Somehow, when coming up with the idea of a marathon of London theatre, I never considered mud featuring much on my list of woes. But here I am, squelching through the wet stuff, wishing I'd worn my wellies to get to the next theatre on my list.
I'm in Wimbledon. Which doesn't seem like prime real estate for mud-making, but here we are.
Pulling my apparently-unwaterproof boot free from a sticky patch, I hurry over to a slightly drier piece of land.
In the darkness I can hear the roar of moving water, but it's so dark, I can't make out where it's coming from until I'm on top of it. Literally.
I seem to have found myself standing on a bridge.
Which is lucky.
Certainly better than finding the water without the aid of a bridge.
I keep on going.
According to Google Maps, the Colourhouse Theatre should be around here somewhere. But all I can see are some dark buildings and what appears to be, on close inspection, a millstone.
I stumble around, feeling like I've stepped back in time. As if in crossing the bridge I'd gone through some Outlander style shit, but instead of landing in the Highlands and surrounded by a bunch of blokes in need of a razor and some boxer shorts, I'm instead in a Georgian mill town where hundreds of children are breaking their fingers on looms, or whatever it was that happened in these places. I missed that history lesson at school.
Up ahead there's some light. I follow it.
An A-board points tells me that there's a bar open.
I stare at the building.
It's old brick. Very mill like. Except for the brash panto posters stuck all over the place.
As I stand there, a young woman comes over to the door to close it, but pauses when she spots me.
Ah. I should probably head inside.
"Is this the right place for Jekyll and Hyde?” I ask a little doubtfully.
"Yup!" she says cheerfully, closing the door behind me.
That's a relief. Will all the signage pitching this very much in the children's theatre mode, I was getting a little worried that I had found myself at the wrong place.
There's some kind of event room on one side, and a bar on the other.
It's very colourful. And warm.
And there's a queue to get in.
That's good. Nice to know that I'm not the only one squelching her way through the mud on a Friday night.
The queue takes us through a narrow corner, where a box officer is cramped into a small alcove to tick off names as we pass.
"Hi!" I say when it's my turn. "The surname's Smiles?"
She looks down at her pieces of paper. "Which list are you on?"
I pause, not knowing how to answer that. "I booked online?" I chance.
"Ah!" she says, finding my name on the relevant list. "There you are. I don't need to give you a ticket. You can go right in. Would you like a programme?"
I definitely would.
"That's one pound."
I hold out my pound coin, all ready to go, and she gives me what I hope is an appreciative glance. I'd been paying attention you see. I don't just gawp around when I'm in a queue. Oh no. I'm watching the interactions happening like a damned hawk.
Programme in hand, I take my hawk-like self into the auditorium, walking alongside the hugely tall seating bank until I reach the front. It looks busy. Very busy. In front of the mountain of seating, there's even more chairs down the front. There are a few spares in those front few rows but I don't want to be placing myself and my cough that close to the action.
I turn in the other direction and start climbing.
It's dark up here. I'm having to squint real hard to make out the steps. But even so, I can tell that empty seats are at a premium here.
But, I think... yup. There's some going in the back row.
I climb all the way to the top.
A woman leans forward and waves at the empty spaces. "We're got two here, but the end is free," she says.
"Perfect!" I say.
"It couldn't have worked out better," says the woman.
She's not wrong. The one on the end is right in front of the staircase. Which means I get to nab all that tasty legroom to dump my stuff. And what a lot of stuff I have. Umbrella and jacket and cardigan and massive bag. I take up a lot of real estate in winter.
A few minutes later, those two seats are reclaimed by their owners. A couple of teenage girls, all laughter and lipgloss.
As they sit down they giggle and toss their hair about.
It doesn't take me long to figure out why.
There are a lot of teenage boys in this audience. A lot of teenage boys.
And they are all very aware of the two pretty girls sitting in the back row.
One chancer, sitting right up front, keeps on turning around in his chair to look at them. He grins, and even attempts a very bold wink.
The girls giggle and toss their hair in response.
These teenage mating rituals are put on hold as the box officer comes in to make an announcement from the stage. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Can I have your attention for a minute?" she calls out. "Has anyone come in who I've not checked off my list, just so I know whether to hold it."
We wait.
"Anyone?"
A couple of hands raise and the box officer rushes around taking down names.
But it's not enough.
"Has anyone not checked in with me?" she tries again.
Nope. That's it. We're done.
A few latecomers arrive, and the box officer busies herself trying to find them seats.
"There's one here," says a man, pointing at a seat in the middle, covered in a mountain of coats.
"One there?" says the box officer, sounding more than a little stressed. "We're still got nine to come."
Nine?
I look around, trying to spot the empty spaces. I see three. Nine is going to be a bit of a challenge unless they all have their own Jekyll-Hyde split personalities.
Oh well. The doors are closing. Hopefully those nine didn't get swept away in the river.
Pat Abernethy and Dave Marsden step out on stage and get on with telling us this creepy tale of Victorian science gone wrong. Abernethy sits in his lab. Salts are measured, liquids are poured, vile looking concoctions are tipped back throats, and monsters are made. All the while Marsden runs around performing all the other roles.
The theatre door opens.
A family comes in.
A large family.
There must be at least three kids there.
They stand awkwardly, not knowing where to go.
Mum points out a couple of seats on the front row and pushes the youngest ones to slip into them.
A woman in the audience takes pity. She gets up and goes over to help them, wine glass in hand. Seats are found for all of them. Except now the woman with the wine glass has nowhere to put herself.
She looks around, and then spots a stack of folded up chairs leaning against the wall.
Very carefully she takes one, unfolds it, and sets herself up in the corridor.
Masterfully done.
This is clearly someone who has had a crack at ushering in the past.
Over on stage, Abernethy's Hyde is busy trampling small children and generally proving himself to be a bit of a dick. He's like one of those house guests that just refuses to leave, no matter how much potion Jekyll drinks, or how he mixes the salts. He's just there, sitting in that body, letting himself into the lab, and using the butler like his own servant. Oddly though, he does make a point of finding 'willing' women. So, you know. At least he believes in consent.
But even so, there's no help for him. Or that foolish Jekyll. And the poor sod of a doctor has to take the only course of action left to him.
Abernethy and Marston take their bows and then there's that slight awkward pause as they wait for the clapping to stop so that they can actually say something.
"We're doing the show again in January. If you know anyone studying it, it saves having to read the book."
"Only joking!"
Well, that explains all the teens in the audience.
"You can go past," I tell the teen girls from my row. I've got a lot of prep to do before heading outside. Cardigan. Jacket. Umbrella. I'm not taking any chances with that bridge.