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...