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...
