The final curtain

And so here it is. My final theatre trip of the year.

It wasn't meant to be this way. I had it all planned out. My last theatre.

It was going to be the Lyceum. I was going to dayseat for Lion King tickets on New Year's Eve. Add a little jeopardy to the whole thing. Hand my fate up to the theatre gods. Will she make it? Or will she be left begging before the box office, just to be allowed to buy some overpriced ticket at the back of the balcony?

But here's the thing: I'm not going to make it. I know that. You know that. I still have nine theatres left to go.

And I can't get them checked off before the clock runs out. They just don't have any shows. They are dark.

Which means the marathon is too.

So I'm rolling the whole thing over to next year. I'll be having a few mop-up months. Catch those last theatres. Write those last posts. But take my time. I want to sleep first. And eat dinner occasionally. Maybe even do my laundry.

Chances are, you're not even going to get to read this before January. Because this marathoner is taking a break.

But one thing is still left to be done.

The Royal Albert Hall.

For Nutcracker.

Because no Christmas is complete without The Nutcracker.

Even for an anti-Christmas bitch like me.

The streets are packed.

I have to fight my way past the Natural History Museum, as the queue of people lining up to wobble their way around the ice rink stretches all the way down Exhibition Road.

I clutch my fur coat close to me and try hard to pretend that I don't hate humanity right now.

"Oh," says a woman, leading a brood of little girls onto Kensington Gore. "There it is. That's where we're going. You can't see it properly. That's a shame."

I look over.

The Albert Hall is covered in scaffolding. The round stone walls wrapped in white plastic, like an unwanted orange cream melting at the bottom of the Quality Street tin.

I follow the metal columns around until I find the entrance to the box office.

Or at least, the entrance to the foyer that will take me to the box office.

I've got to get through security first, and there are two tables set up for bag checks.

"Please have your bags ready for inspection," one of the bag checkers calls out over the queue.

I head towards the nearest desk and join the line.

"For the ballet?" asks the bag checker as I make it to the front.

I nod. I am here for the ballet.

"How are you?" he goes on, peeking inside my bag.

"Great!" I say with a touch too much enthusiasm. He's probably not used to meeting people at the end of a year packed with over three hundred trips to the theatre. I'm feeling a little bit drunk.

"That's good," he says, taken aback. He clicks his torch off and waves me through.

Through the doors and I’m stuck in a mass of people. It takes nearly a full minute for me to realise that the queue I have found myself in, is not actually the one that will take me to the ticket desk, but is instead leading people off to their seats.

I sidestep my way out and find my way over to the real queue. Handely located on the other side of a labyrinth of Albert Hall merch.

I do like a theatre shop. They are almost as good as museum shops.

This one is still laden down with piles of baubles. Not marked down, I notice. Despite Christmas being officially over now. A touch unsporting of them, I think.

One of the box officers smiles to indicate that it's my turn, and I hurry over to the counter.

"The surname's Smiles," I tell her, and she goes off to the wooden pigeon holes on the back wall to pull out my ticket.

"Have you got some form of ID?" she asks over her shoulder. She holds up her hand in a claw shape to mime the act of holding an ID card.

"Yeah," I say, pulling my driver's license. My provisional one. Just to be clear. This bitch doesn't drive. She just needs to prove who she is to get ballet tickets.

"Lovely," she says checking it, handing it back alongside my ticket. "You're in the Rausing Circle. So that's on the third floor."

I don't know what a Rausing Circle is, but it sounds fun. The type of fun that accompanies overspilling tankards. The type of fun that doesn't belong in the Royal Albert Hall. Except when accompanied by Union Jack wavers.

I struggle back the way I came, past the towers of baubles.

And spot my favourite type of usher.

A programme seller.

Turns out programmes are a tenner, which is steep, but eh... Birmingham Royal Ballet got to pull in that coin where they can find it. I doubt the Albert Hall comes cheap.

Right. My ticket says I need to head to Door 8.

I'm currently at Door 12.

I make for the exit.

I stop in the doorway.

I'd forgotten about the bag checks.

Shit. I don't fancy going through all that again.

I turn around, and join the original queue. I have no idea if I can even get to Door 8 from here. The signs certainly make no mention of it. Oh well. That's what you get for laying down extra money in pursuit of an actual paper ticket instead of swanning in with a barcode on a smartphone.

"Am I going the right way?" I ask the ticket checker as he checks my ticket.

"You can go any way you like," he replies, unhelpfully. I must have given him a look, because he glances down at the ticket again. "You need to walk around to Door 8, then take the stairs up to floor three."

And then he proceeds to not move. I have to squeeze myself in between him and the barrier in order to get past.

Looks like I'm not the only one who has absolutely had their fill of theatre this year.

Free of the foyer, I start walking around the long corridor which circles the auditorium.

The walls are covered with massive fuck off Hallmark ads, which doesn't seem in keeping with the green and cream paint job behind them. But eh. That corporate sponsorship must taste pretty sweet right now.

I find the door, go through, and end up in a wide stairwell.

And up I go.

At the top, I find a counter. And someone selling programme.

"No cast sheets?" asks a bloke, as he flicks through one of the stack of booklets.

"You'll have to go back downstairs. They might have some down there."

"All the way...?"

"Yeah, downstairs."

Dear gawd.

I'm so out of practice going to the ballet I'd forgotten that cast sheets were even a thing. And now I'm three floors away from them.

I dither at the top of the stairs.

I really don't want to go back down, round the corridor, and then go hunting for a single sheet of paper that's been run off a photocopier.

And they might not even be there.

Not when I could print out my own.

Oh yeah. I'm not so out of it that I don't remember that BRB put their cast sheets online, free for anyone to download.

Okay. I can do that.

My knees have already gone through enough today. I'm not sending them into spasms by forcing all those stairs on them again.

Through the door, and I find the entrance to the auditorium.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker.

"U," she says, reading it. Then before I know what's happening, she turns around and jogs up a short flight of stairs, pausing to look over her shoulder at me.

I follow on behind.

"Just through here," she says, pointing up an aisle. "Up the stairs to row 6, and the seat numbers are in the back."

"Okay, thanks," I say, starting off, but she stops me.

"Just to remind you, this is ballet. So no photographs or filming."

I laugh to show I know how the ballet works and she smiles in recognition of it.

Although, considering I just forgot cast sheets existed, maybe she was right to remind me.

I might end up doing any number of inappropriate things.

As I walk up the last steps I try to remind myself of the rules of ballet, and find myself not able to remember a single one. Do you clap in the pauses? Or wait until the end of the act? I'm fairly confident it's a pause-based clapping system, but then you are not supposed to clap during the sad bits. Are there sad bits in The Nutcracker? Nah, it's a kids' ballet. I should be fine. Wait for the pauses. Then clap. Easy.

I find row 6. It's near the back. Tickets aren't cheap.

But the view is better than I expected. This seat was sold as restricted view, but unless the person sitting in front of me tops seven-foot, I think I'll be okay. I have a clear view of the stage from here.

A very distant one.

But clear.

Comfy too.

I mean, the legroom isn't great, but the seatbacks are really high, which makes me feel like I'm sat in a throne. And that's worth a little knee cramp.

The seat next to me is empty, save for a flyer stuck to the back. I squint at it. It's for Swan Lake. But English National Ballet's version.

I wonder how BRB feel about that.

I get out my phone and start taking photos.

High above the stage, huge mushrooms bloom against the ceiling.

I vaguely recall that they have something to do with the sound quality in this place, but that doesn't stop them from looking super weird. Like we all wandered into Wonderland by accident.

Not helping the surrealness of the ceiling, are the giant baubles lurking in between the mushroom growths.

Much more impressive than the ones down in the shop. These ones could crush half the audience if they did a Phantom of the Opera style drop.

A family settles down next to me.

"Do you remember the story?" asks the dad. "I'm relying on you to tell me what's going on."

"Rember," interprets the mum. "No talking during."

"In half time though," insists the dad.

The little girl in between them huffs. "But you'll see!"

She's right. There isn't much of a narrative to The Nutcracker. And it's all quite clear on stage.

A voice comes over the sound system. An injury notice. I instantly forget the names.

Not that it matters. I don't have a cast sheet anyway.

The lights are dimming.

And another voice starts up.

A narrator.

I sigh and sink down in my chair.

Turns out Birmingham Royal Ballet don't trust their dancers to tell what little story there is in this ballet.

I really hate dance performances being narrated. Even worse when it's recorded and piped in.

Grim.

But eventually, it stops, and Christmas in the Stahlbaum home gets underway. The girls play with dolls. The boys get tin soldiers. And our Clara gets a giant Nutcracker. For some reason.

Night closes in.

But Clara can't sleep.

She's probably worried about what the fuck she's supposed to write in her thank you notes.

No matter, soon the Christmas tree starts to grow which distracts her.

It distracts me too. I was wondering how they were going to do this. Making a Christmas tree grow is a tricky business. Adding a touring production and a short run to the mix and it becomes almost impossible unless you use...

Ah. Yeah. They're using projections.

I mean. Okay. Fine.

Except, even for a projection this looks a bit... dare I say it... shit.

And now there's someone walking out of the wings. He has a microphone.

Oh dear.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, as the music comes to an inelegant halt. "We're going to have to pause this performance. If you can stay in your seats, I'll let you know when we can continue."

Gosh.

A rumble of confused murmurs follows him off stage.

I get my phone out. Show stops take a few minutes at the best of times. Might as well check my emails or, you know, take a forbiddon photo.

"That's live performance, things go wrong," says the mum in my row.

"I like live shows," says the little girl. "Because you can have a snack in the middle."

She looks at both her parents in turn, to see if her hint has landed.

"Isn't that right, mummy?" she says when neither of them respond.

"What's that?"

"You get an ice cream in the middle," she says.

"That's right."

There's a pause as the little girl waits for this to sink in.

Nothing.

"So are we getting an ice cream then?" she adds, subtly going out the window now that ice creams are failing to materialise.

"It's not the interval. It's just a little break while they fix something," explains mum.

The little girl sighs. She's not impressed by this supposed difference. If there's a break, there should be ice cream.

And I for one am in entire agreement with her.

The man with the microphone reappears. He thanks us for our patience.

"You may have noticed a problem with the lighting," he says. "Which has now been fixed."

"Ah!" says the mum knowingly from down the row.

The dancers return to the stage. The music plays. The Christmas tree grows.

And the house lights stay on just a touch too long.

Soon enough, the Snowflakes are finishing off their waltz and it's time for the interval.

The little girl takes her family off for ice cream.

I stay behind.

I can't move.

Not even for ice cream.

My last show of the year.

Theatre number 296. Show number 306.

Or 307 if you count the double bill at The Bunker as two, which I definitely think you should.

That's more theatre than most people see in the entirety of their lives.

That's crazy to think, isn't it? A lifetime's worth of theatre smashed down and condensed into a single year.

I certainly feel like I've lived a lifetime within the past twelve months.

Can you see it?

The change in me, I mean.

Perhaps it doesn't come across in my words, but I have people telling me all the time how different I am to the Max they knew at the start of the year.

I'm more confident. Less anxious. More sure of myself.

I'm more accepting of the unknown. More open to adventure.

Well... maybe. Small adventures. That will have me home by 11.

What else?

I'm more selfish. That's for sure.

I think that's a good thing.

I'm less tolerant of bullshit.

That's not a good thing.

I work in an industry fuelled by bullshit.

Still, all in all, I'm feeling rather positive.

Which I don't mind telling you, is a humongously huge step.

2018 was a terrible year for me. The culmination of all the shit of 2018 was the reason I started this damn project. I had to do something, anything, to change my life. And this quirky idea, that's been sitting at the back of my brain since 2014, felt like the only way out. Something that could be mine. And whether I succeeded, or failed, would be entirely dependent on my own actions, and no one else's.

And, well, you already know I failed.

But somehow, that doesn't matter.

Because I got through it.

Someday I might tell you about the nervous breakdown I had over the summer. It wasn't fun. You may have sensed the lack of funness in my posts, even though I made a choice not to tell you about it specifically.

It was a long time coming though. And it forced me to make some hard decisions in my life.

And now... well.

I feel like maybe, there's a small chance, 2020 might turn out to be not entirely terrible.

Apart from, you know: Brexit, a Tory majority, and the world being on fire.

But other than those small matters...

Anyway, enough about all that. I'm sure, once my brain has stopped fizzing, I'll be able to cobble together some thoughts. What theatre was like in this city of ours, in the year of someone-or-other's lord, 2019.

Just need to get a couple of dinners in me first.

Far down below, in front of the stage, two girls are playing catch with one of the snowballs which rolled off the stage during act one.

Their feet skitter through the fake snow as they race after the ball.

The ushers standing guard at the stairs, stopping any wandering audience members from climbing up onto the stage, watch them with indulgent side-eyes.

The family are back now.

The little girl has her ice cream.

Act two is starting, and the narrator is whispering his story-updates through the speakers.

We get through the rest of the show without further incident, and we all clap heartily at the end. Rounds and rounds of applause for every cast member, in the grand production that is the ballet curtain call.

The family stand in order to layer themselves up with sweaters and cardigans and jackets and coats and scarfs.

The mum spots me waiting and nudges the little girl to one side so the "nice lady" can get past.

Down the stairs I go.

At the bottom, the usher on the door wishes us all a good night.

I smile back at him.

I think it might be a good night after all.

I'm free.

Finally.

I can do whatever the hell I want this evening.

I’m going to make myself dinner.

A tale of two audiences

The big revolving entrance to the Opera House is broken again. A small sign tells us to use the side door.

Two ladies go ahead of me, pausing by the shop to gaze around with wide eyes.

"Where's the Linbury?" one of them asks the solitary security guard in an otherwise deserted entrance.

"Straight up there," he says, turning towards the main foyer area.

"First visit since they've done it up," she goes on, happily.

"Oh yeah?" he replies. "It's a lot better now. You'll love it."

I hope so.

Have to admit, I'm not particularly into the front of house areas. Too big. Too open. Too noisy. But I've seen pictures of the new Linbury and it does look rather swish. Like a cross between an upmarket car show room, and a tin of Quality Street.

I don't need to stop off at the box office. I've already got my ticket. Had it posted to me. I wasn't risking being stuck with an e-ticket. And getting it posted is the one way to guarantee it now. COBO seems to be a thing of the past round these parts.

I sweep through the cafe and down the very broad stairs into the depths of the opera house.

There's some sort of private reception going on here on the little half mezzanine. I keep on going, down into the bar area.

It's busy. People sitting around balancing glasses of wine and slick-looking programmes on their tables. I want me one of those.

Not the glass of wine.

I don't like wine.

I do however like programmes.

I mean, you know this already. But I think it's always worth reiterating. I like programmes. Love them, even.

Can't seem to find them though.

There are a few front of housers dotted around, but none of them are carrying that familiar fan formation of programmes so beloved by West End ushers. They don't do that here. Not at the Opera House. Far too déclassé.

Not sure where they are though. Back in the old Linbury there was a programme desk just at the foot of the stairs, but there doesn't seem to be anything like that now.

I take a tour of the room.

Nope. Nothing.

After a full minute of standing, befuddled by this lack of programmeage, I decide to go and look at the bar. Lots of theatres sell programmes at the bar. And there it is. Right at the end. A little section dedicated to the selling of programmes.

Not that you can tell. They don't have any on display. Just a little sign stating their price.

I suppose it doesn't do to show off the merchandise, like some filthy shop. 

"Can I get a programme?" I ask the chap behind the counter.

Oh gawd.

Only been here five minutes and I'm already thinking of people as 'chaps.' This place rubs off fast.

"That's five pounds," he tells me.

"Can I pay by card?"

"Of course!"

Of course.

I stick my card in the machine and he asks me if I want a receipt. I don't. The fewer records of my ridiculous programme expenditure, the better.

"Here you go, Madam," he says, handing over the programme.

Madam... Madam!

Oh my lord... I knew I was getting old, but I hadn't realised I'd hit 'Madam' age already. 

You know, when I was young, I always vowed not to be one of those old ladies that constantly complain about their age. And yet now I'm here, being called Madam... I'm damn well rebelling. 

Cheeky young sods should learn to keep their 'Madam's to themselves.

Still reeling, I make my way over to the auditorium. My ticket says to use door 2, and yup - there's door 2.

"Hello!" I say to the ticket checker as cheerfully as I can considering I've just been Madamed.

"Hello!" she says back, beeping my ticket with her ticket beeper. "It's just this level."

This level is the top level. Because I'm way cheaper than the tickets in this place. I have to say, I’ve timed my marathon well. People always like to tell me that I must be spending a fortune on this adventure of mine, but since the price-hike at ROH, I fancy I've rather been making a saving not coming to ballet on the reg anymore.

Still, I shouldn't complain. I only paid six quid to be here. Admittedly I'm standing. In the upper circle. On the side. But still. Six quid!

I hop up the steps to the standing platform and find my number amongst the small roundels stuck to the floor.

There I am. Number forty-two. The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.

Perfect.

No-where to put your bag though.

I mean yes: the ground. Obviously. But the platform has a sheer drop in front of it, and nothing to lean my stuff against. One wayward kick and my bag will be lost under the row of seats in front.

I form a protective wall with my jacket and nest my bag against it. That'll have to do.

Out in the bar, a bell rings.

A couple squeezes themselves down the length of the chairs to reach the empty seats at the end. They stare at them, confused.

"Is this row A?" asks the man, looking from his ticket, to the seat numbers, then back to his ticket.

The other residents of row A confirm that yes, it's row A.

He sighs. "Well, we'll sit here and if there's a problem..."

They look around for an usher, but there's none to be had. If any are posted inside the auditorium, they aren't hanging out in the Upper Circle.

The couple's neighbour gets out her phone and brings up the e-ticket, determined to work it out.

"Are you meant to be in the Upper Circle?" she asks, doubtfully.

Turns out they're not. "My mistake," he laughs. "As usual." They squeeze themselves back down the row, saying sorry for every bumped knee as they make their escape down to the superior seats of the Circle.

I brace myself for the barrage of standers, who always slip in as the lights go down, but nope. There's only three of us on this entire row.

Over the sound system comes a warning that there will be a pause between the first two pieces. And as the lights dim, it's my turn to slip down right to the end, where I can get the best possible view.

It's no good though.

Even from here I can barely see half the stage.

I lean forward, bracing my arms against the railing, resting my head against the pillar, and letting my heel slip down off the edge of the step.

From this very uncomfortable position, I manage to carve our an extra metre or two of the stage for me to see. 

But it's of little help, as the first piece, The Kingdom of Back, starts, I'm left baffled. There's some great wig action going on. And some definite tension. But whether this tale of Mozart and his sister is pure narrative or merely a hook to hand some abstract moves on, I cannot tell.

At the other end of the platform, one of my fellow standers ducks under the railing and climbs out onto the edge of the balcony, perching himself on the corner.

Fucking hell, that looks dangerous.

I'll admit, I don't know anything about theatre design, but something tells me that if audiences are having to resort to parkour in order to see anything, then neither the people who were actually paid to come up with this arrangement don't know much either.

A front of houser appears, placing a latecomer into an empty seat, detached from the rest of the row.

I hope she doesn't see our friend Tarzan.

He's still out there, hanging over the edge.

The front of houser retreats with a whispered message that the latecomer can move to her proper seat in the pause.

The Mozart piece ends and we all applaud. I join in. I have no idea if it was good or not, but I do like the Northern Ballet dancers, so I'm sure they gave it their mostest.

The front of houser reappears.

"Perhaps you'd like to go to your seat now?" she asks the latecomer in the naughty chair. "You have two minutes."

The latecomer indicates that she is quite happy where she is.

"Don't worry," says the front of houser. "Stay to the interval."

So she does, sticking resolute in her front row seat as we sail into the second piece. Mamela... With the ellipsis. So you know it's modern. That's the only way I can tell. Six whole dancers and I spend most of my time staring at an empty stage.

I try to remember if it was ever so bad in the old Linbury, and I don't think it was. As my view empties once more of anything to look at, I try to work out why that is.

It doesn't take me long.

The old standing areas didn't have seats in front of them. You were right up against the edge, not pushed back against the wall. Turns out, that makes a hella lot of difference.

You don't expect sightlines to get worse after a redesign, but here we are. I'm almost impressed. Those architects worked hard to make sure the povvo's couldn't see anything.

The music's not bad though. Very Max Richter. So Max Richter that as soon as the interval hits I have to get out the programme to check that it's isn't his work. Nope. The next piece is. But not this one. It's Jack Edmonds. Who apparently writes the most Max Richter non-Max Richter music ever. Huh.

"Hello," says a voice from the foyer, where the front of houser is now standing guard at the door. "Where can I get a programme?"

"The far end there," says the usher.

Turns out I'm not the only one who was having trouble.

Tarzan ducks back under the railing and returns to the safety of the standing platform, much to my relief.

The last work of the evening now. The Shape of Sound. To Max Richter's Four Seasons. A piece of music I never get tired of. Which is a good thing, because it is much beloved by choreographers. I would tell you have many dance works I've seen set to this music, but I lost count after five. That Richter chap must be rolling in all those royalties.

A bar of light sits across the back of the stage and the dancers wiggle their legs over it like can-can dancers.

This gets a gasp from the audience down in the stalls. A gasp which stops dead at the circles. Which makes me think there's some visual effect getting hidden to those based up here. A few more intakes of breath punctuate the music as Winter comes to an end and I kinda wish I'd invested in a better seat. But... eh.

I'm glad I've seen the worst that the Linbury has to offer. Six pounds a ticket to see half a show. Not entirely sure it was worth it.

Murder Most Fowl

Finally.

After leaving the office last night I walked the route I’d done a hundred times before, crossing roads and taking shortcuts without any form of conscious thought, as if I was being called home by the mothership.

The time had come.

One month and five days into my marathon, I was heading to the Royal Opera House. For an Ashton. With Pigeons. And Vadim. It doesn’t get much better.

But while the ROH may have served as my spinster-pad for a good may years, it’s now a slightly different Opera House to the one I was used to.

I’ve seen the refurbishment before - I went to a shit tonne of Bayadère’s last year - but not enough to fully get used to it, or the weird door numbers. Golden arrows, pointed in every direction, with a crossword of letter-number combinations listed beneath: 4B 4E 5B 5C 5D 5E 5F 6F - you sunk my battleship!

A post-refurbishment walk-through of the Royal Opera House left me blinking and dazed.

I still can't get over how, well... literal they were with the whole Open Up thing.

Gone are the low ceilings, dim corridors and trunk-like pillars.

Everything was so shiny and bright, all draped in beige upholstery and lined with acres of stripy wood. I almost had to shield my eyes against the glare radiating off of the glass costume display cases.

I looked around for hidden ring lights and realised the entire ceiling is a honeycomb of illumination.

This is not just an opera house. This is a champagne tinted, Instagram filtered, pan-seared opera house.

I felt like I walking through heaven. In that I had a nagging sense that wasn't supposed to be there.

I had arrived far too early. The house was still closed. I looked around for somewhere to sit.

The bars were packed with long family-style tables. Up on the terrace, the old groupings of comfortable seating had been replaced by long rows of bar stools.

It seems Open Up wasn’t just for the building. It applied to the audience members too.

Sharing tables. Talking. Communicating.

No thanks.

I fled. It was too much. Too open. Too exposed. Too vulnerable-making.

I needed somewhere quiet, away from the crash of cutlery and cacophony of chatter echoing off the cold floor.

I needed old-fashioned opera house vibes. Preferably with the insulating properties of squashy velvet and wood-paneling.

In other words, I needed the type of place where you can plot a murder in peace.

Not a particular murder, you understand. Just murder in general.

I find it a very soothing occupation.

A tiny bit of control in a chaotic world.

I consider it part of my self-care practices.

Don’t look at me like that. Don’t for a second pretend that you’ve never weighed up the various benefits of cyanide over arsenic (cyanide would go great in a Bakewell tart, I’ve always thought), or dreamt up an elaborate scheme involving a transatlantic crossing, a box of chocolates, and a purple helium balloon.

 Yeah, alright. You keep telling yourself that.

Thankfully, not all of the opera house got the community-friendly treatment. There are still some areas of the building that have retained their romance. Dark places. Secret places. Places where one can properly plan the ultimate, undetectable murder.

So here it is. My list.

The top five places in the Royal Opera House to plan a murder

The Secret Sofa

Tucked away down the wrong corridor on the upper slips level (go in the opposite direction to those suggested by any gold arrows you encounter) is this glorious little sofa, surrounded by vintage ballet dancers hung at just the right level to whisper sweet-tortures in your ear.

A little brightly lit for my taste (it’s round the corner from a fire refuge point) but you might need that if you go in for the more complex style of plotting that requires blueprints and chemical formulae.

The Slightly Less Secret Sofa

Found on-route to the lower slips (or the lower amphitheatre if you are that sort of person), this is another red velvet wonder. What it lacks in privacy, it gains from the shadowy lighting and dark walled surroundings.

This is where I do my best country-house conspiracies. Proper Poirot-esque plots, with cups of tea tainted by strychnine-laced sugar cubes, forged wills, family secrets, and an herbaceous border sprouting poisonous plants.

The Extra Secret Sofa

This one is a bit tricky. You might have to get ‘lost’ while taking a backstage door in order to get here. But the rewards are great. This sofa lives in the King’s smoking room. Located behind the orchestra pit,  you’ll get this place all to yourself if you get the timing right. But the extra effort is worth it as the rarefied surroundings will give your plots the regal edge that will take them to the next level. Did you know that decaying strawberry leaves release hydrogen cyanide? Think about that when you’re counting the leaves on your next victim’s coronet.

Behind the boxes

Now ideally you’d want to be inside a box for peak murder-plotting, but if your budget doesn’t stretch that far, the narrow corridors that lead to them can serve you just as well. Lit by small lamps, the confided space and narrow doors will enhance your lateral thinking. Just make sure that the boxes are unoccupied if you are the type to go in for muttering the details of your plan out loud.

Above the dome

Again, tricky. To get here you might need a little assistance from someone working at the ROH, as it’s not exactly accessible to the public. But I think it would be worth it. Not only would the location, soaring above the auditorium, help engender a sense of god-like power while gazing down at the audience below, but I hear that it’s also the place to go if you are after an accomplice with a very specialised skill set.

I have it on good authority that the space above the dome is where you will find the Nudger. So called because he spends his time during performances nudging the elbows of the spotlight crew as they try and keep their lights steadily focused on a performer.

If you’re planning is moving in the accidental-death-by-falling direction, then I think the Nudger could be of great assistance.

The fact that the Nudger also happens to be a ghost can only be a bonus.

Happy plotting!

Oh My Gardée

"Wanna risk it?"

Not my usual sales-pitch when inviting a friend to come and see a show with me, but I was putting a lot of faith in the theatre gods to deliver on this one. At first glance, it was an enticing prospect: a crowd-pleasing ballet (Fille mal gardée), an easy to get to theatre (New Wimbledon), and the prospect of cake with a local (Ellen), but once the local quickly made it known that she would in no way consider attending, it soon became clear that we were into Tom Cruise levels of risky business here. 

The ballet may have been Fille, but it was the Gorsky not the Ashton version, and it was being performed by one of those Russian-touring companies that have such a grandiose name you figure they must be fairly fancy, until you realise that fancy-companies don't tend to spend quite so much time on the regional-theatre circuit. And then there was the matter of the theatre. Or rather, its seat map. 

Less than a week before the performance and the New Wimbledon's seating plan had more brightly-coloured dots than a Cath Kidson outlet sale. With each dot corresponding to an unsold seat, there was a good chance that this was a house that was going to need some serious box office-manoeuvres to make it look presentable come curtain-up. And I was willing to place a bet on it.

I told Helen my plan. We'd buy the cheapest possible seats, up in the upper circle. With so few seats sold up there, chances are they wouldn't want to have to staff it on the night, the upper circle would be closed, and we'd be upgraded.

"Yeah let's gamble!" came the immediate reply.

Right then.

The game was on.

I scoured the seating plan and picked our seats - right on the end of the row, restricted view. Terrible, awful seats. 

This better not go wrong, was all I could think as I keyed in my card details. Or Helen was going to kill me. 

Over matcha crepes at Cafe Mori, Ellen wished us luck for our "Grim Fille."

"Message me in the interval," she ordered, with an evil glint in her eye, a little too pleased to not be going with us.

She must have already seen the posters.

"What even is that?" I asked Helen as we neared the theatre.

It was a ballerina. En pointe. Wearing a familiar looking white tutu.

"Swan Lake," we both said at the same time.

"Are they even performing Swan Lake?"

I scanned the poster. No. They weren't.

What they were doing apparently, was sticking a pink background on a random ballet image and hoping that no one would notice. 

This was not a good sign. It wasn't even a good poster.

Oh well, there was no backing out now.

We forged on to the box office.

"The upper circle is closed," said the woman behind the counter as she inspected them. "Let me get your new seat numbers."

I gave Helen my best smug face.

"Right," said the box office lady as she scrawled our new seats on the tickets. "You're in the dress circle."

We were in the fucking dress circle!

Pink Swan Lake posters or no, things were looking up.

Now, let's just freeze-frame for a moment on that smug face of mine. There's something I need to explain so that you'll understand the significance of everything that follows, something very important. And that is: I love Fille. 

I really love Fille.

I cannot emphasis that enough.

If you take anything away from this post it should be this: I love Fille.

I love the music. The costumes. The dancing. The characters. The pony.

And I love the love.

Not just the young love of Colas and Lise, but the love between Lise and her mum, the Widow Simone. And the love between Farmer Thomas and his son Alain (oh, when Thomas strokes Alain's hair, soothing the poor lad after he fails to get the girl... my heart), the burgeoning, and slightly knowing relationship between Simone and Thomas. And of course, the love of Alain for his umbrella.

No one leaves the stage without a happy ending. That is Ashton's gift to the audience. He ties a shiny pink bow on everyone's story and sends them out holding hands and singing into the night.

When the opening notes of Gorsky's Fille sounded up from the pit, both Helen and I jolted in our seats. We turned to each other with panicked looks. These were not the gentle tones of the Ashton, conjuring up a slow sunrise over rolling hills, yawning milkmaids picking hay out of their hair while the stableboy tries to find his britches. 

"That sounds sinister," I hissed at Helen under my breath.

She nodded back.

The world this music was conjuring was one where the forces of Big Dairy meant that the milkmaids were all out of a job, while the stableboys had been requisitioned to help the army tend the fires after the latest Foot and Mouth outbreak.

If the music of the overture was wrong, the oeufs were even wronger. Lise fetching eggs from the hen house? No! She should be working the butterchurn. How else was the choreographer going to fit in a knob joke into the first act?

It was then that I finally began to understand why Ashton's Fille is considered so quintessentially English. The Russians weren't going to have any knob jokes in their version. Not a single one.

Worse still, the role of Widow Simone is danced by an actual woman and not a man in a padded dress.

I spent the entire ballet giggling and gasping in fascinated horror. Like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of a famous painting, I could spot the recognisable bits, but it was jumbled up - all in the wrong order, to the wrong music, and being done by the wrong characters.

"Alain catching the butterfly," we gasped as we jogged through the snow on our way to the station. "That was Lise pretending to catch the fly!"

"And Lise stubbing her toe when she kicks the door-"

"That's her mum hurting her foot on the butter churn!"

"And the hobby horse being thrown around was the flute!"

"Which makes so much more sense!"

"Yeah, where did the hobby horse even come from?"

"At least a flute at a harvest festival has a reason to be there."

"Yes!"

"And the circles in the rain, became the maypole!"

"Oh my god, yes!"

"Ashton was like - if they want circles, I'll show them circles!"

"And he gave us a real pony!"

"For which we are eternally grateful."

"Ashton was a genius.

"Ashton was a genius."

"What vision - to turn that mess into..."

"Our Fille."

"Exactly."

"He was a genius."

"He was a genius."

"He was a dramaturge."

"Yes!"

"He made an actual story. With characters. I've never realised how deep they all were until..."

"That."

"Yes."

"That whole thing with Colas getting the Village Notary drunk and stealing his clothes..."

"So wrong."

"Because it means that we know he's seeing Lise's fantasy about having kids with him."

"Yes! Ashton hides him from her and from us."

"So when he reveals himself-"

"-we feel her embarrassment too!"

"It's a double-hitter - the joke, then the blushes. Here it's all joke."

"And oh my god, the When We Are Married mime!"

"The mime!"

"It was all there-"

"-but all wrong!"

"The timing..."

"The storytelling..."

"All wrong."

"All wrong."

"Ashton was such a genius."

"Such a fucking genius."

At some point during all this we had managed to board a train.

"I wish I could have met him," I said, as I plonked myself down in a seat. 

Helen looked shocked. I never want to meet anyone.

"I just want to hear him talk about... his process. How he took that and turned it into..." I touched my lashes. "I feel a bit emotional about him."

"Oh my god, you really do," said Helen, laughing at my tearing eyes.

I really was. I sniffed and tried to hold it together.

"This changes everything. I will never be able to watch Ashton in the same way again."

"People bang on about MacMillan being the great storyteller, but Ashton..."

"Fuck. Yes. Fucking. Ashton!"

"When MacMillan did Romeo and Juliet... the story was there!"

"Yeah, Ashton had to strip it all back and start again!"

"He took tiny moments and created a complete world!"

"He totally changed the relationship between Lise and her mother. Like... making them spin wool together, it's funny, but also, that's how you know they love each other. Her mum tapping the beat on the tambourine-"

"-the one from the first act."

"Yes, exactly. Thank you. He took the pointless act one tambourine-"

"-that added nothing to the storyline."

"Less than nothing. He took it, and transformed it, and built it up. This is something they've done a thousand times before. Mum making music for her daughter to dance around to."

"So she's not just marrying off her daughter for money. She wants her to be happy. She wants a secure marriage. Not to the lad who has probably been chasing her chickens round the yard since he was a toddler."

"Exactly. So when she finally comes round and approves the match-"

"It actually means something."

"Ashton was such a fucking genius."

"He was fucking ballsy. He was like - those Italian fouettes? My Lise doesn't need them."

"Their dancing is all about the characters."

"It's not about the virtuosity."

"It's about the story."

"Yes."

"Wait, is this you?" I said, looking up to see what station we were in.

"Shit yes."

Helen jumped off the train. A second later, she stuck her head back through the door. "Aren't you supposed to be changing here too?"

The doors closed. The train moved on.

I was supposed to have been changing there.

Shit.

Still... fucking Ashton. 

I can't get over it.