thing is dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

She taps something into her computer. 

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

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

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

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

"Maxine?"

"...yes."

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

"Oh... thanks!"

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

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

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

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

None of them are scanning the QR codes.

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

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

The ticket checkers both look at it.

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

I join the queue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I glare at him on her behalf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I look down at my outfit.

Red plaid shirt and little skater skirt.

Oh shit.

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

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

I try to concentrate on the story.

There doesn't seem to be much of one.

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

The songs are good though.

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

And then it's the interval.

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

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

It's just not that crowd tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least my coat is cool.

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

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

Huh.

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

Tower of Scrabble

For some reason, I've managed to convince myself that I could get to Stoke Newington in an hour.

Yeah, yeah. No need to laugh. I get it. Stoke Newington may have an Overground station, but it might as well be in the middle of nowhere. It's a frickin’ transport deadzone.

And yet, somehow, I'm here. With a whole four minutes to spare before my show starts.

Shit. I'm going to have to run.

I hate running.

Fuck. Off I go.

"Excuse me," says a homeless woman as I slow down to check directions on my phone.

"I'm so sorry..." I say as I speed up once more. Two minutes to go.

Round the corner. It's somewhere down this road. It's so dark I can barely make out the signs. I really should have researched what this place looked like before I left. Is that it? If I needed to guess which building could be the Tower Theatre I probably would go fo the one with huge church-like windows and a gothic-ached portico over the entrance.

No time to wait for the traffic to stop. I dive across the road trusting in the theatre gods that the cars will slow down to let me pass. They do.

Not letting myself stop, I hop up the steps, though the little entranceway, and through the door. There's a bar through here. A rather nice bar. And more importantly, it has people in it. Queuing. That means the show hasn't started yet.

I puff my way over to the box office, clutching at my side as I attempt to get in enough air to say: "The surname's Smiles?" through the window.

The woman behind the counter very sweetly pretends not to notice my beetroot coloured cheeks. "That's just about right," she says, finding me on the list.

She reaches through the window and hands me something. An admission pass. A rather swish admission pass. No laminated bits of card here. Oh no. This is heavy plastic, the size of a credit card, and printed with the Tower Theatre logo. "You're just round there," she says, pointing in the direction of the bar.

I thanks her before going to find a quiet spot to take photos of the pass quickly before someone takes it off me.

A bell rings. "Two minute bell for upstairs for the theatre," calls a voice. "Two minute bell."

"Can you...?" another frobt of houser asks them.

"Sorry. I can't leave my place by the door."

Too right. I need someone to check my admission pass.

I squeeze through the small group still intent on getting their drinks' order in no matter what bells are rining, and hand over my admission pass to the lady standing stoic and unmoving on the door.

Through the door, and I find myself in a stairwell. I start climbing.

This must have been a church at some point. I can't see anything else so embracing the gothic style. I mean, I would, obviously, if I ever got the chance to build, or even own, property. But still, these pointed windows are intense. Even if they have been boarded up and filled in with posters.

At the top, there's another usher waiting. I don't have another pass to hand her, so after giving her a quick look over to check that she's not selling any programmes, I go in, and... gosh. This is quite some space. Pointy windows were only the start of it. The ceiling is high. Impossibly high. And vaulted. And round. Almost as if we were in a... okay. I get it. Very clever Tower Theatre. I see what you did there with the name.

My cough has made a bit of a reappearance today, so I want to make sure that I'm not sitting too close to the front. I need to quarantine myself. I've learnt the hard way that my cough gets worse when I'm feeling cramped. The tube in rush hour is a spluttering nightmare, I can tell you that for free.

I cross the stage and climb the steps, finding a run of empty seats in the third row that will suit me just fine.

The seats are well nice. Almost like the ones you get in cinemas. All wide and padded with proper armrests. Seats you can properly sink into and get comfortable. They gently curve around the stage.

If this is how Stoke Newington is doing theatre, I might have to come here more often. Even the sightlines are great. I mean, no one is sitting in front of me, so I'm not testing the Tower in extreme conditions here, but the rake looks good to me. I can see the set just fine, even from here on the side. And that's proving to be a very good thing because there's lots to enjoy in this set. From the cluttered sink on one side, to the warming stove in the corner, and the grimy windows at the back of it all.

I'm into it.

Slowly the seats fill up leaving a very obvious buffer around me. Usually I'd be offended, but tonight, I'm grateful. I don't want to be coughing on anyone. Not during a Martin McDonagh play. He's one of my favourites, after all. And I wouldn't want to offend Mr Fleabag.

A voice comes over the sound system telling us to sort out our phones. Grey heads bob all around as all the old ladies make a dive for their handbags. The voice goes on unconcerned. They have another play coming up. Rules for Living.

Yeah, glad I made it to this one. I saw Rules for Living back at the Nash and can't say it did much for me. The set up sounds much more interesting than the play ends up being.

Anyway, enough about that. We're not here for Rules for Living. We're here for The Beauty Queen of Leenane, which I am so excited for I could boak. I'm wanted to see this play for bloody years and now the light are dimming and it's about to begin and gawd it's good.

I mean, you already know that, don't you? You've seen it. Everyone has. Apart from me. It's the one play of his that everyone can name. Or at least, it's the one they bring up when trying to tell me why they didn't like Hangmen. "The Beauty Queen of Leenane though..."

Well, say what you like about McDonagh, but that man can write. And doesn't he know it. He revels in his ability to shock. I can't blame him. I would too. But there's a particular streak of cruelty in him, that makes me both fear and love him. It's worrying. But I can't help it.

A woman sitting near my nudges her companion and points to one of the cast members, sitting in a rocking chair and clutching a cushion embroidered with the message: A daughter is a gift of love. They both snigger.

I snigger too, but it soon devolves into a cough which I try to smoother with my scarf.

That's dangerous set design that is.

Just before I entirely dissolve into pure splutter, the lights are back up. It's the interval.

I stay in my seat. Not sure I can cope with the crowds at the bar. Besides, I'm comfy here. These chairs really are nice.

"I wonder if..." A woman examines the front row before hoiking her leg over an armrest and pulling herself up and over.

Without even pausing, she does it again, pulling herself into the third row. Then the fourth.

That's some exercise regime she's got there.

I look around the see how many people are in her row. It must have been packed all to hell to make her think that climbing over three rows was easy then asking them to move.

There are three people there.

That's some commitment to not wanting to bother people.

The two ladies from my row return, drinks in hand. I stand up to let them pass, but when the sit down, they move, closing the gap between us until the buffer is entirely gone. We are now sitting directly next to each other.

Just to check that their definitely is no space between us, my newly acquired neighbour knocks my arm every time she takes a sip of wine.

I pull myself tightly in, but it's no good. She's resting her elbow right on the arm rest, jabbing my every time she moves.

I can feel the tickle taking hold of my throat. I really need to cough. I bury my face into my scarf and try to get as much out as possible before the show starts again.

This is going to be a long second act.

I sink into my seat, trying to stay as quiet as possible, But it’s no good. As one, the audience gasps over the letter scene, I right along with them.

"Noooo," moans the man sitting behind me.

We cringe and sigh and despair as McDonagh pummels our hearts like the true bastard he is.

And then it's over. And it's time to go.

And I emerge onto the street, clutching onto a wall as I double up in a coughing fit, as my broken heart makes a bid for escape along with the contents of my lungs.

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.

Hello darkness my old friend

I appear to have dropped into the countryside again.

One minute I'm walking down a perfectly normal high street with a Jussaic Park themed cafe, and the next I'm crunching down a drive in almost pitch darkness, getting freaked out by the silhouettes of all the old manor house lurking in the distance.

Now like, this is a bit embarrassing for me to admit. Me, queen of the shadows. lurker in the darkness, the enemy of sunshine. But I don't like countryside darkness. It's a completely different beast to city darkness and it freaks me out. Because here's the thing, I grew up in the countryside. More than that, I grew up next door to a twelfth-century graveyard, in the frickin' middle of nowhere. And you know what, try as I might, I never met a ghost. So that means, if there's a rustle from the bushes, I know damn well it ain't Caspar lurking in there, and that scares the crap out of me.

Turns out, the rustle in the bushes of Ruislip is a couple of sweet terriers going on their bedtime stroll.

The fact that they almost gave this theatre marathoner a heart attack doesn't seem to be bothering them in the slightest. They leap around each other, yapping after their mistress as she circles behind some great barn.

Yup. Barn.

Because tonight's theatre has been built within the confines of the Manor Farm. A medieval farmstead that is now open to the public in what I can only assume is Ruislip's answer to Disneyland.

Up ahead, one of the few lamps fighting this darkness, goes off.

I get out my phone, and use it to guide myself down the path, through a gap in a hedge, around a loop in the road, and there it is. The Winston Churchill Theatre.

I clamber up onto a grassy bank, soaking my shoes in the process, and try to get a photo. But even with the lights blazing outside, I can only get the slightest glimmer shining off the sign, to show up.

Apparently I'm at the Winston Chu tonight.

It looks busy though, which is good. The people of Ruislip aren't afraid of the dark, and they are out in force for some quality Hello Dolly action.

Inside, the foyer is buzzing, and the queue for the box office stretches all the way across the entrance.

I join the end and try to ignore the squelching in my shoe as seat plans are pointed at, positions are negotiated, and tickets bought.

"By card?!" cries the box officer in horror as the person in front of me offers his Mastercard as payment.

The car owner points out the presence of a card machine behind the counter.

"It's their machine, not ours," says the box officer.

Duly chastised, the card owner puts the offending bit of plastic back in his wallet and finds the cash instead.

My turn.

"Hi!" I try, my voice croaking. Yeah, I'm still ill. Very ill. And I'm not hiding it well. "I'm collecting. The surname's Smiles?"

"I'm sorry?" says the box officer, blinking and leaning forward.

Oh dear. I try again.

"The surname's Smiles? S. M. I..." What was left of my voice gives out.

"Did you book online?"

I nod. I mean, obviously I did. I'm the one person in this room under the age of seventy. And I'm not well. I try to avoid the whole social thing as much as possible. This conversation is already way longer than I can cope with at the best of times.

"Ah!" he says. "You just need to show them that then," he says, with a glance at the front of housers.

Christ. I know 2019 is the year of the e-ticket. The year everything changes. The year paper tickets are swept away in the face of the mighty QR code. But I really wish someone, somewhere, would standardise how audiences are meant to deal with them. You never know whether an e-ticket means queueing to sign in, or blazing right through to the auditorium without stopping. And there's no way to find out before getting there.

It's exhausting.

And box officers always make you feel stupid for not knowing.

I'm so over it. I just want to sit on the floor and cry right now.

Bet the ushers will have loads of fun cleaning that mess up.

I manage to stay upright though, and stagger down the couple of steps that take me into the main body of the foyer.

A programme seller spots me.

"Would you like a programme?" she asks at the same time as I squeak out: "Can I get a programme?"

"One pound fifty?" she says, as I croak: "How much are they?"

Witch!

I quickly get the money out before she manages to reach the deeper levels of my subconscious. "There, exact change!" I say proudly as I hand her a pound and fifty pee coins.

She's not impressed. She clearly just found out my rant about e-tickets and that time, way back when, I got scared by two adorable small dogs all of ten minutes ago.

"I like your elephant!" she says, indicating my purse in what is definitely meant to be a distraction from her mind-reading abilities.

"Thanks! He makes having to pay for things that much easier."

She gives me an odd look. Unsurprising, as those syllables all came out as a garbled mess.

I slink away. I'm not fit for human company right now. Or ever. But very much not now.

The ticket checker is dressed very smartly. Black suit. Red accessories. Very swish.

He waits patiently as I struggle with the Ruislip 4G to download my e-ticket.

"Which seat number?" he asks.

I show him my screen. "Err, is that it?" I say, pointing at my screen. "K21? Does that sound right?" My brain is utter mush. I have no idea what a seat number should look like right now.

"You're in K21," says the very smart ticket checker. "On the far side."

I follow his pointing hand, down the corridor, towards the far side, and emerge in a large auditorium that looks like it's been stuffed into the local school hall.

The stage is very high, and an orchestra pit has been crafted with the use of black blankets slung over railings.

I find my seat, on the aisle, thank the theatre gods, and I slump down in relief.

A pre-show announcement comes over the soundsystem welcoming us to the theatre and begging us not to take photos. Until the curtain call. Which we should then feel welcome to put on the socials.

Excitement is high.

The mayor is in.

At least, I presume the man wearing a medal on a red ribbon around his neck is the mayor. I have serious questions if it isn't.

As the lights dim, my fellow audience members whoop.

And now, I haven't seen Hello Dolly before. No, not even the film. But even so, I'm pretty sure I'm having a fever dream right now because this is intense. There's a girl crying the whole time. And strangers engaging in highly choreographed routines. And grown men crawling around under tables. And songs about hat ribbons.

And then I remember that's just how musicals were back in the day, and once I realise that this is not the last firework display of my dying brain, I actually manage to enjoy it.

I stay in my seat during the interval. Not sure I can cope with the world outside, with its programme sellers, and e-tickets, and roving terriers.

My row is proving to be a bit of a causeway, and I stagger to my feet and lean myself against it until the interval is over.

I have a look at the programme.

I do love the biographies in amateur theatre productions. We have tales of a 'welcome retirement from the police force' squidged between instructions to sing along, and serious crimes against punctuation. It's so charming I want to boak.

Shit. Okay. Deep breath. Don't boak on the nice people of Ruislip. It's really not appropriate.

My row is all back now. I think I can sit down.

There. That's good. I feel a bit better.

Act two. And there's a bunch of waiters running around with their trays in what surely must be a direct contradiction of the EU directive for occupational safety and health. Not that any of that will matter in a couple of weeks’ time... I wonder if Ruislip is Remain or not. I decide it's best not to know.

Somewhere in the corridor behind us, a phone rings.

The audience giggles.

They giggle even more when the owner of the phone picks up.

"I'm at the show! Yeah, it's still on!" floats into the auditorium.

The front of houser leaning against the wall looks back, but doesn't move and we all giggle through through the rest of the conversation while the cast fight valiantly on with this tale of true love and gold-digging. At least, I presume it's true love. It's only been a day. Though there definitely is gold-digging, which I very much approve of. Being poor sucks. I need to find me a rich man to marry.

Or woman. But somehow I don't think I could convince a rich woman to put up with me. They've got smarts, those gals.

Either way, I should probably sort out this cold first.

I'm not exactly looking my best at the moment.

But first... I need to figure out how to get back to Hammersmith from here.

And not trip over my own feet in the dark.

Or get eaten by a small dog.

Or fall asleep on the train.

Or...

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...

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.

Sollocks to all that

I race across the courtyard of Questors just as the house announcement plays over the tannoy.

"Just to let you know, we have two intervals this evening."

I stop, my hand on the door. Two intervals? That's... a lot of intervals. Double the amount of intervals that I was expecting. Acceptable for an opera. Or even a ballet. But a play for a play, two intervals is way too many intervals. An unreasonable number of intervals, one might say. What play was I seeing again? I slip through the door and check my phone, bringing up the confirmation email just in case I'd accidentally booked for the amdram premiere of Angels in America. But nope. That's not it.

Noel Coward's Private Lives.

Not exactly a two-interval kind of play.

The set changes better be hella impressive, that's all I'm saying.

I join the queue for the box office.

It's a big one.

The box office and the queue.

This isn't just amdram, this is Questors amdram. Everything is on a larger scale here.

Someone needs to remind the person standing behind me of that. She's tutting and sighing so much I fear she may crack her tongue.

But it's my turn now, so I don't have time to worry about that.

I give my surname to the box officer behind the window.

"This is for Private Lives?" she asks.

It is. I've already hit up the studio. I'm here for the main house tonight.

She digs around in the correct ticket box and hands me the ticket.

Right then. Time to explore this joint.

Most people seem to be heading towards the bar, but I follow the signs for the theatre, into a stairwell.

As I dart to one side to avoid a group coming the other way, I spot something on the wall.

A sign.

"Please DO NOT," the DO NOT is underlined here, "put props chairs / tables & scenery etc in front of the radiators as it stops them from working."

In front of the radiator are five poles used to hold queuing ropes, and a table.

We're all going to freeze tonight.

Halfway up the stairs, I spot a giant bell.

I really hope that's the theatre bell and not some prop from an old production of Titanic or something.

It is truly magnificent.

There's also some kind of interesting chandelier action going on back here. A starburst of white and blue lights. As I try to take a photo, I spot something. Another sign.

"Judi Dench Playhouse."

I had forgotten that's what the main house was called around here.

This isn't just amdram, this is... Oh wait. I've already done that joke. It's true though.

At the top of the stairs I find myself in some sort of cafe area. It's filled with displays from previous shows, with loads of extravagant looking costumes.

Bunting crisscrosses across the ceiling, all cut from playtexts. Priestly and Shakespeare and Gilbert.

I do enjoy bunting, but custom bunting... that's very... well, it's very Questors now, isn't it?

Time to go in.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker and get waved inside.

The seats hug around the thrust stage in a horseshoe shape.

I traipse my way down the stairs towards the second row, and dump my jacket on my chair.

My neighbour arrives. He's holding something. Something very interesting looking.

"Are there programmes?" I ask him.

"Yeah, there's a guy by the door flogging them for a pound."

"Makes a change from the West End," says my other neighbour.

I leave them bonding over the extortionate cost of West End programmes and race back up the stairs towards the door.

Turns out the ticket checker had programmes all along. I ask for one, give him a pound coin, and skip my way back to my seat to see what my one pound has bought me.

It's a photocopier jobbie, but there's no harm in that. There's a nice little intro from the director, with lots of neat facts about the history of the play. Apparently Coward wrote it in only three days, which, to be frank, I think is a bit rude. All these talented people, showing everyone else up. It's really not on. Some people need to learn when to rein themselves in. Take a break. Have a lie in. Give the rest of us a chance to catch up.

"I found out there's no cloakroom," says my neighbour. "So it's coats on the floor."

"Eh," I say, bundling my own jacket into a ball and shoving it under. "My coat's been through worse."

He laughs at that, as he folds his own jacket and places it neatly under his chair.

I really should take better care of stuff.

"We're within spitting distance," he continues, now that the coat issue has been dealt with.

I look at him in horror. "Well, I hope you don't try!" I say. Honestly, I expected better from a man who folds his coat.

"No!" he says, equally horrified, pointing to the empty stage. "No, I meant them. When they get enthusiastic."

I flap my hand in the direction of the people sitting in the front row. "We have a barrier," I tell him.

There isn't much to say after that. We both go back to reading our programmes.

A few minutes later, the show starts.

And, oh my gawd, I know it isn't cool to admit it, but I fucking love Noel Coward, I really do.

There's something about his plays that makes ever actor in them so fucking attractive. Like, seriously. It is impossible to be dull-looking while saying those words. I don't know what the science is, but there is no denying it. Something about the cut-glass accents, and the effortless snark. It just does it for me.

I escape from my seat and go and stand in the cafe to have a break for all the glamourous shenanigans.

A group gather to trade their favourite badly-remembered lines.

"Do you love me? Do you really love me? Kiss me! Three times."

"Late forties! He's sixty-one!"

Not quite as Noel Coward intended, but they're having fun.

"This isn't a bar," says someone walking past. "This is a cafe," he adds with a sneer. "Shall we go downstairs?"

Another guy has a similar idea, but found on a better way of doing things.

"I sent the wife down to get me a beer," he tells his friend.

His wife reappears just in time for the five-minute call, struggling to keep hold of a glass, two bottles, and a packet of crisps. "I wish you'd come down with me next time," she says with a sigh as the crisps fall from her arms.

He doesn't reply. He's too busy opening his beer.

I go back inside. The only marital breakdowns I like witnessing are ones accompanied by cutting words and secret pied-a-terres in Paris.

My other neighbour is reading aloud an article about the Naga Munchetty thing from his phone. "A single member of the public complained," he says with an outraged sigh.

"Probably another racist," says his friend.

I mean... probably.

A couple sitting behind me are discussing the diversity of the audience. "In the West End you get lots of different people. Young people, you know?"

"There's quite a mix here tonight..." comes the reply.

This is met by silence.

The only mix I'm seeing is different variations on the salt and pepper hair-scheme going on.

Yeah, there's a couple of young-un's over on the far side. But we are in serious middle-aged white people territory here.

But, as some who is pretty darn white and not exactly far away from middle age myself, I can't complain.

After all, we are at a Noel Coward play. The patron saint of the white middles.

By the time we get to the second interval, I am in love with everyone, and overcome with a need to loll around in silk pyjamas and dropping bon mots in between sips of brandy.

But when I emerge back into the cafe, there's no brandy on offer. Just crisps and people saying "sollocks" to each other and laughing in increasingly high pitched tones with each repetition. Which isn't in keeping with the meaning of the word, considering our characters have been using it to declare a cease-fire in their exchanges. But okay.

Third act, and there's been some shifting around of the furniture. The piano has made it's way to the other side of the stage, so like, I guess an interval was needed. Or a pause anyway. A pause would have been better.

The brandy has been replaced by a soda fountain, which you just know is going to be sprayed at someone. The real question is who.

Turns out it's Victor. Poor sod. He should have called sollocks.

Lots of applause, then it's time to go.

As I cross the courtyard I remember something and turn around to check.

Hey! Look at that!

They fixed their neons since the last time I was here.

That's nice.

Going Barking

After spending the best part of five hours on the tube, running errands all around London, I step off the platform in Barking at 6.55pm. The show I'm seeing tonight starts at seven. TFL claims the theatre is an 11-minute walk away. Google Maps has estimated seven minutes. 

Looks like I'm going to take the advice of AWOLNATION and RUN. 

I pelt it down the highstreet, darting between the market traders packing away their stalls and into a wide sidestreet. Without bothering to check to see if there's a car coming I launch myself across the road, almost running over a small child skipping her way down the pavement. No matter. Kids heal fast. I keep going. Through the foliage of a large three I can just about make out a banner: "DANCE COMEDY MUSIC." It's the Broadway Theatre. I've found it. I skid to a hault, pausing just long enough to take a photo before aiming myself at the sliding doors. 

I'm in the box office. There are people queuing at the desk. It's 6.59pm. I fucking made it.  

I join the queue, clutching at my side and trying to think calming thoughts as I get my breath back. 

Behind the box office desk, there are three clocks. One set to the performance start time (7 o’clock). One to the finish time (10 o’clock). And one for the current time. That is the middle clock. And it has just clicked to one minute past seven. 

“The sound check ran over,” explains the box officer to the person in front. “They’d just finished their tech rehearsal. It should be starting in five minutes, but the doors are open. They just need everyone to take their seats.” 

Thank the theatre gods for overrunning tech run-throughs. 

It’s my turn. 

I give the box officer my surname and she sorts through the few remaining tickets. It doesn’t take her long. She frowns. 

“Hmm.” 

“I booked this morning?” I say, thinking they might be the sort of venue to print their tickets in advance. Turns out they’re not. 

“I have the confirmation email?” I try.

The box officer looks through the four last tickets once more, before taking my phone and inspecting the email. 

“Hmm,” she says again, setting it down by her keyboard and glancing between the screen of my mobile and the one on her computer. 

The minute hand on the central clock clicks forward another minute. 

And another. 

A queue grows behind me. Presumably all owners of those last four tickets. 

With a final tap of the mouse, the printer under the counter putters into action, and a ticket comes out. Thank goodness.  

Ticket in hand, I make for the stairs, finding myself in a large, light-filled bar. 

Not sure where I’m meant to go now. 

I look around confused, but my feet, led by some sixth theatre-sense, takes me off to some low doors across the way. 

A woman grabs my ticket from my fingers as I pass, too fast for me to react. “That way,” she says, pointing over to the low doors. “The ladies in blue will show you the way,” she adds, handing back the ticket to me.  

I turn around to thank her, but she’s already moved on. “The show is about to start!” she shouts to the bar. 

Through the doors and I’m in some sort of lobby. Sofas and armchairs nestle around large photos of shiny people doing earnest community things. 

There’s lots of doors in here. I pick the one that goes up to the balcony and start climbing the stairs in the very red stairwell. One day, I’m going to write a thesis about the presence of red corridors in theatres. There must be some psychological reason behind it. Perhaps to get everyone to hurry the fuck up. 

Well, it works, because I storm my way up those stairs, and find myself emerging at the back of the auditorium, right behind the tech desk. 

And there’s someone sitting in my seat. 

I check the row. And my ticket. Which is hard because it is black as the proverbial pitch in here. But yes, there is a bloke. In my seat. 

“Hi, sorry,” I say to him. “Are you V1?” I ask, knowing perfectly well that he is not V1. Because I am V1. And we can’t both be V1 unless things went very wrong at the box office. 

“Sorry,” he says, jumping out of the seat. “I was just sitting with my friends,” he adds, nodding to the group sitting behind. 

Apology accepted. I go to sit down. But the bloke is still hanging around in the aisle. 

“Sorry I…” he says, indicating the spare seats to the other side of me. 

I stand again to let him pass. 

I start on the business of getting settled in, taking off my jacket and putting on my glasses. 

But the peace doesn’t last for long. 

The owners of those four tickets have arrived and they want to claim their seats – right where the bloke is sitting. 

And they’ve brought an usher with them. 

Again, he tells them that he was just wanting to sit near his friends, but the usher asks to see his ticket and he is soon led off elsewhere. 

As for the friends? Yup. You guessed it. They were in the wrong seats too. Another usher comes to take them away, depositing them in the empty slip seats as the show starts. 

It’s Shakuntala. A dance drama based on the Indian tale. Full of glittery costumes, synchronised dances, lip-synching, projections, surtitles and a voiceovered narrator. 

But the drama isn’t contained on the stage. 

The seat-hopping at the back of the auditorium was only the start of a game of musical chairs that has no intention of quitting any time soon. 

One guy in the row in front begs his escape from his neighbour, only to return a few minutes later with a water bottle which he hands to the person sitting at the end of the row with the instruction to “pass it down.” 

Blue shirted ushers lead people in, turfing seat-stealers out of the way as they go, before starting the process anew as these seatless-wonders are led back to their official places, creating a domino effect of movement throughout the first act. The games only pause as the house lights rise to allow for the procession of an angry sage and his cymbal-clattering followers are they make their way down the aisles towards the stage. 

When it is the turn of Shakuntala herself, in her bridal red, to climb the stairs, I swear I see shadows scattering in her wake. 

There can’t be a single person in this place who reached the interval in the same spot they started the show in. 

The narrator tells us there will be an interval of 20 minutes. And that there are CDs of the songs available for purchase. 

I go back downstairs. Mainly to get some photos of the space. I didn’t have much time on the way up. 

As I aim my camera at some signage, a man comes up to me. “Where are the toilets?” he asks. 

I tell him I don’t know, and he apologises so profusely I realise he must have thought I was an usher. 

I’m currently wearing a Louis Theroux t-shirt, and playing with my phone. Not exactly the picture of the perfect usher. Oh well. 

In the bar, I look up and find that the word THEATRE has been marked out in huge, blocky, capital letters against the windows. 

I try to get a photo of that, but I can’t find the right angle. I go all the way to the far side of the bar to try to get it in, but from here, the letters are completely invisible. 

It’s only after the fourth or fifth attempt that I realise that windows are see-through, and I could go outside to get my photo. 

I do. And discover that from out here, the letters are all the right way around. 

Bonus. 

Back inside, and I find a quiet spot to inspect my art. 

“Where are the toilets?” 

I look up. It’s a woman, with her family in tow. 

“Sorry… I don’t know…” I say slowly,  

She apologies. She looks utterly embarrassed. 

And I wonder if I have somehow managed to get hired by the Broadway Theatre without my noticing. 

It doesn’t take long to figure out what’s happening though. 

It’s a race thing. 

The only white people in this theatre tonight are the ushers. And me.  

I make it through the rest of the interval without sullying the name of usher any further, and go back upstairs. 

The audience filters back in slowly. 

As I stand to let a group in, last person touches me on the arm and says thank you, in a gesture of such warmth I almost thank her right back. 

“Are you enjoying it?” asks my neighbour. 

I tell him I am.  

I mean, we’re not talking Martin McDonagh levels of scripting here. And the dancers aren’t exactly Mavin Khoo. But everyone on stage looks like they are having a great old time. And that has a charm all of its own. 

As the lights descend once more, I spot that he’s holding something. A programme. 

Where on earth did he get that? I was all over the place downstairs, and I didn’t see anyone selling programmes. I didn’t see much in the way of a front of house presence at all. Probably why everyone was asking me where the loos were. 

“Good evening ladies and gentleman,” comes a voice that is definitely not the narrator’s. “Can I ask if you are eating peanuts in the theatre, please put them away, as there are people with allergies.” 

I momentarily panic before I remember that not only am I not eating peanuts, I don’t even have any with me. So the chances of me being the source of this person’s flair up must be elsewhere. 

Peanuts presumable removed, the show starts again. 

Shakuntala is in all sorts of difficulties, but after some friendly fishermen have finished their dance, they manage to sort things out and break the curse that’s keeping her from her true love, the king. 

A microphone is brought out, and it’s time for the speeches. The cast and crew are thanked. All the back-stagers are brought out for bows, and there’s some moving talk about the connection to Barking. 

It’s all very sweet. 

That done, the house lights go up and I make for the door. It’s a long way back to Hammersmith. 

A man stops, and doubles back to talk to me. 

“That was interesting, wasn’t it?” he says.

“Yes,” I agree. “It was good.” 

He wants to say something else. I can tell. 

And sure enough, as we make our way to the stairwell, he asks: “Do you come to this kind of show often?” he asks.  

I smile. I know what he’s really asking. “What is a white girl doing at a show like this?” 

I admit that no, this isn’t my usual fair. I think that real answer would be even weirder than the whatever is going on in his head. “I’m just a theatre-nerd,” I shrug. 

A Goth goes to Redbridge

I've just travelled from one end of the Central Line to the other, and I feel like I have stepped up the train into another county. I'm in South Woodford. Redbridge. Which is not a part of London I'm familar with, and yet recognise instantly. The shops are all exactly the same as anywhere else in London. There's a Starbucks. And a Marks. And I can spot a Waitrose coming up ahead, but even so. Something feels off.

I feel different.

Or rather, I look different.

Which is odd because I'm wearing my classic combo of great big black skirt and black t-shirt.

And then I realise, it's not me that's changed. It's everyone else.

Do you remember back when I told you about my trip to the artsdepot, and I mentioned how out of place my friend Helen looked in Finchley? Well, that's me in Redbridge.

In a world of untucked pastel t-shirts, I'm walking around looking like Joy Division wrote my personal theme song.

Although apparently, I'm yet to perfect my resting bitch face as everyone is smiling at me. It's making me feel paranoid.

A homeless man sitting on the pavement offers me a cheery "Hello Miss!"

A group of men all wearing flip-flops grin as the shuffle past me.

Everyone is happy.

It's weird.

I'm beginning to think they must pump something into the air around here.

The confirmation email I got from the Redbridge Drama Centre after booking my tickets has been the chirpiest I've received to date on the marathon, and by far the most delightful. Following an assurance that Emily and Molly will be busy stuffing my tickets into envelopes as I read, the email goes on to promise a "rather unique!" box office if I "thought better of it and will be picking up tickets."

With nothing further to go on, my brain has been going all sort of wild places (Up a tree! Underground! A hole in the wall you must whisper your darkest secrets into before being allowed inside!), but nothing could have prepared me for the next email.

The show had been cancelled.

That was a serious blow.

I could actually feeling my heart sinking as I read it.

This isn't the first time this had happened to me. I'd planned to get to the Redbridge right at the start of my marathon. It would have been one of my first venues. I had it all diarised and planned out. And then the day before, when I went on their website to buy the ticket, there was nothing but a note to say that the show was no longer going ahead, but I could see it at some other theatre on its tour. Which was no bloody use to me.

The disappointment was compounded by the problem that, despite the name, the Redbridge Drama Centre doesn't have all that much drama going on. It's taken nearly half a year for me to find another marathon-qualifying event on their appalling website for me to go to.

So, I was feeling a wee bit stressed about the whole thing.

But all was not lost.

It was not really cancelled. Just postponed. Moved from the Friday to the Saturday.

I didn't need to do anything. My tickets had been moved across to the new date. All I had to do was turn up.

Fair enough. I could move things on my end. I wasn't missing out on what might be my last chance to get to this place before the year runs out. Except, the email didn't end there.

"If there are any problems with this," it went on to say. "Please let us know and we will be able to make arrangements for you to see the show on the Friday still."

What on earth...

The show on Friday was cancelled. But I could still see it.

It was all very strange.

I began to wonder whether I had done something wrong. If perhaps I should have paid homage to the keepers of the box office in advance. Perhaps they just already knew that my secrets aren't dark enough.

Maybe it was all a test. And by turning up on Saturday, I have already failed it.

So, it's with some trepidation that I turn off the main road, walk through a housing estate, and pause in front of what looks like an old school building to get a photo of the outside.

There's a ramp leading the way down to the main entrance, which I follow around and go in.

I find myself in a barn-like space. Brick walls painted white. The bar takes up one side, decorated with black umbrellas and a street sign hanging from the ceiling pointing out the way to 42nd Street and 5th Avenue (in completely different directions).

In the corner is a model of a cow. I don't have the brainpower to process that right now, so I move on.

Over the other side is... I'm not sure, I have to take a few steps to one side to fully understand it. It's the front of a tube train. Bursting out of a brick tunnel which leads to a back office. The TFL logo is painted on one side, and the driver's seat has a computer next to it.

It must be the rather unique box office!

They weren't lying.

There's no one sitting inside, so I hang around, trying to make sense of this place.

A woman comes in and slips into the tube carriage. "The box office is now open," she half-sings through the front window, with a Broadway-style opening of her arms.

I sidle my way over as someone in the office calls out: "And the bar!"

"And the bar," the box office lady confirms. "More importantly."

"Everything is open!" I say, not wanting to be left out.

"Are you picking up tickets?" the box office lady asks me. "What's the surname?"

"Smiles?"

"What a lovely name," she says. "I would love that to be my name. I would smile every day."

I give her my standard patter that I dole out whenever anyone shows interest in my surname. It's Scottish. It means small.

"Aww," she says, as she hands over my ticket. "Well, smile through the performance!"

The Redbridge air must be getting to me, because I leave the tube grinning from one ear to the other.

There are a few tables dotted around, but over by the cow (I'm still not ready to contemplate the cow) there's a black sofa that looks mightly comfy and more in keeping with my aesthetic. I lob my bag and myself onto it and watch all the people come in.

It's soon packed. Every table is full of people chattering, excited about the upcoming show. Music is playing. Someone dims the lights. A party atmosphere starts to form.

I just hang out with the cow.

We start by merely side eyeing each other, before I realise that it's not the cow that's looking back at me. She seems to have a see through centre - a glassed off compartment where her four stomachs should be, and through that a poster of two men peer out. It's most disconcerting.

"The auditorium is now open!" calls a voice from the door on the far side.

I sigh in relief, and head over to join the queue.

The door takes us through a corridor lined with show posters, around a corner, through another room that looks like it belongs in a hospital, round another corner, and this time into a hallway lit by a row of chandeliers. Very la-di-da.

An usher stands guard by the door, checking tickets.

The boy infront of me shrugs.

"You don't need a ticket," she laughs, clearly recognising him. "You just turn up!"

I can't just turn up so I flash her my ticket and she nods me through.

The old man behind me tries to hand his over. "I'm just looking at them," she explains, and he is also nodded through.

Inside is a floor level stage, with a good-sized bank of seating rising up away from it.

I clamber up the stairs, making my way to the back. I don't want to be taking any of the good seats away from these people. But it's not a large theatre, and even from the back few rows, I'm still not all that far from the stage.

One of the front of housers comes and asks for a surname. "Can I have a show of hands?"

Said owner of surname shows his hands and the front of houser goes over to him. "These are yours I believe," he says, handing over a pair of tickets.

Now, I don't think I've ever seen in-seat ticket delivery. I bet ATG are pissed they didn't think of that.

Tickets all delivered, the show starts. Five minutes late, but no one seems to care. They're all so happy.

I can't say it lasts for long. The show is Elergies for Angels, Punks and Raging Queens and it is super depressing. A serious of monologues from people who died of AIDS, interspersed with songs.

And that finale, with a massive cast busting out a tune together, filling the entire stage... Really not sure I can take on that on a Saturday night. My poor emotions.

As the doors open, I slip out quickly and hurry back to the tube station.

It's a long way back to Hammersmith.

It's a long way back to anywhere from here. I'm almost grateful that the theatre's programming is so infrequent. The chances of me ever feeling the need to come back here are very slim. Shame though. I did like that box office.

As I cross the North Circular, a man dances out of my way, and then stops, startled.

"Hey!" he says. "I saw you coming the other way."

I give him a confused look and keep on walking, but as I pass his friends I realise that yeah, I do recognise them. They're all wearing those frickin flip-flops!

Oh dear.

It's probably for the best I'm not coming back. Only been here two hours and already people are starting to remember me. They'll be talking about this for years: The day the Goth came to Redbridge.

I better get out of here.

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.

Mmmama who bopped me

I have to admit, I don't know anything about my next theatre. Not for lack of trying though. I've been on the Stockwell Playhouse website a lot, but even with that research happening, the things I've learnt are limited to the following: it's in Stockwell, there is lift access to all floors, and they have very short runs of musicals, spaced very far apart. That's it. I don't know whether it's a receiving house or a producing one. I don't even know if the shows are amateur productions. I just know that they have Spring Awakening on tonight, and I am going.

I've never seen Spring Awakening before, but I hear it's rather good. Nicki from my work, who went to see Six with me all those months back, claims it's her favourite musical. She saw it on Broadway, because of course she did. I'm perfectly willing to believe it's great. Duncan Sheik did the music after all, and I'm a major fan of American Psycho: The Musical.

Anyway, here I go. Short walk from Stockwell tube station and... that is not what I was expecting. I don't know what I was expecting. But not that.

There, directly opposite the traffic lights, is a large, modern building. With a glass-fronted ground floor. It doesn't look anything like a theatre. If I had to guess, I would say... I don't know... a gym maybe? But that's it. And the reason I know that's it, is because there are twin screens over the doorway, flashing and displaying the name: Stockwell Playhouse, as if we were standing outside some regional cinema or something.

Lots of people are going in.

Looks like Spring Awakening is the hot ticket in Stockwell tonight.

Inside there's a small foyer, and then the box office, in its own little hut. The box officer sealed off behind glass windows.

I join the queue and half a minute later it's my turn.

I give my name and to my surprise the box office starts flicking through a ticket box. For some reason, I hadn't expected there to be paper tickets. I thought we'd be fully in check-list country here but it seems not. There it is, in my hand. With no fuss whatsoever. I didn't even need to confirm my first name. It was just given to me.

Well, I better go see what's happening upstairs then.

First stop, the bar. It's very busy in here. Very, very busy. So busy, I'm not sure I could even squeeze myself in. There's a pink light glowingly hazily over the crowd. I try to get a photo, but there's just too many people for me and my inferior photography skills to capture any sense of the space, so I move on. Further down the corridor.

On the walls, rehearsal photos have been arranged in neat patterns. I've noticed that this seems to be rather a thing in amateur theatre. This sticking of photos on the wall. Kinda reminds me of when I was at school, and they'd blutack all the play photos to try and convince our parents to purchase copies.

There's a group of young women getting their tickets checked at the door to the theatre and chatting about some mutual acquaintance

"Can I interest you in a programme?" asks the ticket checker, putting on her best sales assistant voice. "Only one pound fifty."

"Does it have a picture of him in it?" asks one of the girls.

"It does!" The ticket checker flicks through the pages and turns around the programme to prove the existence of this photo. "There," she says, pointing to one of the headshots.

"Well, alright then."

"You have to get it," says her friend. "So you can ask him to sign it."

"Exactly!" agrees the ticket checker.

The girl is convinced. She reaches for her purse.

The other ticket checker spots me, and she leans around the group to reach for my ticket.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask. I want in on this headshot action.

"That's one pound fifty," she says, pulling one from her pile in readiness as I try to find the coins.

"Bargain," I say as I hand over the funds. It really is. By the looks of it, there is quite a few pages in that thing.

"Enjoy the show!" she wishes me as I take the programme and move on.

Everyone is so cheerful tonight. I can feel it in the air. The energy is crackling.

Although, that could just be the air con.

I'm in the theatre now and it's like a fridge.

I shiver as I find my seat in the front row and take off my jacket.

It's big in here. Like, properly big. No circle on anything, but the stalls go back quite a ways. And it's, you know, a theatre. Fixed seating. None of that temporary nonsense, or a room filled with chairs. Even the front row is on a rake, with a little step up from the entrance. And there's a raised stage. A bit thrusty, but nothing major. And a good size for a musical. I like it.

"Oo. It's cold in here," says a man as he walks in.

It is. And it's wonderful.

I have a look at the programme, and yup. It’s an amateur production. There’s a note from the director. You only ever get those in am dram programmes. And yes, look - there’s that crediting line you always get at these things: “This amateur production is presented by arrangement…” blah blah blah.

Well, that’s one mystery solved at least.

A young woman comes in. She's carrying far too many drinks.

"There you are!" she cries out to the other, equally young, woman sitting two seats away from me.

"What's all this?"

"This one's yours," she says and through some shared shuffling they manage to get a bottle out from between her fingers. Then she turns to me. "Sorry," she says. "I don't know you but can you hold this?"

She's holding out a plastic cup of water. "Don't worry," I say, taking it from here. "I have a spare pair of hands."

Now down to only two drinks she can get on with the business of organising herself and sitting down.

"I like your t-shirt, by the way," she says to me, dumping her bag down. "I want to a Hanson Christmas concert a few years back..." She then tells me this story about how they didn't sing MmmBop, because, well, it was a Christmas concert, and her friend never forgave her because of it.

I nod along and make sympathetic noises.

I don't have the heart to tell her it's actually a joke Nirvana t-shirt.

Oh well. No time for that anyway. The show is starting.

And, oh great. I'm getting a serious case of costume envy again. Everyone is dressed in black and white. The girls in black dresses with white detailing and the boys in natty breeches and jackets. I really want some. The breeches I mean. They look so comfy. Like pyjamas. And yet with that whole 19th-century German schoolboy groove going on.

The music's good too. It's very Duncan Sheik. Can spot his stuff a mile off. If only because he has this habit of building up a serious tune, and then suddenly stopping it just as it gets going. Like an Oscar's speech cut off when it gets too political. Like, we all want to hear some A-lister ranting on about the president, but there's a time limit and we've got six major awards to get through before the commercial break.

Now, I’m all for short musicals. The shorter the better, quite frankly. A nice ninety-minuter fits in well with my whole in-bed-by-ten way of life. But come on Duncan, finish the damn songs.

Still, it's fun. Even as they warn us about the dangers of an abstinence-only sex ed policy. Who can resist the sight of these prim Calvinist kids rocking out to these serious bangers?

In the interval, there's a race to the bar. I don't know how they all fit in that room, but they must have done, because when the audience comes back, they've tipped over from pleasingly tipsy to properly pissed.

One young man starts pulling out Dairylea Dunkers and handing them out to his mates, which is a hell of a choice of something to be munching on in the theatre. Crunchy and dippy? That's intense. Is this the future of theatre snacking? What next? Houmous and crudites?

As the lights dim, the drunken shushing stretches well into the first song, and the audience is there, right in the action.

You can hear the wimpering when the gun comes out, and as it gets aimed under a chin a cry of "Jesus Christ!" echoes down from the back of the auditorium. Followed by cries of "oh no! Don't!" as one of the girls gets led off. We all know what's going to happen. And this lot are really feeling it.

At the end, there's a standing ovation.

I don't join them.

Not because it wasn't good, just, you know, I see a lot of shows and I can't go around ovating for everything. I like to save them. Hold them back for the productions and performances that kick me right in the belly and leave me utterly winded.

"Night folks!" says one of the front of housers as we make our way back down the stairs.

No one replies. They're all too busy humming the tunes.

Very non-'U'

You’d think after my near-fainting incident at the Wanamaker on Friday I’d be taking it easy this weekend. A couple of days off to laze around in bed and eat toast.

Unfortunately, the theatre gods had other ideas. A marathon won’t wait for no woman. So, I was off again, to Ealing this time, for theatre number 28 on the list - a spot of Polly Stenham at The Questors Theatre.

Don’t worry, I still got my toast.

I was actually really looking forward to this one.

I do like Polly Stenham’s work. Even if her plays are all about posh dysfunctional people. Perhaps that's the appeal. As a (somewhat) posh and (somewhat) dysfunctional person myself, I mean.

I’d never been to Ealing before. Stepping out of the South Ealing tube station was a bit of a shock to the system.

It was completely deserted.

Empty pavements. Closed shops. Every house a collage of darkened windows.

Spooky.

Where had everyone gone?

It was as if the entire neighbourhood had been abandoned.

Do the people of Ealing go to bed really early on Saturday nights? Or were they already out partying?

It was hard to tell.

If it weren’t for the constant flow of cars coursing down the road, I might have thought I was in some 28 Days Later kind of situation.

Feeling a little creeped out, I headed straight for the theatre.

This road looked very residential. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice residential, with fuck off massive houses. The type you can imagine being the home to a sweet family of children who rule over a magical kingdom at the back of a wardrobe during the school holidays. But it was residential none-the-less.

Was there really a theatre down there? And if so, what did the neighbours think?

I had to ask myself: would I want to live next door to a theatre? Perhaps, I decided. It would depend on the theatre.

As I was making a mental list of the theatres that I wouldn't mind living next to (yes to the Almeida and the Bush, no to the Young Vic and the Polka) I passed a primary school.

Ah. Okay. 

If living next to a theatre means also living next to a school… even a fancy preparatory school, I’d rather nope out of the whole thing. Sorry Ealing. I won’t be moving quite yet.

Amongst all these gargantuan houses, Questors itself was a surprise. It was not the converted mansion that my brain had been expecting, but a modern, glass-fronted building, set back from the road behind a packed car park.

As I picked my way between the vehicles and made my way to the front door, I realised why the pavement here are so devoid of life: everyone drives.

As to prove my point, two cars pulled in and manoeuvred themselves into the last free spaces.

I definitely wouldn’t fit in around here.

Still, you have to admire the people of Ealing for their dedication to amateur theatre. This is quite the building.

There’s a huge blazing sign over the doorways (there are two - with separate entrances for the studio and the main house). I mean, yes - the ‘u’ has burnt out. But I’m sure that will be fixed after the next fundraising drive. It’s still bloody impressive.

As are the staff... or should I say volunteers?

"Is this for the studio?" asked the lady on box office, already reaching for the box of studio tickets. "Or the playhouse?"

"The studio. Good guess," I said, wondering what gave me away. Do I look like a Polly Stenham fan? And if so, what does a Polly Stenham fan look like? It’s my nose, isn’t it? Always gives me away.

Ticket collected (oh, yes - they have real tickets here), I headed back outside and across the way to the Studio door.

Within minutes a queue had formed.

“A queue for the studio? Bloody hell,” laughed a bloke as he came in.

Looks like there are a lot of Polly Stenham acolytes in Ealing. I suspiciously looked up and down the queue, checking to see if we shared any characteristics.

There was one thing I couldn’t help noticing.

We were all very white.

And very theatre.

"I can't believe this is our last proper rehearsal.”

“I’ve just come off 11 weeks of panto.”

“I’m on lighting and sound tonight.”

“What did you think of the script?”

I debated whether I should announce my own theatre creds ("who are we going to commission to write the programme notes?") to indicate that I too was just like them, but somehow I didn't feel necessary. I was there. I was already one of them.

"The play as one hour, forty minutes. No interval," came a booming voice from the front of the queue. "Please use the facilities now, as there's no readmittance." And then, just in case we didn't understand the full implications of this: "It's in the round so you'll be walking across the stage."

The theatrical equivalent of the walk of shame, that is.

"And please read the sign here." He paused. "It says there's smoking and a lot of bad language."

This declaration didn't get the reaction it deserves. 

He tried a different tact.

"There's smoking and a lot of swearing," he said, moving down the line and tearing tickets.

"A lot of fucking swearing," piped up the man behind me.

Too much. The ticket tearer attempted to reign in this unruly crowd.

"A lot of interesting language," he amended as he tore the final tickets.

Finally, we were let in. 

Even after seeing the fancy frontage, I was taken aback by the scale of the studio. 

A good size square floor was surrounded on four sizes by neat rows of seats. 

Where did I want to sit? 

At the back. Obvs. 

But somehow I found myself heading to a front row seat. 

After my incident at the Wanamaker, I was feeling invulnerable. 

Actors don't scare me no more. So, they want to catch my eye... well, let them. They can even talk to me if they want. To hell with it all. 

Though, I still put myself in the corner. Just in case. I was feeling brave. Not stupid.

Plus, there was a nice little gap between the chairs for me to dump my coat and whatnot. 

Congratulating myself on my seating choice, I settled in for a good read of my programme. 

Oh, yes. They have them too. 

I suspect not professionally printed. No bleed on the images. But hey, they were only a pound ("although a donation is always welcome" - they've got a 'u' to repair after all).

The power of the Questors soon became evident as the play started. Piles of black-clad stage hands flooded in, furnishing the space under cover of darkness. 

100 minutes later we were done.

As I stepped back out, buttoning my coat in preparation for the fifteen minute walk to the station, clunks sounded all around me. Car doors opened and slammed shuts. Engines started. 

And very soon I had Ealing all to myself once more.