I'm off to the Bush Theatre tonight. A place I love. Although I'm fairly confident I've thrown a lot of shit over the years, complaining that they are hard to get to just because they're lurking all the way down at the end of the Circle line.
Yeah, well. My tolerance of hard-to-get-to-ness has been raised this year. I've shivered on platforms for twenty minutes waiting for trains that would never come. I've walked miles. I've had nice ladies on trains offer me sweets to stop me from fainting in overheated carriages. The Bush Theatre is not hard to get to. It's right opposite Shepherds Bush Market, for gawd's sake. I admit it. I was precious as fuck at the start of this year. But I have had my consciousness raised. And I think we can agree that I'm the better for it.
Anyway, as I was saying, I do love the Bush Theatre. It's so nice. And homey. And warm. And welcoming. And shiny. Let's not forget that. It's looks hella swish, with its bright yellow signage and fine red brick walls.
I don't think there could even be a more welcome sight than that of the warm light pouring out of the Bush's glass frontage after you've just battled against the Hammersmith and City line to get there.
Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop talking about trains now. I am. I promise.
I scoot through the little courtyard area that the Bush has going on, and through the automatic doors.
It's packed. I'm late. And everyone is busy getting their drink orders in before going in.
I join the queue at the box office. It moves fast, and soon enough I'm at the front giving my surname.
"Pardon?" says the box officer, leaning in.
"Smiles? S. M. I-"
He's already off, looking through the ticket box, and yup. He's found them.
"Your tickets are here," he says, handing them over. "It's seventy minutes straight through. No readmission."
That has to be the most perfect sentence in the English language. Seventy minutes straight through. The absolute dream.
As I double back the way I came, I find myself practically having to step over people as they pour through the door.
I know I should have avoided all this by looping my way around the box office and past the bar in order to get to the auditorium, but there's a chalkboard here that I want to get a photo of.
Yes, there it is.
"Baby Reindeer," it reads in pretty purple letters.
"70 minutes. No interval."
Oh bliss. I read that again just to revel in the sheer joy of it.
"No readmittance."
Yup. Love it.
"Contains haze." Cool. "Strong language." Fuck yeah. "References to sexual abuse, violence, stalking & transphobia." Oh. Shit. Well, guess you can't have everything in life. Here I was thinking I was getting a nice play about Rudolph from before he got famous.
"Hello and welcome to the Bush Theatre. For tonight's performance, Baby Reindeer, please take your seats. It'll be starting in five minutes."
Right then. Looks like I've going in.
I go through the strange stairwell that the Bush has in the middle of their foyer.
Over on the other side is the entrance to the newly named Holloway Theatre.
I had forgotten about that. And the near heart attack that the announcement had given me. I don't want any theatres tweeting out about their 'new theatres' between now and New Year. I'm calling time on openings, reopenings, renamings, and anything else until the clock hits midnight on 31 December. Then they can do what they want. Open pop-ups in their gender-neutral loos if that's what they want to do.
But some of us have marathons that we're still pretending are possible to finish. And I don't want any more nonsense before it's over. My heart cannot take it.
On the bar is a huge dispenser of cucumber water. A woman stops to pull out a water bottle and fills it up with spa-goodness before rejoining the queue.
The ticket checker is selling playtexts.
Fuck yeah.
You know how much I love programmes. And playtexts? Well, they are just another level on top of that. You get to take the entire play home with you, for four quid! That's epic. As is the knowledge these fuckers are going to cost the best part of a tenner when they hit the theatre section of Foyles.
"Can I get a playtext?" I ask the ticket checker.
"Of course!" she says with suggests that people here don't know what a damn bargain they're getting. "That's four pounds."
I get out my purse, but the queue behind me isn't going away.
I step back and wave the next person forward.
"Oh sorry," they say, as if it was them getting in my way. They dither for a second, but then, with the more embarrassed expression ever, step forward.
"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask the very patient ticket checker. The queue is growing bigger by the minute, and I'm not sure there's enough cucumber water left to keep these people going while I start searching for four pound coins.
Turns out she does, and we do that awkward hand shuffle as we trade currency and balance a playtext between the both of us.
Inside, another front of houser waits for us. I shove my purse back in my bag and show him my ticket.
"B11? Over there, second row," he says, pointing across the stage to the opposite block of seating.
I pause to look around.
You never know what you are going to find in the Bush.
Tonight we're in the round. Or rather, in the square. With seating on four sides.
An almost Gothic arched architecture has been sculpted out of the space with cloth sails stung up between pillars.
In the centre is a circle of light.
I make my way around to what the sign tells me, is block D.
I find my seat. Second row. Right on the aisle.
Nice.
A group of girls come over. One of them is pointing to the empty seats next to me.
I get up to let them pass.
"That's not us," one of them says with the type of disdain that can only be levelled against someone you are really good friends with.
"Oh, sorry," says the pointer to me, with a hand motion for me to sit back down. She squints at the seats. "No! It is! Look! Sorry, that is us."
The two girls thank me as they pass.
A third, silent one, follows on behind. She doesn't say anything, but does give me a good jab with her elbows as she takes her jacket off, which I'm sure you can agree, is almost as good.
As I nurse my bruised arm, I look around.
It's a very young crowd in here. Lots of cool-looking people. Even the usher is wearing a beanie with his t-shirt.
Strange pits have been sunk into the floor, and the people sitting in them manage to not "oof" as they climb into them. That's the level of youth we're talking here.
As the lights dim, projections whizz around us on the gothic sails, and Richard Gadd appears to tell us the tale of his stalker.
It's great.
Like, it's really great.
Like, properly fucking amazing.
I'm not the only one to think so.
Across the way from me is a young woman with red hair, watching rapt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with horror at Gadd's story.
She winces and gasps and clutches her wine glass to her chest.
I can't stop staring at her.
It's getting embarrassing. But I have never in all my life seen such an expressive face.
Just as I realise that I'm quick becoming the stalker in this room, the man sitting in front of my rams his elbow back, right into my knee.
I wince and shift away as his arm retreats.
But a second later, he does it again. His elbow rising up as his rummages around in his trouser pocket.
Then a third time.
Gawd knows what he's keeping in there.
I add my knee to my list of bruised limbs.
Honestly, there must be some point-based game going on at the Bush tonight. How many times can the audience elbow the person in B11?
Four times.
That's how many.
Gadd finishes his tale, leaving a cuddly toy reindeer on the stage behind him as he retreats from our applause, only returning to give the room a general thumbs-up.
We head for the exit, crowding it as four different blocks of seats aim for a single door.
"I like the space," says someone standing behind me.
"Great space," their companion agrees.
"You'd never been to the old space though," says the first, with the smugness of a true Bush-hipster.
As I wait, I turn airplane mode on my phone off.
There's a notification.
A general election has been called.
Oh, what fun.
At least I don't have to get on the tube now. I can walk to Hammersmith from here. That's something...
The next day I'm still thinking about Baby Reindeer.
Fuck, that play is intense. Seventy minutes of pure heart-pounding fear. And it was funny too.
There's a level of talent there, that I just can't process. I don't understand how people like that manage to exist. I can't even say I'm jealous, because we exist on entirely different levels of reality.
I scroll through Twitter, half to read about what people more intelligent than I am are saying about the election, and half to distract myself from thoughts of Martha the stalker.
And then I see her.
That girl.
The one with the red hair.
I stop scrolling, picking up the phone to so at it closely.
Yup, that's definitely her. She's even wearing the same jumper I saw her in last night. Black. With roses.
She's only bloody in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. That's Emma May Uden!
Fuck's sake. I told you she had an expressive face. She's a frickin' actor.
I very carefully do not follow her on Twitter before shutting down the app, putting away my phone, and deciding to take a break from social media.
