Not very Hans Christian

Well this is weird. Six weeks to the day since I said goodbye to this joint, I'm walking back through the stage door at Sadler's Wells. It's ten-thirty. I have to remind myself that I'm not actually late for work. I'm early for my show. 

I pass all the carved heads and painted portraits of various dancers that I never paid much attention to when I worked here. I'm not about to start examining them now.

For performances in the studio, a box office is set up at the reception desk, and I head over to join the queue.

I don't know this box officer. I'm rather relieved by that. I get to stay under the radar for a few more seconds.

"I think it'll be under..." I say, giving Martha's surname. Bless her, she sorted all this out for me.

He flicks through the tickets in the box. "Noooo?"

Oh. "Maybe Smiles?" I say, hopefully.

"Ah yes!" he says, immediately perking up. He remembers that one.

He plucks the ticket out and hands it to me.

By this time, the stage door keeper has returned, and there's no getting away from her eagle eyes. "Hello honey," she says and I am suddenly overcome by the need to explain my presence to her.

"I'm seeing Little Match Girl," I say, holding up the ticket to prove that I am, indeed, there to see Little Match Girl.

After a bit of chit-chat I make a break for it. I never returned my staff pass when I left, and I don't want to risk getting found out.

I pass the cafe, turning my head away from all the cakes. They don't push this in the marketing, but Sadler's has really good cakes. Especially the carrot cake which was always my afternoon indulgence on really hard days. The flapjacks are good to, and are the sort of thing you can almost convince yourself is an acceptable breakfast when you have to come in early to meet a print deadline.

Just opposite are the doors to the studio. A row of ushers are standing guard, and amongst them, the front of house manager. I put my fingers to my lips. I don't want her giving me away, because I've just spotted the programming team.

I creep up, and bless them. They pretend to be happy to see me.

But not surprised.

Almost like they knew I was coming.

"Yeah, I wrote your name,” says an ex-co-worker who I won't be naming because I forgot to ask permission.

Oh.

"I thought it would be under Martha's name and I can sneak in."

"No. Nothing escapes me here."

Well.

"Do you want a freesheet? I know you love a freesheet."

I do love a freesheet.

She goes off to fetch me one and after posing with it for a photo, hands it over for me to give it a professional once over. Nice paper stock. Correct logo. No glaring typos. Slight formatting error, but I doubt anyone else would notice it. I'm almost disappointed. I was rather hoping everything had fallen apart after I left.

"They were printed down the road."

Oh? "Oh?"

There's only one reason things are printed down the road. 

"We almost didn't have freesheets for Wednesday but I told them we couldn't not have freesheets."

Definitely not.

I smile as she tells me all the exploits of getting them printed in time for first night and I begin to feel a lot better.

"Let me get you the visual storyline," she says, going off to fetch me more paper.

Ah yes. I didn't mention. I'm here for the relaxed performance. And along with the ear protectors I see laid out on the podium table near the door, and the chill-out room going off the cafe, there's also the visual storyline - a document designed to diminish anxiety by preparing audience members for everything that is going to happen.

"The titles are in italics," I say with a dramatic sigh as she hands it to me. "Gone a month and already the brand is falling apart."

But I'm only kidding. It's great. Especially the bolded line that tells me that while the matches in the show are real, as are their flames, "they are not dangerous if you don't go near them." Further down, a bullet point informs me that the dancers may dance close to me "but they won't touch you," which is very comforting.

Honestly, as someone who gets anxious about something as simple as hailing buses, I think these things should be available for all performances at every theatre. I am very much in favour of visual stories.

There are pictures of the entrance, and the box office and... I just realised something. This is my blog. This is what I'm writing. Except where mine is long and rambling, this is short and snappy and can be read in under a couple of minutes. Turns out you can filter down the entire experience of visiting a theatre in less than two thousand words. Huh. 

Who knew?

Anyway, after a few more hellos and a few more hugs, it's time to go in.

I show my ticket to the front of houser on the door.

"You know where you're going?" she laughs.

"I do!"

The Lilian Baylis Studio, or the LBS to those in the know, is a black box theatre. The stage is wide, as you'd expect for dance, and the seating basic but comfortable. 

I find my seat. It turns out that I'm near the back, and on the end. These people understand me.

Phil King is already in the corner of the stage, standing behind a barricade of instruments.

I dump my coat and my bag. And the very expensive chocolates that I just bought from the very expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage. 

Don't make that face. I know. I shouldn't be spending any money in any form of shop, let alone an expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage, but I had to vote this morning, and I know it will do absolutely no good at all. That's a level of despair that can only be cured by a very small purchase from a very expensive shop. The chocolate will help when the results come in. As will the tenner I put down on a conservative majority at the bookies yesterday. At least a Tory win will be buying my lunch tomorrow.

Enough of that. I have a theatre to concentrate on.

All around the auditorium, children bump into each other as they find their seats.

"I like the smoke!" says a small boy, pointing at the haze wafting over the stage.

"Where shall I sit?" calls out an equally small boy as his group is ordered to wait in the aisle until the grown-ups get themselves organised. "Where shall I sittttt?"

A minute later, he is told where to sit, and he gazes open-mouthed at the large moon hanging over the stage.

I stand up to let someone in my row, immediately apologising as I realise my bag, chocolate, and coat have spilled out to take over half the row.

"Don't worry," he says. "If no one comes, we can spread out."

I sigh. "The joys of thinking you can get away with going to the shops before the theatre." I grab my expensive chocolate and stuff it in my handbag, hoping that the thin layers of pavé don't crack in their box.

One of the learning and engagement team members comes over.

"Guys," she says. "Do you want to sit nearer the front?"

I absolutely do. Now that I know that none of the dancers will be touching me, there's no fear to be found sitting further forward.

We move over and plonk ourselves down in the second row, with the other staff members watching this morning show.

Probably the last thing they wanted, but I'm enjoying the view.

Especially as the lights dim, and the dancers appear.

I have to admit. I've seen the Little Match Girl before. I may not like panto, or even Christmas, but if I have a winter tradition, it's getting all weepy about a small girl shivering in the snow. I've been saving this theatre all year just so I could come and see this show. It was my one big concern about leaving Sadler's - not seeing Little Match.

But I've made it back.

And now I get to sit here, sniffing, for an hour, as the poor little match girl skitters about the stage, struggling in the face of a capitalist society that wants nothing to do with her. 

While all around greedy Tories guzzle on champagne and panettone and shut their doors to the unattractive sight of poverty. I mean. They're Italian. So they're not actual Tories. But still. I'm feeling a bit fragile though and the parallels are right there, for all to see.

It is unsettling though, with their whitened skin and darkened eyes, I feel like I'm seeing myself up there. It doesn't help that I've got a small stash of very expensive chocolates sitting in my bag right now. As the tiny match girl curls up in the show, I feel guilty for every time I kept my head down and pretended not to see a homeless person begging on the tube.

I should probably sign up for some volunteering over Christmas.

It's not like I'll be doing anything else.

The theatres are shut that day.

Thankfully our match girl has one more adventure in store for her before we say goodbye, as her grandmother takes her off to the moon.

Yes. Fine. It's not Hans Christian Anderson going on here. It's Arthur Pita. And you know how much I love Arthur Pita. This is my third Arthur Pita show of the year and they've all be charmingly surreal. So, of course he takes her to the moon. And we get to go with her. As does the musician, joining her on stage with his theremin.

As the little match girl comes forward to blow out her final match, a boy sitting behind us calls out: "Again!"

We all giggle.

And it's time to go.

I hastily press my hands under my lashes to check my mascara hasn't run.

I think I'm safe.

I've got a lunch date, followed by a coffee date, with some old coworkers. It wouldn't do at all to let them know I have a heart lurking under all my black armour now.

Back in the cafe, I make towards the chill-out room to grab a photo, but it's too late. It's been broken down and everything is now being carried out.

Thankfully, someone offers to send me a few of theirs.

Which means I can go guzzle myself sick over lunch and hopefully try not to think about what I'm going to wake up to tomorrow.

Severed fingers and vacuum loos

"I'll be five minutes!" I text Allison. "Grab a table?"

Allison texts back in the affirmative. She's on it.

I run up Kingsway on my own mission.

I stop at the corner of Portugal Street and pull my phone out of my pocket, taking a picture of the theatre as I catch my breath. Right, that’s done. It's time to pick up the tickets.

I have to hang back as young people pour of the long line of doors. Very young people. Children. The matinee must have just got out. I have timed this spectacularly badly.

They look happy though. The young people. Must be a good show.

Eventually the flow stills and I manage to get inside.

The Peacock is a funny old theatre. It spends most of it's time as a lecture hall for LSE. I've even been to a lecture here. Back when I thought doing a PhD might be a viable way of escaping my career crisis. Turns out it wasn't, and instead I chose the route of quitting my job and taking an unpaid interneship in the arts instead. Not quite sure that worked out either...

Anyway, I'm here. At The Peacock. A venue I technically work for, so I need to be on my best behaviour.

Up the steps and over to the box office, lurking in the shadows at the back of the foyer. I head over to the box officer I recognise.

"Can I pick up tickets for Smiles?" I ask. "Staff tickets," I add, just in case I look different outside of fierce yellow light of the office kitchen.

She grabs the pile of staff ticket forms and pulls mine out before going back to her seat to start tapping away at her computer.

"At least it's warm in here," I say, doing my best to fill in the awkward silence. "It's freezing out there."

"The weather has changed," she agrees. "There you go. Two pounds."

Bloody bargain.

I look at the tickets. Two of them. Central stalls.

Epic bargain more like.

All that friendly kitchen banter has clearly done the trick. Moral of the story, always be nice to box officers. They have the power, and should be respected.

A message comes through from Allison. She has a table.

Fuck. Okay. Better run.

Tickets stuffed in pocket, I pull my jacket tight around me, brace myself for the cold, and hurry back the way I came, hopping from foot to foot as I wait for the traffic lights to change on Kingsway, rounding the Aldwych and slipping through the doors of the Delauney Counter.

I love the Delauney Counter, with its old fashioned gentility, and attentive staff, and schnitzel sandwiches.

I think it might be my favourite place in London. Instant calm as soon as I walk through the door.

Even with the counter covered in white chocolate ghost masks for Halloween.

Allison has a table, as promised. And we both spend far too long pouring over the menu before deciding that the perfect accompaniment to schnitzel sandwiches is a salted caramel hot chocolate.

Bless the waiter. He didn't even wince the teeniest bit as he takes our horror-show order. He has truly got into the Halloween spirit.

"I'm going to take a photo of you," says Allison, getting out her phone.

Turns out, the fact that I'm wearing my Greggs t-shirt in a fancy-arse Austro-Hungarian cafe is pretty darn amusing. I do my best to pose, but you know I'm not good with photos.

At least the salted caramel hot chocolates are good. So thick you have to eat them with a spoon. And surprisingly, alternating sips with mouthfuls of pickles doesn't make you want to boak.

Which is a bonus.

A waiter comes over and very sweetly tells us that they are closing in five minutes, and would it be alright if we pay our bill and leave please.

It would. But could they add one of those darling bags of Halloween biscuits to it, please very much and thank you?

"Look!" says Allison, as the waiter brings it over and sets it reverently on the table. "It has a witches hat! And a black cat!"

It does have a witch’s hat. And a black cat. But more importantly: "It has a severed finger in it!" I squeak, way too excited by the idea of a bloody finger sitting among my snacks.

Bill paid and scarves on, we venture back outside.

"It's. So. Cold," I complain as we make our way to The Peacock, regretting with every step that I didn't order another hot chocolate to go.

The foyer is now buzzing with slightly older children. The under-tens shifted off for an early night, while their teen brothers and sisters take over for the 6pm show.

At the top of the stairs, a front of houser stands, holding up a handful of programmes, spread out in a fan.

I stop.

I don't need to buy one. Someone will leave a pile on my desk at some point. But I can't help but look all the same.

I made those. Well, I mean. I wrote the brief and asked people more talented then me to make them. But still. I did that. I made that happen. And I won't be doing it again. I'm leaving my job next week, and that programme was the last one I sent to print. My last ever programme, quite possibly.

As we head down the stairs I stop to take a photo of the merch desk, with its long line of programmes just waiting to be bought.

I hope people do.

"Where are we sitting?" asks Allison.

"Stalls," I say proudly. It's not often that I get to take people to the good seats.

"Stalls is one level down," says a programme seller as we pass. "Or the circle is just through here."

"Thank you!" we say as we pass, breezing down another level to the fancy seats.

The bar down here is busy. But I have to say, it's not very nice. Even the long mirror, with it's row of globe-lights can't help lift the grey walled basement we're in right now.

"I might go to the loo?" I say. This show isn't short. And we did just drink a small vat of chocolate.

Turns out, that's not such an easy thing at The Peacock. Oh, sure. They have them. There isn't even a queue. But when you get yourself in one of those cubicles, those loos are...

"That was a really weird toilet," I say to Allison when we find each other back in the bar.

"That was a really weird toilet," she agrees. "It's like... are we on an aeroplane?"

It was like being on an aeroplane. There was a lid that needed to be unclicked. And then reclipped. And buttons. And vacuum suction.

It was really fucking weird. I can't believe I haven't been to the loos here before. All these years, and they've been there. With their lids. And their vacuum. And I didn't even know.

I get out my phone to make a note of that.

Allison laughs. "Are you making notes about the really weird toilet?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. Sorry."

"It's like: what on earth?!"

Yeah. What on fucking earth?!

I get out my compact to powder my nose. Those loos were so baffling I hadn't wanted to stick around in there to use the mirror.

"You're such a lady," says Allison, laughing as she imitates my actions.

Yeah, well. Some of us have shiny noses that we have to contend with.

"Shall we go in?" I suggest.

We both look at the nearest door into the auditorium.

"Is it this one?" I ask. "What does it say on the sign?"

At this point, I should probably put on my glasses. But you know how bad I am at wearing them. And besides, I've got Allison with me.

We decide that this is, actually, the correct entrance and I show our tickets to the front of houser on the door.

"Yup," she says. "Turn right at row J."

So we do, walking past all those rows of red velvety seats until we reach row J, and then turn right.

There's a family sitting behind us. They look very excited.

And even better. They have a programme.

I like them immediately.

"Please try not to crease the pages," says the mum, handing it down the line.

It's nice to see paper products being properly handled. It's what they deserve. Trees died to make them, after all.

I look around.

There's quite a lot of programmes being flicked through and read in here. It's very pleasing. I find myself watching a couple read the biographies section together. One of them looks up, and I have to turn away very quickly before he realises I was creeping on his reading habits.

Thankfully, the lights are dimming and we're off.

Some Like it Hip Hop.

It's fun, but I'm not a big fan of dance shows having a narrator. Like, either your choreography has the power to tell a story, or it doesn't. And if it's that latter, then maybe it's not the right medium for the narrative. Ya know?

In the interval, the girls sitting next to us try to get out.

"Sorry, darling," one says to the other. "I don't know where to stand!"

The first one struggles over the second's knees, stumbling as she does so. "Sorry, I'm sitting in your lap!"

The safety curtain comes down, and I stare at it.

"There's projections," I say, as a rotating carousel of show trailers plays up on the beige curtain. "I swear they didn't do that the last time I was here."

I mean, I know I've been neglecting my own venues this year. What with having to go to every other fucking venue in London. But my lack of knowledge about this theatre is starting to get embarrassing.

"Ooo!" I say, as the trailer for Galactik Ensemble comes up. "We should go see that one! It looks amazing. The set is trying to kill them!"

"Like The Play That Goes Wrong?"

"I guess..." I mean, sure. More circusy and French. But sure.

As the interval draws to a close, Allison and I stand up to let them pass.

"Don't sit down, we're leaving again," they say, grabbing their coats before slipping back the way they came.

A pile-up forms in our row, as they round on those trying to get back in.

"What's happening?" asks Allison.

"I have no fucking idea. Are they going-going or just moving?"

Whereever they are, the lights are going down again and they're going to be missing the second act.

Time slips by quickly in a torrent of song and dance, with way more story than my stupified brain can cope with. But the loud music and mega moves are keeping me awake.

And when the audience jumps to their feet for a standing ovation, I'm more than happy to join in with them.

That is, until the cast wants to get us moving.

I back against my seat.

Allison looks over at me and laughs. "You're not joining in?" she asks as everyone around us waves their arms over their head.

I shake my head. "I am not joining in."

The cast busy themselves teaching everyone a few moves and I hold myself very tightly until it's all over. I can't be having with that sort of thing. It's too much to ask of someone who can't even clap a beat.

"That was great!" says Allison.

"It was fun," I agree. "Bit heteronormative, but fun."

Allison nods. "Yeah. That scene with the daughter..."

"They could have been such a cute lesbian couple!"

"Yeah, she could find out that the other one is actually a woman..."

"And then still be super into it!"

And we're off. Dramaturging our own version of the show all the way to the tube station and deciding that we would be really good at it.

"How do you become a dramaturge?" asks Allison.

I have no fucking idea... How do you become a dramaturge?

On the tube journey back to Hammersmith, I pull the ribbons free from my Delauney bag and nibble on the witch's hat.

Turns out that biscuits covered in black icing are really not suitable for consuming in public.

As I wash my face before bed, I find my lips have been stained completely black.

Which, I've got to admit, is a look. But not sure one I'll be rocking again any time soon.

Just like that

Second theatre of the day, and I’m only going round the corner. To The Place. The journey’s so short, that as I ponder the possibility of perhaps stopping off for lunch somewhere, I turn a corner, and arrive.

Ah. Well.

I suppose I could still go in search of food. But the thought of foraging on the mean streets of Bloomsbury is too much for me in my weakened state. The sun is out. And The Place has tables and chairs set up on the quite pavement.

I go and have a sit down and try to edit a blog post instead.

It’s not going well. I haven’t posted a blog in nearly a week.

I’ve been writing them. There’ll all there. Sitting neatly in the backend up my website. Unproofread. Lacking links and images.

I just can’t bring myself to get them over that final hurdle. It’s amazing that even half-dead I can still bang out a few thousand words before wheezing my way off to bed, but selecting a few photos to sit amongst those words? No. That’s too much and I simply can’t face it.

So, my blog posts remain unread. All evidence that I am, in fact, still out there, marathoning theatres, and checking off those venues, is lost to the internet.

Oh well.

You know I’m here.

I know I’m here.

Perhaps that’s enough.

I manage to correct a few typos before giving up.

Instead I huddle in my jacket, turning my face up to what passes as sunshine in October. This is my sort of weather. Bright and chilly.

And The Place is looking mighty handsome in it, with it’s old Victorian red bricks gleaming, and the hot pink banners barely wafting in the light breeze.

A few people emerge with drinks to take up tables, but for the most part, it’s just me. On this quiet road.

It isn’t the worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

But I can’t stay out here forever. And the time has come for me to rejoin the fray.

In I go.

The box office is tucked away in a side room. Low wooden benches with geometric cushions fit together like Tetris pieces. A notice on the wall proclaims that not only is Free Wifi available, you can also charge your phone if you so choose. There are magazines on the coffee tables. And potted plants on the windowsill, which wave signs, asking questions like “Why walk when you can dance?” which is a little disconcerting. But despite the intrusiveness of the fauna, it’s all very nice and comfortable in here.

I go over to the box office desk.

“Hi, the surname’s Smiles?” I tell the box officer.

“Lovely,” she says, looking through the ticket box and pulling out a ticket. “Can you confirm the postcode for me?”

I can. Funny how that gets easier the longer I’m not actually based in that postcode.

Bit worrisome too.

I’m moving back to Finchley soon, and fully expect to forget the postcode overnight.

She hands me the ticket. And a postcard advertising a not uninteresting upcoming show. Sharon Eyal. She’s the one I saw at Bold Tendencies. You remember. That ravey dance show in a car park.

I grab one of the familiar looking freesheets from the counter. These brown paper wrappers are all over my work at the moment, covering the freesheets for our own Dance Umbrella shows.

I find a spot in the corridor and have a look at it.

Hocus Pocus.

This show is doing quite the tour. It’s going all over the place. Six London venues. That’s quite a lot. I almost ended up booking to see it three times as it popped up everywhere. But date after date fell away, giving up room on my spreadsheet as other, trickier, venues muscled their way in and claimed those days for their own, until none remained. But here it is again. After the matinee I was originally planning to see this afternoon cancelled. Or rescheduled. To 2020. Which is no use to me at all. So here I am. After yet another spreadsheet re-jig. Just like magic. Abracadabra. Alakazam. Hocus pocus.

I go and have a look at the cafe.

It’s nice.

There’s a table full of colouring-in supplies at the back. And each of the tables has a small stack of building blocks just waiting to be played with.

There are also a strange number of children.

The strangeness being that there are lots of them.

Lots and lots of them.

Have I booked myself into a kids’ show?

I don’t recall this being a kids’ show.

I’ve been specifically not booking kids’ shows after I announced that I would no longer be booking kids’ shows. Because I’m a grown up. A kid-less grown-up. And I think it’s creepy for me to be turning up at these things without a kid in tow. Which I don’t have. I don’t even have access to one. I’m so old even my nephews are practically grown up now. One of them just started uni, which is no help to me at all.

I take a seat and try not to think about all the small people scurrying around.

There’s plenty to look at though.

The walls are covered in dance posters. Mainly Richard Alston ones, which is making me sad. His company is closing soon.

There’s another sign advertising the Free WiFi. But when I try to connect it asks for a password. Perhaps they meant the Premier Inn WiFi being pumped in from next door.

“Hello everyone!” says a woman, stepping out into the centre of the cafe space. “Welcome to The Place.” She starts on the usual spiel about turning off our phones, but just as I start to lose interest, her talk takes an unusual turn. “Make sure that there is no light other than what the artists are giving us in the theatre,” she says. “No phone. No watches.” Or, she says with a sinister low tone, the magic won’t work. “Be with your children and with the show.”

And with that, we are directed to the door on the far side.

I flash my ticket to the ticket checker on the door and she clicks at her clicker before nodding me through. In here is a corridor, painted that now familiar shade of hot pink. Through another door and we are into the auditorium.

I have expected to be stumbling through the darkness, but the house lights are on and ready to receive us.

The stage is floor level. And large, as you would expect for a dance venue. It doesn’t look like we’ll be getting much use out of all that acreage though. The set is nothing more than two twin strip lights, placed parallel, little more than a metre apart.

I glance over at the seats.  A huge bank of them. Purple. And with entirely the wrong numbers for what is on my ticket. Too low.

People squeeze around me in order to traipse up the stairs to their seats, inching their way down the rows and knocking the knees of those who’ve already taken their seats.

“Can I cross over the stage to go to the other side?” I ask the front of houser.

“Sure, sure,” she says, as if the answer was so obvious it did not warrant asking.

So I walk over the stage. A second later, my fellow audience members join me, and I lead them like Moses to the promised land of high seat numbers.

We’re told to sit in our seats, but warned that we may be moved. It’s all about getting those sightlines for the magic to work.

Seats on the aisles are all reserved. Presumble kept off sale as the angle is all wrong for that tiny set with its two parallel strip lights.

I’m as far to the edge as I can go. Surrounded by empty seats on either side.

Good thing. After my coughing fit this morning, I don’t want to be boxed in.

But my island-state is drawing attention. A bloke sitting in the front row turns round and sees me. Then, twisting back into place, he leans over to his companion, whispers something, and then with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, points at me.

He glances back and I look away, not wanting to embarrass him.

Okay, not wanting to embarrass myself. I admit it. I don’t want him knowing that I saw his gesture.

A young woman and her tiny little girl are brought in and sat in the front row. The two men switch seats so that the pointer doesn’t have to sit next to the child. I smirk. The big tough man who likes to point at women sitting all on their lonesome is unable to sit next to a little girl.

“Keep her in her seat,” the front of houser warns the young woman. “Don’t let her run forward into the stage.”

The young woman nods. She’s up to the task.

The lights dim, and then go out.

We are left with only the parallel strip lights.

And the green glow of the fire escapes.

Between the lights, a shape emerges from the darkness. A shifting creature of skin and flesh, spine and sinew. A back. It disappears. Only to be replaced by an arm. Then another. Then another. Then another. They disappear the way of the back, returning in forms and patterns that repeat and retreat.

We’re back to backs. Two of them this time. Bumping into one another like balls on an executive toy.

“Is this the show?” asks a small voice sitting behind me.

“Yes,” comes the grown-up response.

“Yeah, but, is this the whole show?”

The grown-up shush represents a grown-up level of covering up. They don’t know. I don’t know either.

Turns out, this is not the whole show. The backs bend back and soon we have faces. Two of them. Victor and Lucas. Friends in the most back-slappy, mock-wrestling, definitely-want-to-kiss kinda way.

Lost in the darkness, they battle knights, drop into the ocean, and meet giant sea creatures. As one is swallowed up by a giant mouth the tiny girl in the front row crawling into her mum’s lap, while further along, two less-tiny girls lean forward out of their seats to touch the haze currently coiling its way through the auditorium. Eventually, the two men find one another again, just in time to indulge in some totally friendly wrestling.

As “Lucas” and “Victor” (or rather, Ismael Oiartzabal and Michaël Henrotay-Delaunay) disappear the front of houser comes back out.

“The company would like to invite you to step forward, to see if you can work out how it’s done,” she says. “And if you don’t want to find out, which is also legitimate, make your way to the back.”

I totally want to find out.

I make my way onto the stage, standing back a little to let the small people get close to the set.

Oiartzabal and Henrotay-Delauney reappear, and turn on the lights. The ones behind the set. And suddenly, it’s revealed, in all it’s glory. Bars to hang from. Wind machines and fabric for waves. Even the giant mouth of a sea monster.

“What would you like to see?” asks Oiartzabal.

The questions come back fast. How did they float? How did they get eaten? Was that dry ice?

“Noooo. Not dry ice. It’s stage smoke.”

“Haze,” explains our front of houser who probably isn’t a front of houser but I don’t know what to call her at this point. “Dry ice would be dangerous.”

Oiartzabal gets out a small machine. “We use this long cigar,” he says pressing a button. And sure enough, a stream of white smoke spurts out the end.

And then it’s over. It’s time to go.

I skip out, utterly charmed by the whole thing.

“It’s so nice how they showed the children how it’s done,” says someone walking behind me.

Yes, it is nice. And being the overgrown child that I am, I’m glad they let the grown ups in too. I love all that shit.

Like a slow voice on a wave of phase haze

Goodenough College is a weird arse name.

What are parents supposed to do when they're bragging to their friends about the universities their kids have been accepted into? "No, Oxford didn't work out but she got into Goodenough College? No... no. Stop. Not a Goodenough College. Goodenough College. It's a post-graduate accommodation... yeah, I hadn't heard of it either."

Apparently they've got a dance show on this afternoon though. So here I am. Staring doubtfully at the iron gates sealing off a pretty looking courtyard from the nastiness of the world outside. The world outside being Bloomsbury in this case.

A group of young women are making their way down the pavement. I step back to let them past.

"It's probably easy to be a choreographer there," one says while the others nod enthusiastically. "If you just want to test some ideas, and then show it..."

They disappear through the brick arch, towards the iron gates.

Looks like I am in the right place after all.

"It's Sunday!" says a young woman coming the other way. "When you only have class once a week, it's easy to lose track..."

Yeah. Can't relate to that. I may not be able to remember where I was last night, but I damn sure know what day of the week it is. I have spreadsheets to tell me that.

I go through the arch. The gates are locked. But there is a door. And a doorbell.

The young women sitting at the reception desk inside buzzes me in.

"I'm looking for the large common room," I tell her.

The confirmation email hadn't been very forthcoming on the location of this performance. "Large Common Room, London House, Goodenough College." With no directions on how to get there, or where I might find it.

"Though the door behind you," says the receptionist. "Across the courtyard and on the far left. You'll find it," she says, demonstrating a belief in me that I'm not entirely sure is warranted.

I step out the door she indicated, make my way down the long ramp, and out into the courtyard.

It’s nice here. The type of manicured niceness that requires Keep Off The Grass signs and that same sculpture you see in every single courtyard ever. You know the one. With lots of concentric circles making up a sphere. Yeah. That one. The artist responsible must be making a mint off that design.

I pick my way around the edge, careful not to accidentally flop onto the grass.

Across the courtyard, and on the far left, some steps lead up to a covered walkway. And there I find a desk. With someone wearing a big Bloomsbury Festival STAFF badge pinned to her clothes.

That nice young lady at reception was right. I did find it!

There’s a bit of a queue, so I stand around on the steps, waiting my turn and doing my best to keep my skirts clamped down, despite the best efforts of the wind. Eventually, it’s my turn.

“Smiles?” I say. She makes a surprised face and I realise that I I should have probably explained my purpose before dropping in that surname of mine without explanation. Can’t go wandering around telling poor women to smile. That’s highly inappropriate. “I should have already booked?”

Her face clears. She finds my name on the list. “Yes!” she says, her voice laden with relief that I wasn’t one of those people. “Lovely. We’ll give you a shout in a minute to let you in.” She points over to the walkway, where my fellow audience members are standing around, keeping out of the wind, and taking photos of that immaculate courtyard.

The chat is all dance and dance-adjacent, making me think I have found myself in the midst of dance people.

I try to convince myself that I am also a dance person. I work in dance. That makes me one of them.

Somehow I’m not entirely satisfied with this argument.

I don’t even look like these people.

For one, this body was never meant to dance. But also, and perhaps more importantly, I’m missing the key accessory: red Dr Martens.

I really want a pair.

They look so cool.

Not sure they would look quite that cool on my stubby legs. But still. I want a pair.

A ridiculously pretty young woman in an orange dress that also needs to be filed immediately in the I-could-never-pull-that-off-but-I-wouldn’t-mind-giving-it-a-go pile comes out and greets a few people as she walks around.

With a wave of her arms, she motions towards the door.

“Oh, is the house open?” I ask, quelling the desire to comment on her dress in the most effusive tones possible.

“Yeah! The house is open,” she says.

So off I go, skittering towards the now open door, before my gawping at the dress gets too blatant for everyone’s comfort. Including mine.

There’s a woman on the door. “Hi!” I say.

“Hello! Fill up from the front row, and any bags you’ve got, put under your seat,” she says, before letting me through.

Inside the Large Common Room I find… a large common room.

Thick curtains are doing their best to keep out the Sunday afternoon light.

A parquet floor squeaks under foot as I cross the stage area in search of an empty seat.

I decide to plonk myself in the corner, right next to the camera set up. I want to avoid getting myself on film.

Not sure that's quite working though. A photographer is doing the rounds, and is already pointing his camera at the audience.

Freesheets lie waiting on the seats.

Being the professional blogger I am, I hold mine up to take a photo of it.

“I hope you’re switched off,” says an old man to woman he’s with, with only the slightest of side eyes in my direction.

I ignore him, pointedly taking pictures of the room before turning my attention back to the bit of paper we’ve been given.

The music, if I can call it that, perhaps soundscape would be a better term… comes from the NASA recordings of stars. Light waves converted into sound waves. Or something like that. I presume that’s what they mean by ‘sonified’ anyway.

I have to say, I’m not a big fan of sciencey-dance. I’ve seen a lot of it. Too much of it. It’s quite the thing amongst a certain brand of male choreographer. Wayne McGregor. Russell Maliphant. Alex Whitley…

And it's always accompanied by pounding music and brash projections.

It’s not that I don’t like science. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it (I definitely have) but, you know, I have an MSc. Science and me were well into each other before I jumped ship for his sultry cousin, the arts.

I just… I’m not sure science-inspired works do the business for me.

I’m simply not a Joey Tribbiani. When someone mixes together mincemeat and custard in a bowl and calls it trifle, I won’t be the one asking for seconds.

That and I'm not a fan of projection.

I tend to just end up watching them as dance, and trying very hard to forget the dense explanatory articles lurking deep within the programmes. Which is probably not the right way to approach it.

But this piece, Bodies in Space, was created by a woman. And I don’t want to be all sexist, but I am super interested to see if that makes a difference.

Plus: no projections.

It does rather feel like being back in school here though. With that parquet flooring and the clock on the wall and the large photograph of the Queen gazing down on us. I find myself waiting for the headmaster to come in so assembly can start.

Instead, we get the woman in the orange dress.

Turns out she's Helen Cox. The choreographer. She welcomes us all, and gives us the traditional housekeeping pre-show message. Then a reminder: "We're in the round, so please tuck your bags under your chairs. Like in an aircraft!"

I've already tucked my bag and I'm feeling pretty damn smug about that.

And then it's time for the performance.

To sound which claims to be the music of the stars, but reminds me more like a vacuum cleaner in need of a cleaned filter, three dancers slowly twist around one another, their movements perfectly attuned as they poise slim wooden sticks between their fingertips, holding themselves to each other by the most fragile of connections. Sticks drop, clattering to the ground, but with the gentlest twisting, a negotiation is undertaken as the dancers sink down to retrieve it. Fingertips stretch out. The balance is recalibrated. They continue.

Behind them, across the square, the sound designer, Dougie Brown, flows between the sound desk and his laptop, doing whatever it is that sound designers do during live performances, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons.

The soundscape shifts. The sticks are taken away, and we move forward.

There's something special about watching performers this close. Close enough that your own presence distorts to way you view it. Seeing them even in their off-stage moments, as they wait to rejoin the fray. Natasha Arcoleo, Jordan Ajadi, and Andrew Oliver each take up separate corners, leaving us in darkness as the sound swirls around us, combining with their breathing as they prepare to make their returns.

We get to the end and it's time for the questions. Cox and Dougie talk a little about their work, while physics professor Fabio Iocco tackles the science. The audience ask a few questions (what did the sticks mean? And was that bit improvised? Cox answers the first: it means whatever you feel it does. The dancers, from their spot sitting cross-legged on the ground, take the second: yes it was, it's all about responding to each other in the moment), and then it's time to go.

Or at least, it's time for me to go.

As so often happens at these things, most of the audience stick around to chat.

I've got other things to be getting on with. Namely buying an apple pie and eating the entire thing in one sitting while pondering the great questions of the universe.

Hammer Time

"Ten minutes? Okay, we have to go pick up our tickets anyway," I tell the hostess in Honest Burger.

When she offers us the tablet to put a phone number into, Sarah grabs it to do then honours. Probably for the best. I'm not all that good with phone numbers. Or tablets for that matter. There's a reason one of us works in print and the other in digital.

Yup, I've managed to drag another of my poor coworkers with me on a marathon outing. I've begun to suspect that they are all taking it in turns to accompany me. Like some kind of corporate social responsibility activity that everyone needs to take part in.

For me, it's more a matter of helping them understand why I'm such a grumpy arsehole in the office.

We nip across Festival Terrace and slip in through the side door to the Southbank Centre.

It's busy. There's a queue over at the box office.

I keep on walking.

"I think we have to go over to the other building," I say, hoping that we do, actually, have to go over to the other building, and I'm not just leading my poor colleague on a nice tour of the place.

Through the building, out the main doors, and past the fountains, dry now that summer is very much over.

The Purcell Room shares an entrance with the Queen Elizabeth Hall. I know this because on the signs over the door it says “Queen Elizabeth Hall,” and “Purcell Room.” What I'm kinda banking on is that they also share a box office.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say to the box officer. "... for the Purcell Room?"

He pulls the Ss from the fancy wooden ticket box. "Maxine?" he says, reading the ticket sitting right on the top.

"Oo. First in the pile," I coo, as if that makes me special in any way. But you know, with a surname beginning with S, it isn't often that I get to be first. So, I'm taking it.

Sarah laughs. Not sure if it's a laughing-with or laughing-at type of laugh, and I decide it's probably best not to ask.

We leave, making our way back towards the Southbank Centre proper.

"We should find somewhere to sit," I say, looking around. There is very clearly no where to sit in this place.

"Shall we try outside?" suggests Sarah.

So we do.

"What about here?" I say pointing to a red bench.

Sarah looks at it.

The seat is curved like a smile, and is very clearly not designed to be sat on.

"How about over here," she says, walking towards a concrete bench that is actually a bench, and not an art installation.

I follow on meekly behind.

As Sarah checks her phone to see if the Honest lady has messaged us, a line of strange apparitions float past us. Dressed in red. Their arms extended in a gesture of supplication.

"Oh my gawd! It's the Red Brigade!" I say excitedly.

"The who?"

"The Red Brigade," I repeat, as if I'd known about them forever and hadn't just read an article about them yesterday. "They're a performance art group that attach themselves to protests. They're hanging out with Extinction Rebellion at the moment."

"Right... that's cool... Shall we go check on our table? It's been ages."

I get up and skitter after Sarah as she heads back to Honest.

The Honest lady comes over. "I messaged you ages ago!" she says. My heart sinks. I really needed a burger. "Don't worry. I refused to give your table away. This way."

So we order burgers. And chips. And onion rings. Okay, I order onion rings. And... "oh my god, I was going to ask if you wanted a drink-drink. But they have milkshakes!"

So I order a milkshake.

"The burger, would you like that medium?" asks our waiter.

"Well done," I say, hurriedly. "Sorry, I'm not classy."

Across the table, Sarah smirks.

"Yeah, I love food, but I can't pretend to be a foodie. I'm tacky as fuck.”

"I'm learning so much about you tonight, Max."

Yeah, like the fact that flagging buses gives me anxiety and I'm a petty-arse bitch. She's never going to go out with me again.

At least the chips are good. So good that I don't even panic about how little time we have until I look at my phone and see that the show is starting in four minutes.

We've got to go.

It's raining.

Like, properly raining.

Like, tipping it down raining.

No time for an umbrella. We need to run.

"How are you running so fast?" shouts Sarah from behind me as I slide into the side door of the Southbank Centre.

"I have longer legs than you," I shout back. It's my one and only chance for my five foot three arse to say that to anyone, and I’m not about to let that opportunity go to waste.

We run through the foyers, and back out the front door. I reach into my bag and grab my umbrella, holding it out for Sarah.

"You take this, I need to go ahead and get a photo."

"Now? Do it afterwards!" shouts Sarah through the downpour, but I'm already off, crashing across the flooded terrace.

There's so much water on the ground it's slopping in through the doors, and we have to jump over the puddle to get inside.

"My feet are soaked!" says Sarah.

Mine are too. But there's no time to think of that.

I stop in the main foyer and look around. "I have no idea where we go from here," I admit.

"Let's ask," suggests Sarah, going off to talk to one of the welcome deskers.

Turns out the Purcell Room is over on the far side. Right at the back.

"Will it freak you out if I run to the loo?" asks Sarah.

I mean, yes it absolutely will. But I can pretend I won't.

"Give me my ticket, just in case," she says,

"Do you mind if I go in?" I ask as I rip a ticket off the ream.

"No. You have to," she says, making a dash for it.

It's true. I do have to.

The massive doorway to the Purcell Room is marked with a smart sign saying Purcell Room.

A queue snakes its way out into the foyer.

There's a man giving out freesheets.

"Can I get one of those," I ask.

"Are you here for Oona Doherty?" he asks, immediately clocking that I am not there for Oona Doherty.

"No, the Purcell Room?" I say. I have no idea what I'm here to see. Something dancey. I think.

Turns out there's a door to the Queen Elizabeth Hall is round here too, and I'm trying to nab myself the wrong freesheet.

I make my way to the front of the queue.

"First staircase up," says the ticket checker handing me a freesheet. The right one this time.

"Negative Space by Reckless Sleepers," it says.

That answers one question at least.

Inside and up the first staircase.

It's like a mini Queen Elizabeth Hall in here. Same seating. Same walls. Just a whole lot smaller.

The emergency exit over on the other side has extra messaging built in: Not to foyer.

Customised signage. This is a fancy joint alright.

Up on stage, the cast is already in place, leaning against the walls of a boxy white room.

I have a quick look at the freesheet.

The note on the back seems to have been written with the assumption that we're all fans of a work called Schrodinger. Which, considering I've never heard of Schrodinger, it's making it a tough read. Apparently, this piece is the exact opposite. So, presumably, the cat hasn't been poisoned, is out of the box, and is busy scratching the experimenter's eyes out.

I like it already.

Sarah appears.

"It looked way more sold out online," she says, indicating the empty seats on the side.

"I think they kept them offsale," I tell her. "Because of the walls of the set. The ones at the back were only a tenner because they are restricted view. But those ones at the front must be really really restricted."

We both look at the set, with its chunky walls taking up a very narrow area right in the middle of the stage.

"Maxxxxx.... this is why you're the blogger! I would never have thought of that."

Nah. It's just Sarah lives a normal life with normal things to think about. Do you know how hard it was to pin her down to a date to go to the theatre? Stupid hard. There was a waiting list of people queueing up for her attention. I'm not even kidding. Sarah has friends. Imagine what that's like...

"Wait," says Sarah, looking at me properly for the first time. "Are those your glasses?”

Ah. Yes. I may have got my specs out while she was in the loo.

"Yeah... I only wear them for shows."

"Really?"

Yeah. Really. And now that I hear myself say it, it does sound rather weird. I should be wearing them all the time. But like... I'm vain, so...?

The ushers close the doors and slip into the front row. Right on the side. I hope they can see from where they are. It'd be awful spending the whole show staring at a wall.

The audience hushes itself into silence.

We all look at the cast.

The cast looks at us right back.

It's like we're all waiting for someone to make the first move.

It's the cast who break first.

Trapdoors open. Heads pop out.

The auditorium doors creek open and the latecomers are brought in. All sat in the empty seats by the side. The proverbial naughty step for theatre-goers.

Up on stage, a game of wall-touching starts.

Hammers are wielded. And then dropped.

And then the destruction starts.

"Jesus," breathes Sarah as the hammer plunges into the plasterboard wall.

She's not the only one. Shocked murmurs and nervous laughter eeks its way around the auditorium. I jump in my seat more than once.

There's no music. No dialogue. Nothing to hide our giggling shame.

As the walls start imploding, the exclamations grow.

"Oh my gawd!" winces Sarah as someone drops backwards through a wall.

An hour later, it's over.

"I really enjoyed that," I say, still clapping as the cast disappear offstage.

"Me too! It was really good."

A cast member reappears, clasping his hands and waiting for us all to redirect our attention back to the stage. "We're just going to take ten or fifteen minutes to... wind down, and then do a bit of a Q and A," he tells us. "So if you have any questions, we'll be back after we've had ten minutes to... calm down."

"The only question I have is whether I can have a go with the hammer," I say.

It did look very therapeutic. And it's not like they'll be getting much use out of that plasterboard now. It's shot to shit.

I race towards the stage to get a photo of what is left of the set. A line builds up next to me of audience members doing the exact same thing.

"Here's a good angle," I tell Sarah, just knowing she'll want a pic, being the fancy photographer she is.

We both get our photos. Me for the blog. Her for the 'gram.

It's time to leave.

"You know," I muse as we head back out into the foyer. "It made me think that the perfect man is one who gives you a flower, hugs you when things are getting intense, and then lets you push him right through a wall."

"That's so true," sighs Sarah.

And with that in mind, it's time to go, before the whole place gets flooded out.

Paper Free Finchley

I'm in Finchley!

I'm not sure that deserved an exclamation mark.

I can tell by your expression that you don't either.

"Don't you live in Finchley?" I can very almost hear you say. And it's true. I do. "But aren't you staying in Hammersmith at the moment?” Yeah. Yeah, that's also true. "So, doesn't that mean that you trekked all the way across London tonight? I kinda feel that you might have planned this a bit bett-"

Okay, you shut up now. I don't have to listen to that kind of talk. This is my blog, and I won't be insulted by someone who hasn't had to deal with the spreadsheet nightmares that have been my life over the past nine months. So: hush.

I'm in Finchley and I am going to the fucking artsdepot. Again. Because they have two theatres and that's just fucking great.

I may be a little overtired. And damp.

After dropping some stuff off at home, I hurry through the rain, down Ballards Lane and up to Tally Hoe, pass the Lidl, turn onto Nether Street and speed through the automatic glass doors.

The box office is just inside and I wait until someone is free, tucking my soaked umbrella under my arm.

"Hi," I say, as chirpily as I can. This is my local theatre after all. I don't want to get a reputation. "The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer looks at me blankly.

"For Still I Rise?" I try. Just in case there's more than one show going on tonight.

"Did you get the text message?" he asks.

"Umm..."

I vaguely remember seeing something pop up on my phone from artsdepot, but I figured it was a reminder or something like that.

Oh gawd. Is this another Harrow Arts Centre situation? Have I just had another show cancel on me? In the same damn week? I'm really not sure I can take it.

I get out my phone and look for it.

"Sorry, I never check these things," I tell him.

"Don't worry," he says, sounding pretty chill for a man who is right now ruining my entire marathon. "It should have a link in it."

"Umm..."

"It would have been about four o'clock," he says.

I find it. "Got it," I say, scrolling down and yes, there is a link. I click it. A QR code fills my screen. An e-ticket. Ew.

I turn my screen around to show him.

"There you go! We're trialling something new. Just use that."

Ergh. I thought I was safe. I was only here a few months ago, and we were still well into paper ticket territory. And now this.

It's happening more and more. I visit once and everything is fine. I go to a box office and they give me a real ticket. Happiness reigns. And then when I return, it's all this digital shit.

2019 is turning into the year of the e-ticket.

It's completely disgusting and I don't approve.

And even worse: text messages.

With links.

I didn't sign up for this.

In fact, I did the opposite of signing up for this.

When booking this ticket I specifically selected the "Leave my tickets at the box office (no charge)" option. Because, just in case I wasn't clear on the matter, I like paper tickets. Scrap that: I love paper tickets. Almost as much as I hate e-tickets. If I wanted an e-ticket, I would have chosen the print at home option. But I don't. So I didn't.

So really, what the artsdepot is doing here, is not only ignoring my wishes, but also misselling. They tell me I can pick up from box office, and then, instead, give me this inferior product and smile while doing it.

I'm raging.

I should complain. I should go full-fucking-Karen and demand to speak to a manager. I should...

"Thanks," I say, heading off towards the escalator.

This is my local theatre after all. I might bump into these people in the big Tescos.

And I do like the escalator.

I step on and let its gentle movement soothe me as I sail up to the next floor.

The cafe is up here, with all its multi-coloured chairs and big friendly signage.

I'd kinda had it in mind that I wanted to see what happened in the gallery, but it's still closed, so I find a seat and try to dry off.

The tables fill up around me as people clutch onto cups full of hot drinks.

A few minutes later, there's an announcement over the tannoy. "Could all ticket holders for this evening's performance of Still I Rise head to the Pentland Theatre on level three. The performance will begin in three minutes."

I check the time.

It's 7.25pm.

I see you Tannoy Lady, rushing us for no reason.

Three minutes, my arse.

But, I go all the same. Following that big friendly signage up a flight of stairs to level three.

There's a great big landing up here, with more seating.

I look at my e-ticket. It says I need the Right Door, which is the one closest to the stairs.

There's two ticket checkers standing there, and one of them beeps me in.

"A1?" I ask the usher inside.

She directs me towards the end of the front row. Which, I mean, I figured. But I thought it polite to ask all the same.

I take a few steps in that directon, and then stop.

I've noticed something.

The theatre isn't full, but every single person in here is clutching a sheet of paper.

Freesheets. They've got freesheets. I want a freesheet.

I'll be damned if I'm not walking out of here with at least one bit of paper.

I double back. "Is there a cast sheet?" I ask the usher.

"Programme?" she asks.

"Yeah?" I mean, I guess.

She goes off to check, returning a half-minute later with one of the ticket checkers from the door. She shakes her head. "No programme."

Oh. Okay.

I'm tired and wet and can't be bothered to press it.

I go off to my seat.

Front row. Right at the end.

And there's someone sitting in it.

"Are you A1?" I ask the young girl sitting in A1, knowing full well that she is not A1, because I am A1, and there can't be two of us.

She looks at me, her eyes full of innocence and embarrasment.

"No," she admits. "I'm in A5. But I can move...? Or you can have A5…?"

I look down the row. A2 and 3 are also occupied by young girls. A4 is an older lady. I see how it is. She wants to sit with her friends. Well, I can't say I've never done that before.

"I'm very happy to sit in A5," I tell her, starting to make my way down the row.

"It's a better seat anyway!" calls her friend after me.

She's not wrong. It's almost in the middle of the row.

Front row centre. It doesn't get much better than that.

I dump my back and try to flip down my new seat, but it catches on something.

"Sorry, I'm spreading out," says the lady in A4, pulling her coat free, putting her bag on her lap and... tucking away her freesheet.

"Sorry," I say quickly before she has the chance to put it away. "Can I be very rude and take a picture of your cast sheet? They've run out..."

"Oh! Oh no. What a shame," she says. And she holds it out for me to take my photo.

That done, I look around.

It's a nice space in here. A very large stage. Surprisingly large.

It's my first time in this space and I'd always wondered why they did so much dance here. Now I know. It's this big-arse stage.

A woman slips into the row behind me, slightly out of breath.

"Sorry," she says to her friend as she plonks herself down. "I did that classic dance thing, that industry thing, of not looking up what we're seeing."

Me too, love. Me too.

I think I probably read the copy at one point, but honestly, I can't remember a thing.

I consider looking up my photo of the freesheet, but I can hear something moving beside the stage and I think we're about to begin.

Sure enough, the lights are dimming.

Five dancers. All women.

Crinolined costumes give way to softer fair.

It's strong and vulnerable and aggressive and tender.

They lift each other up, both literally and metaphorically. One holds another, cradling her head, stopping her from sinking to the ground. They won't let each other fail.

One dancer appears silhouetted against a light, wearing only shorts and a cropped top. She moves like a bodybuilder. Like a fighter. Unafraid to show off her strength. Her muscles.

She reminds me of Arya. From Game of Thrones. A water dancer no longer in need of a sword.

"Wow, that was something," says my neighbour as our applause chases the dancers off stage.

"They were warriors!" I say.

"Yes!"

"Amazing to see a company of female dancers be so strong," I add.

"Yes," she agrees. "Very powerful. I'm glad I came."

"Me too. I'm ready to take on the world now."

I grab my bag and make for the exit.

"Is that it?" someone asks, sounding unsure.

"I think so. It was an hour," comes the equally unsure reply.

Not many people are leaving.

Most are still in their seats.

I hesitate. Maybe there really is more.

But the ushers on the door are handing out flyers. That's a send-off, not an interval activity.

I grab one, thinking this is the only bit of paper I'm going to get my hands on this evening.

Back down the stairs, through the cafe and towards the escalator which has now reversed its direction to take us downstairs.

Outside, a small group have gathered to have a smoke.

"Is it half time?" one asks.

"No, it's actually finished," says another. "I heard the ushers..."

I pull my jacket close around me and make a rush towards the tube station, dropping the flyer in the first recycling bin I see.

On Sundays Peckham wears Pink

I know I diss Peckham a lot in this blog. But that's only because it's so damn hard to get too, and yet still apparently contains half the theatres in London. I've been to Peckham more in the past eight months than I have in my entire life. I mean, seriously. What's up, Peckham? Why so greedy on the theatres? Some of us have to go through life living with only one theatre within walking distance, and you have them everywhere. In drama schools. And old munitions factories. And now, apparently, car parks.

Yup, I'm off to a car park. To watch some contemporary dance.

Because: Peckham.

Anyway, this place, Bold Tendencies, is apparently not just a car park. Or it's not a car park anymore. It's like, a bona fide venue. Or possibly an art gallery. I hadn't heard of it before. But I suspect that's just because I ain't cool enough to be hanging around in car park in Peckham on the reg.

They did send a super intense pre-show email, though.

E-tickets need to be scanned on the rooftop. But the performance is not happening on the rooftop. You need to get a wristband, and then that will allow you down onto Floor 8. But wait, when getting your ticket scanned, make sure the barcode is expanded to fill the entire width of the screen and the brightness is turned way up high. And when you have your wristband, make sure that it's visible to security.

I ignore everything else. Door times. And bar locations. And the artworks on display. I've hit information overload.

But it's fine. I can do this. Download ticket. Fill screen. Get scanned. Wristband on. Down to Floor 8. Flash wristband. Into venue.

Easy.

I'll figure the rest out when I get there.

If I ever do.

Now, I don't want to turn this whole thing into a rant about trains. But seriously, Peckham needs to get itself a tube station. I can't deal with this.

And like, I arrive in Peckham. And I didn't die. So whatever. Here I go.

Although, I've not sure where exactly.

The little circle in Google Maps that is supposed to be me is greyed out and ineffectual, and while that is an accurate reflection of my current state, is not exactly helpful.

I have no idea where I'm going.

I open the pre-show email again, do a bit of scrolling, and yup. There are instructions on how to find this place. So, thank you Bold Tendencies. I needed you, and you were right there. Down Rye Lane, over the pedestrian crossing, towards the Multiplex and up the staircase on my left. Exactly as promised.

I trudge my way up the stairs. Spiralling round and round and getting a good glimpse of the type of rubbish businesses leave on their rooftops.

And then I stop. Because this endless round of spiralling bleakness has stopped. And there's a doorway. And light is streaming out. And suddenly, everything is pink!

The man on the door grins and steps aside to let me through into a pink hallway.

The pinkest hallway I've ever been in.

The pinkest anything I've ever been in.

Well, at least, the pinkest anything I've been in since my best friend's fifth birthday party.

The walls are pink. The floor is pink. The ceiling is pink. The lifts have been painted pink. As have the doors. And the steps.

And not mauve or salmon or coral.

But pink pink.

Proper pink.

Flamingo pink. Or possibly bubblegum.

Oh my god. I just realised. This is it. This is the famous millennial pink. I found it. In Peckham.

And it's everywhere.

I keep on climbing, and turning, and climbing. And it's pink. All pink.

Do I like it? I don't know. My little goth heart is screaming in agony, but that former five-year-old at her best friend's party is squeeing in delight. And just before the two sides get into a fight, it stops. I'm outside. On a rooftop. And all of London is spread out before me, twinkling in the darkness.

There's a large hut over to my right which I'm fairly confident is the place I'm supposed to get beeped in, but it's no good. I have to check out that view first. I can see everything from up here. There's the London Eye. And the Shard. And the... Walkie Talkie? Is that what it's called? I can't remember. Whatever, it's very impressive.

I take a few photos and then just stand there, breathing in the night air down to the bottom of my lungs. But it's no good. It's been raining all afternoon, and the puddles are beginning to leak into my shoes.

I'm going to go and get beeped.

I go over to the information shed, but there's a slight problem. The reception up here is crap.

Or rather, the reception in Peckham is crap.

I walk around in circles as the ticket downloads, trying not to look like I've having an anxiety attack on a rooftop, but being very aware that I'm doing a bad job of it.

Finally, it downloads. I have my ticket.

Screen brightness up. Screen zoomed in so that the barcode takes up the full width. I join the queue.

One of the box officers catches my eye. "Are you with them?" she asks, indicating a group waiting at the counter.

I tell her I'm not. I don't have friends willing to come see a show in a Peckham car park at 9pm on a Sunday night. But I'm flattered that she thinks that I do.

"I can scan you," she says.

I hold out my phone and she beeps it.

"So," she says. "That's one standing."

She rummages around in a box of wristbands. "I don't seem to have any..."

"Oh no..." I say.

And then it happens.

I don't know why. Something came over me. I couldn't stop myself. I made the joke. You know the one. The joke that anyone who has ever done even a day's worth of customer service has heard a thousand times. "You can upgrade me if you like. I don't mind." I cringe as the words come out of my mouth, but it's too late now. I've said it.

She smiles politely and refrains for leaning over the counter to batter me over the head with her scanner. For which I can only silently thank her and offer her my eternal respect.

"I have some," says her fellow box officer, bringing over another tub and rescuing the both of us.

A red wristband is duly fished out and my very sweet box office gets it ready.

I offer up my wrist and as she sticks it in place, she gives me the rundown of the event.

"The show starts at nine. The doors will be opening soon, and it's one hour. It's in two parts. There will be a short break in the middle, about four minutes. Do you know where you're going?"

"Down one level?" I say, feeling proud and a little bit smug that I remembered that detail from the pre-show email.

"Have you been here before?"

I admit that I haven't, but again, I'm secretly rather pleased that she thinks that I hang out in car parks in Peckham.

"It's down the ramp," she says, pointing behind me to the other side of the roof. "You're standing so there will be someone down there who will show you where to go."

She hands me a freesheet, and with that, I'm released.

The doors aren't open yet. But that doesn't matter. I wanted to be here early. Because this place isn't just a car park. Oh no. It's not even a car park with a theatre. It's a car park with a frickin' outdoor gallery.

The rooftop is covered with all sorts of interesting things. And I am off to explore them.

First, there's a twisting set of tunnels. I stomp my way through them, boggling at the sight of leather jackets hung on the wall and dining tables stuck to the ceiling.

Fellow tunnels gasp and jump when they bump into me. One man even claims I almost gave him a hard attack.

It's all very pleasing.

Next up I go over to a huge painting of a mouth that looks like it was lifted staight off the truck of a travelling circus.

But as I walk over to it I stop.

There's a car up here. An actual car. I stare at it, wondering if this place still has a dayjob as an actual car park, but then a low thrumming, somewhere between a car revving and a swarm of bees, emerges from the vehicle, and I realise that it's another piece of art. I find the panel and read. Something to do with the Polish mob. Very disconcerting.

I walk around a bit more, looking at all the installations. But then I spot people beginning to make their way down the ramp, so I figure it's time to go in.

At the bottom of the ramp, a man with a suit and dark glasses nods as I approach. At first I wonder if he's anything to do with the mob-mobiles, but he smiles and the effect is gone.

"Am I going in the right direction?" I ask, suddenly doubtful. Behind him there's a huge pillar of TV scenes, and I think I might have stumbled upon another piece of art.

"You are in the right place," he says, kidly. "Just speak to my colleague over there and she'll show you to your seat..." He spots my red wristband. "Or standing or whatever."

I head in the direction he indicates, and show my wristband to the woman standing there. "Standing? Yup, if you just go to the back."

I seem to be walking behind the stage. There's loads of speakers and a tech desk here. And then in front of them, a dance floor, surrounded by little lights, and seating on three sides.

At the other end, there's a woman wearing a pink hoody. "Standing?" she asks, clocking the wristband. "Yup, you're just around here at the back," she says, pointing to a raised platform behind the seats.

There aren't many people here yet. So I pick a space near the middle. There's a railing to lean against, and the platform means I should be able to see over the heads of the people sitting in front. These spots were sold for as restricted view, but I think even my short-arse is going to be fine. Pretty darn good for a fiver, I must say.

There's someone on stage, having a photoshoot. At first I think she's a model, because she's giving serious pose. And then I figure she's one of the dancers. But when I put my glasses on, I realise I know who that is. I recognise her. It's Sharon Eyal. The choreographer.

When they're done taking pictures, Eyal slips on those huge bulky trainers. You know the ones. They're all over Instagram. I want to say they're called Buffalos, but I might be making that up. Either way, she's rocking it and I'm super jealous, because I want some. But I know I would look ridiculous in them. And not the good kind of ridiculous. The kind with geometric hair paired with architectural glasses. Just the what-the-fuck-is-she-doing kind. Which is not a look I fancy rockin' at my age.

But somehow, I don't mind being less cool than Sharon Eyal.

That was never I battle I was going to win.

As for the rest of the audience, I'm not so sure. There's a lot of oversized shirts going on. And baggy trousers. And massive jackets. In fact, everything they're wearing is huge. Like I've stumbled into the student halls on the last day of term, and there are just piles of laundry everywhere.

Even the woman in the pink hoodie looks cool. Now I see her from the back I can see that it says "Ask me about the art," in block capitals, which is a phrase I'm spotted elsewhere around here so it must be a Bold Tendencies thing, but I don't care, because I really, really, want one now. Even in fucking pink. I don't care. Ask me about the art, dammit.

As more people arrive, the standers all shuffle around to make room for them. But after a while, no amount of shuffling will fit everyone in, and a second row starts to form.

A small group gather behind me. They manage to push the girl in next to me, but the blokes are left behind.

"I want to sit on the floor," one of them announces,

"There's loads of space!"

But they decide to stay put.

The lights dim. People start to come out from a door behind us.

There's Sharon Eyal again, with a cute little boy next to her. They go and take up position in the middle of the central block of seating, standing close to each other.

The music bangs out loud, and the dancers appear, dressed in skin-tight black bodysuits.

It's a strange set up this. Not the stage or seating or anything. That's pretty standard for a pop up. I mean the car parkiness of it all. I'd never really noticed just how low the ceilings in car parks are before. It's not the most logical location for a dance performance. Jumping is out, for sure. They’d hit their head mid jete.

Good thing Eyal isn't really into the jumpy thing. More shuffling steps and twisting trance-like limbs.

People start getting their phones out, taking pictures. That's a thing I've noticed about these unusal spaces. Whatever barriers are broken to get performance of theatres seems to have smashed the normal conventions of watching it.

A bloke sitting in front of me films a short clip, starts editing it on his phone, then posts it to Instagram.

As soon as it's uploaded, he does it again.

Then he navigates to his profile to make sure it's gone up.

It has. So now his 18 followers can enjoy a ten-second amateur film, taken above the heads of the people sitting in front, of a group of dancers dressed in black, performing in low lighting. I'm sure they'll really enjoy it.

He shows it to the woman he's with.

She's impressed at least. She impressed that she takes her own film. Which she then sends in a Whatsapp message. "Lev dance company [heart emoji]" she types.

I can't help but think the heart emoji is a touch insincere, considering she's been playing on her phone for the entire performance.

As the bloke lifts his phone up right in front of me, yet again, to take some more footage, I let me eyes wander over to Eyal and the boy.

They are having great fun. He's drumming along to the music with his arms, she's got her own groove down.

He tugs at her sleeve, and she leans down so that he can whisper something in her ear.

It's super cute.

As the piece finishes, the lights go down and the audience roars their appreciation, masking the music that is still playing.

"What's happening?" asks the bloke standing behind me.

"It's the interval," his friend says. "Shall we go to the bar?"

"Can we?"

"Yeah. We've got like, twenty minutes. It's still open. We should get a drink, otherwise we'll just be standing here for twenty minutes."

I want to tell them it's four minutes, not twenty, but it's too late. They're already off, circling around the stage towards the bar.

Four minutes later, they haven't returned. I hope it's because they just have found some empty seats to sneak into.

I use the time to look at the freesheet. Turns out the tower of screens are actually videos taken in the rehearsal room. So, you know, that's cool.

The lights go down, and the car park is filled with an inky blackness, made all the ribbon of London lights around us.

Trains rumble past, competing with the loud, ravey music, and I can't help but think about what the neighbours must feel about all this. Loud music pounding out at 10 o'clock on a school night, without even the benefit of walls to keep it contained.

At the end, the audience jumps to their feet - including the pair who spent the entire performance working on their social media. Through the forest of bodies, I can just about make out Eyal and the boy joining to dancers for the bows. The boy demonstrates his flossing technique and a dancer joins in, making us all laugh.

The dancers are handed huge pink blooms, which they immediately run out to the audience with, handing them over to people in the front row.

As soon as the house lights are back on, I'm off, leaping down from the platform and racing through the press of people unsure if they need to get in one more drink before they go home. There's a train back to Victoria in, gawd, six minutes, and I am going to make it, dammit.

Down the pink stairs.

Counted out by security on a little clicker.

Back outside and onto the spiral staircase, weaving through the slow-moving crowds.

I pelt it past the Multiplex, past the back, over the crossing, round the corner, into the station, tap in, up one flight of stairs, then another. I can hear the train pulling in. Oh gawd. But it's okay, I'm here, I'm here. A few more steps. I fling myself through the open doors and collapse into an empty seat just as my lungs are about to explode.

Made it.

But damn, I swear Peckham is trying to kill me.

Music to dance to

I'm not sure whether I should be grateful to the Camden Fringe for getting me into all these tricksy venues that don't really do the whole theatre thing, or whether I should be blaming them for getting me into all these tricksy venues that don't really do the whole theatre thing.

I'm at Cecil Sharp House tonight. The folk music slash dance... place. I'm not really sure what they do. They have quite a busy programming calendar, but it's music for the most part. Or workshops. Events that would not qualify it for the marathon. Except now it has two shows there as part of Camden Fringe, one dance, one theatre, so here I am, with another theatre to get checked off.

It's not what I expected. I've been saying that a lot on this marathon. I'm sorry. But it really isn't. It never is.

It's a red brick building. A large red brick building. With lots of steps leading up to the main door. Enough steps that you could make a fair job of recreating that iconic bit from Rocky on them if you had a mind to.

My knee is still clunky from yesterday, so I decide to forgo the training-montage scene.

I think I might be the only one though.

There's a lot of young people coming in the other direction, trotting down the steps in that way that only the truly young and properly fit ever do. Is this the type of person folk dancing attracts? Again, I'm left surprised. I thought it would be all old blokes with big beards and a standing appointment with their wife's nose clippers.

Inside, it's all very National Trust-property-in-waiting. There's a checkboard floor, and stone panels with a motif of jesters, complete with belled hats and star-pointed collars.

What I can only presume are lyrics have been written across the glass doors in frosted script: I sowed the seeds of love And I sowed them in the Spring.

Inside there's a great big reception desk.

Two people are waiting, looking over the leaflets on display.

"Do you want to try Morris dancing?" one asks the other with a giggle.

I don't hear her reply.

The receptionist arrives and as the leaflet-readers are still engrossed in their leaflet, she turns to me.

"Box office?" I try.

"Cash?"

I stare at her. "...no."

"Oh," she says, looking worried.

"Um. I've already booked actually. I just don't know where I'm going."

Her face clears. We're on surer ground now. "What's the name?”

"Smiles."

She looks down a handwritten list. "Maxine?"

"Yes." That's me.

She places a pencil-tick next to my name. "Okay," she says, looking up. "First floor and to the end of the corridor."

"First floor. End of corridor," I repeat and she nods. I've got it.

The stairs are lined with wrought iron railings, from which hangs a red sign warning us not to climb them. Pity. With all those circles and neat scrolls, you could get a really good foot-hold in there.

I obey the sign though, and start climbing in the more conventional fashion - using the stone steps - pausing along the way to look at the black and white photographs that run of the walls, and the massive quilt that meets me on the landing.

Okay. Left or right.

I go right. No corridor worth speaking of that way. It must be left then.

Down to the end and I find a bright, but small, room.

There are chairs set up in rows, facing a piano and it’s pianist. And there's someone on the floor. Warming up.

The pianist looks up as I go in.

There's only one other audience member. Sitting on the chairs.

Although, perhaps he isn't an audience member. It's so hard to tell at these things. He could be a techie. Or a piano tuner. Or a cameraman. Or an intern. Or a butterfly collector. It's impossible to say.

"Is it okay to come in?" I ask, worried that I might have just walked into their rehearsal or something.

"Yes, of course," says the pianist.

So I do, taking a seat in the second row.

It's a nice room in here, but it's very much a room. There's no lighting rigs or tech desks or anything like that. We're lit entirely from the sunlight flooding through the two large windows.

The walls are cream, and undecorated save for four creatures hung up in a row. Something between a hobby-horse and a pop-up tent.

There's the piano, of course, parts of which are now sitting on the floor behind it, revealing all the inner workings within.

You already know that I have less than no musical talent. No rhythm. It's a problem. My lack of an inner metronome means I can't even clap out the simplest of beats. But that didn't stop me from undergoing years of painful piano lessons as a child. I hated every single second of it. Along with the enforced practise at home. Everyone always tried to convince me that if I just sat and did the work, every day, I would get better. But I knew better. Instead of banging out my scales, I would lift the lid to my piano, reach inside, and place my palm behind the hammers, pressing the keys so that the velvet drumsticks would hit my hand. I was always far more interested in how pianos works than how to play one. So I appreciate this glimpse into the instrument's innards.

More people turn up. They all know each other. And the cast. Which is something I'm really going to have to get used to with all these fringe things I'm going to.

"We're trying to leave this space free for the filming," says the dancer, clearing a path through the chairs.

"Mind the gap please," says the pianist in the same cadence as the Tube-voice.

But I'm not paying attention to what they're saying, because I'm listening to their voices. They both have an accent. A very familiar sounding accent. So familiar, I instantly reminded that I need to call my mum.

Shit.

We've been playing phone-tag for days, and now she's sent the Israelis to remind me that I still need to speak to her.

More people.

Strangers this time.

They come sit in front of me, in what I'm now thinking of as the strangers' corner.

Oh, wait. Maybe I'm wrong.

The pianist comes over to them. "If you want to open the window..." she says. "They move all the time and I didn't want to bang anyone on the head."

One of the newcomers says it's okay. She has a fan, and besides, she probably didn't fancy getting hit over the head anyway.

The pianist and the dancer look at each other. It's a very significant look.

"Shall we wait to see if anyone else comes up? We could start, and if anyone arrives they can just join us."

As one, we all glance down the corridor. It's empty.

Time to start.

The pianist introduces the act. They're D&DF&P. She's Danielle Friedman. He's Doron Perk. Together they create improvised pieces. Her on the piano. Him dancing. Fresh and new, every time.

She spins round on her stool... and begins to play.

At first he doesn't move. He stands there, close by, watching her.

And then his shoulder drops, his head tilting with it, his arm extending down, and he begins to dance.

Their eyes remain fixed on each other, as they follow and lead and follow again.

The movement style is contemporary for sure. I want to say it's a little bit Hofesh Shechter, but I think it's just those accents confusing me. It's definitely not Sharon Eyal. Although there might be a little Jasmin Vardimon. A dash of Itzik Galili. Maybe even some Emanuel Gat in there. Or none of those things. Perhaps I'm just listing a load of Israeli choreographers because I like showing off.

As for the music, I have no references for you. I told you about the lack of musical skill, right? It's pretty though, and I'm enjoying it.

With another significant look between them, they stop. The end of the piece. Perk takes off his glasses and puts them to one side. That's a shame. You never really see dancers wearing glasses during a performance. Unless they wearing them for comedy value. I mean... there's probably a reason for that. Glasses are a right old pain. But still. More glasses on dancers please!

They're ready to start again.

Friedman begins to play, Perk watches and listens until the music takes hold and he dances once more.

Each piece is short. Ten minutes or so. Themes are built up and dismissed. Movements merge and develop.

Perk changes his look for each one. Glasses off. Hair down. Trousers rolled up, then smoothed back down. Ponytail. Man-bun.

The eye-contact between them loosens, the gaps between the glances lengthening before Perk starts turning his back on Friedman, so into the direction of the music that he no longer needs to keep his eyes on her.

After a few pieces, Perk sits on the floor as Friedman plays, allowing him to catch his breath.

I lean back in my chair, lazily letting my gaze drift from those velvet hammers up to the open window where the view is almost entirely taken up by a large tree, the leaves being gently rustled by the breeze.

"It's very hot in here," he says.

"Hotter for you," rejoins a man sitting in the front row.

That certainly looks true. Perk is soaked. He's really working hard up there, and there isn't much of that breeze coming through the window.

Perk checks the time.

"It's three minutes to six, so one short one I think?" he says in answer to another significant look from Friedman. "Then drinks."

So, we have one more short one. And at the end, Friedman and Perk grin at each other. Job well done.

"Stay for drinks, stay for talk," they encourage us. "Or don't."

I'm going to go with the 'don't' option. Nothing against this pair. They are young and talented and adorable. But I think that pile of Budweiser on the table at the back should be for them to enjoy with their friends. Not randoms who turn up just to get a theatre checked off their challenge.

As I traipse my way back down the stairs, my fellow inmates from stangers' corner are a few steps behind.

"I mean, the music was good," says one. "But the other element was dance, and how do you talk about that?"

Oh man. You said it. As someone who has to deal in the business of dance-words to pay the bills... I have never felt so seen. It's hard.

As Perk said himself during the performance - music and language are their own languages. And they don't always translate. The whole point of dance, to me at least, is saying what words cannot. So not being able to find them... shouldn't be considered a failure. And if you could tell my boss that the next time I have to explain why our season brochure hasn't gone to print yet, that would be super.

But even without the words, he seems content enough. "It's an experience, which is why I went for it."

Yeah. That's the philosophy behind the marathon. The experiences that theatres give us.

I'm about to turn around and make a new friend with this guy, but I've just taken my phone off airplane mode and a whatsapp message pops up. It's from my sister-in-law. "Could you please call your mum?"

Yeah, yeah. As if I needed another reminder.

A bottle full of glitter

Back before I started this marathon, I really liked the Soho Theatre. Well, I had positive feelings towards it anyway. What with its neon lights in the bar, and the bright pink logo. It’s cool. It made me feel cool just being there. Not that I went all that often. But every now and then there’d be a show, say… a new Philip Ridley, or a Jack Thorne, that would draw me in. The tickets are cheap, so there was nothing to stop me going. So i’d buy one, trot off to Dean Street, watch the show, enjoy it, and then leave happy enough. And I’d soon return to my default state of never really thinking about the Soho except when they have an interesting show on.

But this marathon has changed the way I look at things. With my focus now away from the work, I see theatres differently. And I have to be honest, I don’t think I actually like the Soho all that much anymore.

I’d go so far as to say I actively dislike the Soho.

Enough that I don’t really want to go in.

Here I am, standing on the pavement of Dean Street, watching a film crew chivvy people off of the road and away from thick ropes of electrical cables, and I really don’t want to go in.

I message Helen. “I’m here but gonna go for a little walk,” I say, turning around and slipping into a side street.

A few minutes later, a message pops up on my phone. “Ok. Do you want a bubble tea?”

Well, obviously I do.

I lean against a lamppost to message her back in the affirmative. And then wait. Two minutes. Three minutes. How long does it take to order a bubble tea?

After five minutes I figure it’s time to head back.

The film crew are still standing in the middle of the road with their broad shoulders and hi-vis jackets, eyeing up anyone who dares step over their cables.

I hop over them, and make my way into the entrance.

I can barely get through the door. The queue at the box office is so long its mingling with the mass of people trying to press themselves into the bar. I hang back, waiting for it to clear.

“Next?” calls one of the ladies behind the box office.

I look to someone standing nearby. I make a “are you waiting?” style gesture to her. She doesn’t look up.

“Yes? Next!” shouts the box officer, sounding more than a little pissed off.

And so it begins.

“The surname’s Smiles,” I say, going up to the counter.

“Show?” she snaps.

“Cocoon,” I say, reflecting her rapped-out style. The show is called Cocoon Central Dance Team: The Garden Party, but there’s no time for multi-syllable phrases at the Soho.

She pulls a ream of tickets free from the Cocoon box.

“And the postcode?”

I give it, and she rips away the receipt and all the additional ticket elements the printers churn out, before handing me the twin pink slips.

I turn around and almost walk into someone.

It’s Helen.

“Do you like watermelon,” she says, holding out a pink cup so bright it’s almost Soho Theatre branded.

I cringe. “I hate watermelon,” I admit.

With a nod, she swaps the cup on offer. This one is brown.

I fumble around with my phone and tickets.

Helen watches me for a second. “Hang on,” she says. “Let me put the straw in for you.”

Bless Helen. She knows I can’t handle things as complicated as sticking a straw through a foil top.

“Shall we go outside?” I ask, with my newly-strawed cup in hand. “Oh my god, this is really good.”

It is really good. The boba are super chewy and the brown liquid smooth and sweet. Just want I needed after a hard day working down the print-mines.

“It’s black sugar,” explains Helen as we step onto the pavement.

“Like burnt sugar?”

Helen gives me a look. It’s a very serious look. “No,” she says. “Black sugar is all the rage in Asia. Everything is black sugar flavour. It’s not burnt sugar. It’s black sugar…. White people are so ignorant.”

I mean, I can’t fault her there.

Black or burnt, I suck it down greedily. It really is good.

I leave it to the last possible moment, but at 7.27pm I have to admit it’s time to go back inside.

We’re in the Downstairs theatre tonight. The Soho Theatre’s cabaret space. I even booked us spots at one of the cabaret table, which are a whole two pounds more expensive than the seats at the back.

“Can you finish your drinks please?” says the front of houser guarding the stairs down to the basement.

“Is there a bin anywhere?” asks Helen.

“Round the corner,” says the front of houser pointing back towards the box office.

Helen goes round the corner, finding the bin tucked up under the counter. I follow behind, getting a mouthful of boba in my efforts to finish my drink before chucking it. I bend down and push the cup into the very inconveniently located bin. It’s already full to the brim. I don’t envy the person who has to empty that.

Back to the stairwell, and I show the front of houser our tickets. She waves us downstairs.

A neon sign greets us: Soho Theatre Downstairs it screams in blazing blue, stark against the dark walls.

No white paint and pink accents down here. It all red and black and slightly seedy. Photos of past performers on stage line the way down. I spot Tim Minchin amongst the faces as we race downstairs.

There’s another ticket checker down here.

“Fourth row back, two tables in,” she says, glancing at the tickets.

I look at the space.

Fourth row back, two tables in.

All I see is a clutter of tables and chairs.

I try and count them.

One. Two Three. Four.

And second table in.

There are two seats free here. This must be it.

I squeeze through, dumping my bag on the chair and wriggling myself between the tiny gap beside our table.

It’s very cramped in here. The back of my chair is knocking against the back of a chair belonging to the table next to me.

The row is indicated via a small sign propped up on the table top. The seat numbers scrawled onto the table’s surface. “5, 6, 7, 8,” out table calls out, clearly getting ready to audition for the next A Chorus Line revival.

I look around. I’ve lost Helen. She’s disappeared.

Oh well. I’m sure she’ll be fine. She knows how to stick a straw into bubble tea. That’s the mark of a grown up if ever there was one.

“I couldn’t find you!” says Helen, plonking herself down in the seat next to me. She gets out her fan and flicks it open. If you’ve ever wondered where I learnt my fan-flicking skills, the answer is that it’s from Helen. She’s not just a master straw-pusher, you know.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks.

I want to tell her not to be silly, that she just bought me boba tea, but I don’t think I’m ever getting out of this seat, and, well… I kinda want a G&T.

“It’s up to you,” she says. “I’m not fussed either way.”

Well, in that case… “I wouldn’t say no to a gin and tonic,” I tell her.

With a snap of her fan, she gets up and goes to the bar.

I look around.

Ahead of us is the stage. Raised.

Behind are the cheap seats. Although they look quite nice. Velvet benches. With slim tables fixed in front of them. They look a good deal more comfortable than the cabaret set-up out front.

A second later, Helen’s back.

“That was weird,” she says, sitting back down. “When I went up, the woman there,” she says, inclining her head in the direction of the bar, “she kind of blocked my way. I when I asked if I could get a drink, she said the bar is closing…”

“Closing?” I say, picking up on the word. “So… not closed?”

“Well exactly!” says Helen. “That’s what I said. ‘Closing, or closed?’ And then she says ‘closed’ and then turns her back on me.”

“Fucking rude.”

“It was quite.”

“But also like… notice how the show still hasn’t started yet,” I say, with a wave of my hand to indicate the absence of anyone on stage. “They could have totally made you a drink by now.”

“Exactly!”

“And like… these are cabaret tables…. So, like… shouldn’t there be table service?”

“Yes!”

“Otherwise, what the hell is the point?” I say, getting rather worked up now. “They might as well just have normal seating down here.”

Helen laughs. “You sound like such a little reviewer now.”

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of theatres doing stuff well. It really fucking irritates me when they don’t.” I lean back in my chair. “And here they just treat you like livestock, moving the moving crowds from bar to seat, prodding anyone who gets out of line… You wouldn’t get that shitty attitude at Magic Mike.”

That’s sure enough. Say what you want about Magic Mike (and believe me, I’ve said a lot) you wouldn’t get staff like this at the Hippodrome. Not that I’m blaming the staff. It’s the management. But that doesn’t stop them from being rude.

And it’s not like it’s even Soho-cool rudeness, if such a thing even exists anymore.

This is not clever rudeness. Or snarky rudeness. Or amusing rudeness.

This is the rudeness of people who don’t care about the experience they are providing. The rudeness of people who think your ticket only buys you access to a show and nothing more. The rudeness of the overworked. The rudeness of the underpaid.

The rudeness of bad management.

“She could definitely have worded it better,” agrees Helen.

The house lights dim.

We’re beginning.

The cast come out. They’re wearing blue bodystockings. And they’re dancing.

And it’s hilarious.

I look over at Helen.

Earlier today I’d told her they’d referenced Twyla Tharp in their marketing copy. I don’t know what this is, but it is not Twyla Tharp.

But she’s smiling. She’s loving it too.

Thank gawd.

As the first number finishes and we are taken backstage into the dressing room where they begin preparations for the next act, I forget all about the dismal Soho staff and find myself lost in a world of sequins and female friendship. The type of friendship where every self-criticism is met by a chorus of personally offended “Nooooos.” Where compliments are used as punctuation. And grand proclamations of undying affection are given as standard.

It’s hard not to grin while watching these three.

They are clearly having so much fun, and we’ve been lucky enough to have been invited along for the ride.

With champagne flutes at the ready, they pour themselves glasses of glitter from wine glasses filled with the sparkly stuff. And I can’t think of a better metaphor for the Soho.

A dull, heavy, container, only rendered special by the dazzle and spark that lives inside. And without that? Well, it’s fit for nothing by bludgeoning someone over the head with.

“I am so happy right now,” I say to Helen as the house lights go up, following what must have been at least five fake-out curtain calls.

“I didn’t see any Twyla Tharp…” she says, but she’s smiling.

“I think they just picked a contemporary choreographer at random.”

“I think they must have.”

“But it was so joyful!”

“It was very joyful. But also real. I recognised everything that happened on stage.”

I nod in agreement. It did all feel very real. We’ve all had those friendships. Those conversations. Even if we weren’t in an award-winning comedy dance troupe. “The little one was totally Ellen,” I say, referring to our mutual friend.

“She was totally Ellen! Small. Brunette. Cute. And…”

“Pissy,” we both say at the same time.

“I think I’m the tall one,” says Helen. “I’m just vulnerable, you know?”

I look at her seriously. “You are loved and deserve validation,” I tell her. I pause. Something occurs to me. “Does that mean I’m Sunita?”

I don’t think I’m a Sunita. But I’m also not mad about being a Sunita.

“I loved Sunita,” says Helen.

I loved Sunita too. She was fabulous. Always with a make up brush in hand, stroking her cheeks… yeah, I’m a Sunita.

There’s a crash. The stage is already filled by people bringing down the set.

“They could have at least waited for us to leave,” says Helen as we get out from our table. But there’s no stopping them. They’re already pulling down the projection screen, lifting it down from the stage.

“We should go…” I say. And we traipse back up the stairs into the pink-filled foyer.

It’s going to be a long time before I’m back here.

Can’t say that I'm all that upset by that.

Well, not until they programme the next Philip Ridley.

Pas de Door

Honestly, for someone who actually went and sat through the whole grinding ninety minutes of Magic Mike Live, I’m feeling more than a little awkward walking into the Above the Stag to see Boy Toy. The artwork doesn’t help. With the half-nakedness and very shiny pants. But that’s the Above the Stag for you. Shiny pants seem to be the default setting for their marketing.

In my defence, if a defence is required, I picked this show because it’s based on the ballet Coppélia, and I love Coppélia. Okay, I don’t love Coppélia. It’s a bit silly, even by ballet standards, and doesn’t have the genius of a choreographer like Ashton to elevate the silly story into silly art. But you know, it’s alright. I enjoy Coppélia, and watch it quite happily whenever it’s revived.

If you don’t know the story, and frankly, I can’t imagine you would, think Pygmalion. But the original one. As in, the Greek myth where a sculptor falls in love with a statue. But in Coppélia’s case, the statue is a mechanical doll, and it’s not the maker who goes falling in love, but a passing young man, who sees the doll in the window and decides that the porcelain princess is way hotter than the girl he has waiting for him at home. As you can imagine, the girl isn’t all that impressed by her boyfriend trying to get with a wind-up doll, and decides to get her own back on him. Chaos ensues but true love prevails. Eventually.

So, here I am to see William Spencer’s take on this ridiculous tale.

It’s pretty quiet. No nearly as busy as the last time I was here. There’s no one at the bar and most of the tables are empty. That’s what happens with a 7pm start in a studio space, I suppose. No one wants to be drinking that early on a Tuesday. Or perhaps everyone is still getting over Pride weekend. The Pride flags are still out in force outside the theatre, in a rainbow coloured bunting running out to the nearest tree.

I take up position on the end of the bar, the end with the huge TICKETS sign glowing above, and wait. Someone joins me and soon we are a nice little queue waiting for service.

It looks like the bar staff are having a meeting down the other end, but they spot us soon enough and one of them comes over.

I give my surname and he scrolls around on the touch screen in search of my booking. “Maxine?” he asks.

I confirm that I am indeed Maxine and soon my ticket is chugging on the little printer they have behind the bar. The one that spurts out soft paper, like a receipt. I rather like them.

“Oh, um,” I say, suddenly remembering something. “I think I ordered a-“

“Programme?” he says, completing the sentence for me. He grabs one from the display on the counter and hands it over.

That’s the kind of service I like. Providing the words that my brain can’t form in the moment.

With my programme and ticket, I set up shop at one of the posing tables and look around, taking in the theatre goers. And for once, the other theatre goers are also looking at me. I can’t blame them. It’s becoming increasing obvious that I am not the target audience for this show, being as I am, how shall I say this… a woman. Now, I don’t want to make any presumptions here, but I think I can safely say I have the only female presenting person in this bar right now.

I don’t think this has happened yet. I mean, yes - audiences have been heavily male at some shows. Not many. But some. There was that chemsex play at the Courtyard and ummm… no, I think that was it.

Outside, there’s a small group of people drinking beside the tree. And look - there’s a woman! But when the doors open and we start going through, the group stays outside. Whatever brought them to the Above the Stag tonight, it wasn’t a Coppélia retrelling.

I show my receipt paper to the ticket checker and he nods me through the door. Here, instead of turning right into the main space, we go left, into the studio.

As studios go, it’s not a bad stage. Long and thin, taking up almost the entire length of the space. If you’re going to put dance in a studio, this is the kind of space you want. Give the dancers a bit of room to leap around.

There’s only three rows of chairs, set up against the long wall.

I go for the back row.

I don’t want to be taking away any good seats from the core audience here. But as it turns out, the third row is pretty popular. It’s the second row that people are avoiding. No one likes being trapped in the middle.

A young man comes in and after testing out a few places in the bank of seats right on the end, comes over to me.

“Is any one…?” he asks, with a hand gesture that encapsulates the rest of the question.

“Oh, go for it,” I say, with a matching hand gesture.

The two of us, this young man and me, have to be the only people in the audience below the audience below the age of fifty. We are in serious middle aged white male territory here. It’s almost like being at the Royal Opera House.

The music that’s been filling the room comes to a sudden halt, and a man runs in from the foyer to manually set it up again before rushing back out into the foyer. Looks like the tech team are also on front of house duty tonight.

It’s past seven now. We should have already started. They must be holding the start for some latecomers.

I have a look at the programme. At only £2.50 it is quite the bargain. I mean, it’s not stuffed full of interesting articles or glossy photos, but it does the business, and is a nice enough souvenir. Even if it does have a typo on the first page. Seriously though, no judgement. I’ve done plenty worse in my programmes. And anyway, what do you want for £2.50? Especially for a studio theatre work. I sure as hell don’t make proper programmes for the stuff in the studio where I work. Audiences get freesheets and they’re grateful for it.

Surely we must be starting soon?

I put the programme away in readiness.

The tech person is still out in the hall.

Probably on the lookout for those latecomers. Bet they’re stuck on the Northern Line somewhere. What a fucking kerfuffle that was this morning. Our driver kept on telling us to get off, that despite all the announcements to the contrary, the train was going to be diverted to Charing Cross any moment, and then, as soon as we get to Camden, he blazes right through the Bank branch and I end up exactly where I want to be. Honestly, is it any wonder that Londoners cannot follow signage. We’re taught from our first day in this city that it’s all nonsense. It doesn’t take more than a month to find out that No Entry signs on the underground are nothing more than an indication that there’s a short cut happening nearby.

While we wait, I sit back and take in the set. It’s very simple. Three doorways, all lit up in neon. Rather effective in real life, but an absolute arse to capture effectively in a photo.

Finally, the tech person comes in and takes up his spot behind the desk in the corner.

Looks like we’re ready to begin.

Music starts.

The doorways flash in time with the beat.

Someone near me gives an appreciative snort.

Looks like we’re getting a dance of the flashing doorways. One could say it’s a… Pas de Door.

Oh, come on! That was a fucking fantastic pun and you know it. So, don’t you dare pull that face.

Well, funny or no, those doors are still dancing. Looks like we’re getting the full on overture. Seems a bit much considering the entire show is only an hour. You’d think the choreographer would want to use every second, but hey - I’m not a dance-maker. I’m sure there is some artistic reason for this very long intro.

Eventually, we get some dancers. And some rather fab punnage. I mean, not as good as mine. But nothing in the world is going to top Pas de Door this century. But we get our cast partying at the Gay Barre, before popping into Cocksta for their morning coffee, and then escaping Homo Sweet Homo for a rather balletic sex scene.

As for the doll… well, he’s a mannequin in a sex shop window, because of course he is.

But doesn't Saul Kilcullen-Jarvis look an absolute darling dressed up as the doll? With his little t-shirt and shiny shorts. Good on Andrew Beckett for making those designs happen. And, I mean... that is some great casting right there. I don't think I've ever seen someone how looks so like a Ken doll brought to life than this handsome fellow.

In fact, they are all darlings. I just want to pinch their collective cheeks.

Although perhaps not while they are in the midst of a dildo fight. That looks dangerous.

It is a shame that they're using the Delibes music though. Or at least, music based on the Delibes. I just can't imagine those jaunty tunes being played within the back room of a sex shop somehow. Not very sleazy Soho. Feels like a wasted opportunity when they could have had some proper club bangers for them to pirouette too. William Forsythe managed it in Playlist. Okay, he's Forsythe. Literally the greatest living choreographer. And the all-male cast of English National Ballet dancers was pretty spectacular. And they too looked darn cute in their costumes, matching red American football jerseys, with their surnames printed across the back. And yeah, it's true, Playlist 1, 2 ranks as perhaps the greatest piece of dance I've ever seen. So great I almost went to Paris to watch the follow-up works of Playlist 3, 4. But like, if I wanted to watch boys dancing around to a nineteenth-century ballet score, I'd book tickets to see the Trocks.

Oh well. Can't have everything, I suppose.

I got my puns. I should be content with that.

As the dancers give their final bows, someone sitting near me leans over to the person he's with. "Now, where else could we find high art like this?"

Where indeed.

Still, we're just a short walk to Vauxhall station. Up over the bridge and there we are.

Not even that much past eight right now. I can pop into Tesco on my way home. Perhaps even shove some laundry in the machine, Need to finish that blog post on the Gielgud too... Oh god. So much for an early night.

As I stand on the platform, an announcement pumps through the speakers. "The Northern Line will close at 21.30 to allow our engineers to repair a fault. This means you should complete your journey before 21.30."

Fucking hell... Closing the Northern Line... as someone who both lives and works on the Northern Line, this week has been fucking brutal.

Thank the theatre gods for short plays and early starts. I may have had to sit through unnecessary Delibes, but at least I don't have to get the bus home afterwards.

The Safe Word is Unicorn

You’ve read the Exeunt review of Magic Mike Live. We’ve all read the Exeunt review of Magic Mike Live. The tears. The drama. The fist-pump to female empowerment. A battle cry for female desire. It was an unmissable read.

I can tell you right now, that’s not what you’ll be getting here.

Because I do not want to go to Magic Mike Live.

Let me say that again, just so that we’re really clear: I do not, under any circumstances, want to go to Magic Mike Live.

The fact that I have to go to Magic Mike Live, in order to check off the theatre that lurks within the Leicester Square monolith that is the Hippodrome Casino, is something that has been giving me a great deal of stress over the past six months.

And it’s not because I’m a prude.

The fact that I’m a prude has nothing to do with it.

“I would honestly rather go to a real strip club,” I tell Helen and Ellen, as we do our best to get very, very drunk, somewhere below street level in Soho. (“Pre-loading,” Helen calls it).

“Really?” Helen is baffled by this. She’s looking forward to the show. Or rather, she’s looking forward to me not enjoying the show. “Why?”

“Because in a strip club, you are the one in power. You can tell the dancers to go away without feeling that you’re ruining things. It’s a one-on-one transaction. Not part of this, whole… thing.” I wave my hands about to demonstrate the scale of the… thing. One drink down and I’m already getting expansive. This place doesn’t mess around with their measures.

Earlier today I’d done something I’d never done before.

I told Twitter where I was going to be tonight.

I’ve always been very careful not to do that. Stalkers be scary, you know.

But I’m not worried about that anymore. If anything, I was courting that danger. Encouraging it. Asking for it. “Bring your arsenic and find me in Soho,” I told my followers.

A jokey “kill me,” that was only half a joke.

I really don’t want to go to Magic Mike Live.

A co-worker of mine went last week. She loved it.

“They’re really good dancers,” she said excitedly the next morning.

That’s quite a statement coming from someone who works at one of the most famous dance-houses in the world.

“But is there…” I pause, not wanting to use the word grinding, but not being able to come up with a suitable alternative. “Audience interaction?”

Yeah, okay. This is the real issue. Some rando stranger grinding on me is not something I want. If it were, I would go to a club, and you know what, I'd probably get a free drink into the bargain.

“Oh yeah. Where are you sitting?”

“In the balcony.”

“You won’t be taken on stage then.”

Thank fuck. “So, I’m safe then?”

She laughs at that. “No. They will find you!”

“Oh…” Oh fuck… “I think I’m going to have to get really drunk.”

Half way through the second drink and my head is starting to spin. Whatever the fuck they put in these cocktails is working. Every time I turn my head, I feel like I’m leaving my thoughts behind. That’s good, I tell myself. A couple more sips and I’ll be in a full on dissociative state. Just what I need to get through the next few hours.

It’s time to go.

We stagger back up to the street and start walking down to Leicester Square.

Helen and Ellen are all in a rush, though I keep on saying we have plenty of time.

Helen dives across Shaftesbury Avenue. Right across the road.

I jog behind with a squeal of “we’re going to dieeee,” before remembering that getting hit by a car was a great excuse for not going to see Magic Mike Live tonight. No luck though.

I point out the casino, but really there’s no need. Even from the back, it does rather loom.

There’s a kind of mural thing going on here. All lights and images and I’m not really able to focus on the presise nature of it, but I feel I should take a photo anyway.

“Sorry,” says a bloke, who on seeing me taking a photo of the wall display thing decides he also wants in on the action.

“Don’t worry, I’m done.”

“You also seeing the show?”

“Yes,” I say, in the tones of someone saying they’re just about to sit their Chemistry A-level.

“We are too!” He sounds super-duper excited about the whole thing.

“Are you looking forward to it?”

“Oh yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not really.”

“Ah. Well, see you in there!” he says with a cheery goodbye.

I have really got to get my shit sorted. Me not having a good night is fine. I mean, it’s not fine. But it’s fine.

However, me being the cause of someone else not having a good night… well, that’s taking the whole marathon thing too far, isn’t it?

In a move of openness that must have the Royal Opera House nashing their teeth, the box office is fully open to the street.

I stop, the cogs in my brain slowed by the excess alcohol.

“Do we go in here, or…?”

A man on the door sees my confusion and steps in. “Are you picking up your tickets?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He waves me through and we join the queue.

There’s a man leaning on the counter and as I give my name to the lady at box office he starts rummaging in a Magic Mike Live branded gift bag.

“How many of you are there?” he asks.

“Three.”

He pulls out three envelopes. “Unfortunately a few of our cast members have a bug and won’t be performing,” he says. “There’s a drinks voucher in here, and a letter. We’d like you to come back and see the show properly, for free of course, as long as you promise to buy lots of drinks.”

Gosh, well. Okay. We take the envelopes, and our tickets, and join the queue to get in.

There's a red carpet.

A young woman stands on the door. She has a stack of envelopes in her hand.

“We should put our letters away,” I hiss at the other two. “Might get another one!”

Ellen gives me a look. I don’t think she’s ever seen me this drunk before.

“Max, are you leaning against the wall?” she asks.

I may be leaning against the wall. Hard to tell. It keeps on moving.

She gives me another look, but puts away her envelope all the same.

“Hi ladies!” says the young woman on the door. “A few of our cast members are off sick. The others will still be going on, and it’s the same show, exactly the same length. But we’d like to offer you’re the chance to come back and see it as it should be seen. For free of course,” she says, counting out more envelopes for us.

We now have two envelopes each.

Score.

If the bag checker notices this excess of envelopes he doesn’t say anything.

He does pick up on Helen’s water bottle though.

“It’s water!” she protests, but it’s no good. She has to go outside and down the whole thing.

“It’s very fancy in here,” I say, noting the old mirror with the Hippodrome’s name faded on the glass and the chandelier handing overhead. “Watch out if you don’t want to be in the photo.” Ellen jumps out the way.

“I’m very well hydrated,” Helen says on her return, and as the bag checker wishes us a good evening, we head up the stairs.

The stairs take us up straight to the loos. The Hippodrome clearly know their audience.

“It’s a ninety minute show, ladies,” says an usher. “Toilets are here and down there.”

I hang around, people watching as Helen and Ellen partake of the facilities. Everyone is dressed really fancy. Like, really fancy. Not just going out fancy. But going out out fancy. Hotpants and sequins and satin and tiny mini dresses.

I look down at my own efforts. A black dress. Vivienne Westwood. It’s really nice. But not nearly showy enough. I consider opening another button for added cleavage, but my fingers are all fumbly and I don’t think I can manage it. The mourning brooch pinned to my lapel was probably also a mistake. As were the stompy boots. Although considering my wall-leaning, perhaps its best I didn’t attempt heels.

Plus, I doubt any of these women just came from church.

“They have so adapted this place for women,” says Helen on her return. “There are urinals in the ladies’ loos. They must have transferred them over. Although you know what Caroline Criado Perez said about unisex loos?”

I do know what she says about unisex looks. “Only men use unisex loos with urinals. But they also use the ones that don’t have urinals. So, there’s even longer queues for the ones without urinals than if they were just ladies’ and gents’. Wait…” I stop. “Are we seriously having feminist discourse outside the loos at Magic Mike?”

“Oh, look, a hen party,” says Ellen, bringing the tone right back to where it needs to me.

The Hen, in her shiny satin sash, looks over and gives us a big grin, and we all grin back.

We go to the bar.

A girl walks past with a massive fishbowl of a drink.

“Wow,” says Ellen, gapping at the drink.

The girl laughs. “They just told me it’s a ninety minute show without a break,” she says with a shrug of resignation.

There are screens all over the place, warning us to take our seats because the show is about to start. I check my phone. There’s still ten whole minutes. I mean, I get that moving hundreds of drunk women into their seats might be tricky, but ten minutes!

“Hello ladies, are you seeing the show tonight?”

“Yup!” says Ellen, looking up from the drinks menu.

“Well, the show’s about to start, so you should probably take your seats. You can order your drinks from there. Don’t worry, it’s exactly the same menu, same choice, same everything.”

“Oh, okay then!”

“Can I see your tickets?”

I hand them over and he points us in the right direction, but a second later, we’re lost, having gone up a flight of stairs that we should not have gone up.

“I’m going to get a programme,” I say, spotting a merch desk on our way back down.

I glance over at the price list, kinda squinting as I do so because I don’t want to know. Ten pounds? Fifteen? Twenty probably.

“That’s seven pounds, please,” says the woman behind the desk.

Oh. “Oh!”

Well, I mean, it’s hardly bargain of the century, but selling a programme for only seven pounds to an audience who are probably drunk enough to empty out their purses on the counter…. well, that is some Saint Simeon Stylites levels of ascetic restraint right there. Hang on, did I just say the word ascetic? Fucking hell, I must really be drunk right now. I’m not sure I even know how to spell that when sober. Or pronounce it. Wait, what’s going on?

“Are you taking pictures of the merch, Helen?” I ask, spotting Helen kneeling on the ground in front of the glass display.

“Just of the underpants.”

Well, that’s alright then.

“I don’t want one, but how much are these?” she asks, now back on her feet and poking through a bowl of temporary tattoos.

“Five pounds,” says the merch lady. Very patiently.

“We should probably go in…” I suggest.

We find the door. There are two ticket checkers. Both men.

“There are a lot of men working here,” I say, looking around. “Almost all men.”

Yes, there was the young woman on the main door. And the one at the merch desk. But everywhere else: bloke, bloke, bloke, bloke, bloke.

“And they’re all so nice!” says Ellen. “Like the guy who told us to go to our seats. He could have just said it, but he made the effort to tell us we could order drinks in there.”

Helen is nodding away enthusiastically. “And it’s not just nice it’s…”

“Gentlemanly,” I say.

“Yes!”

“And like, not sleazy. At all.”

There’s more enthusiastic nodding from the pair of them as we get to the front of the queue.

“I’m just going to put this stamp on your hand,” says one of the ticket checkers, with the air of a paediatric nurse telling their young charge not to worry about the needle. It really won’t hurt.

“It’s a unicorn!” says Ellen, examining her new hand print.

I look at mine. I have to twist my arm in a very unnatural way to see it properly. It is a unicorn!

“Oh dear… it’s really small in here,” says Ellen as we go into the auditorium. She doesn’t sound overly happy about that. She’s not a fan of intimate theatre. Even when the performers are fully clothed.

“Hang on ladies, I’ll be right with you,” says yet another (male) usher.

We hang around as he seats another group.

“Oh god…” I say to the world in general.

“I know!” says a woman right back. “I’m dreading this. I keep on thinking about all the failed decisions in my life that brought me up to this point…”

I nod along sympathetically. Me too, love. Me fucking too.

A minute later, our usher is back. He bounds over with a grin, executing a neat spin as he approaches us.

“You alright?”

“Yeah!” I say, very much impressed by the spin. I show him the tickets and he points out our seats.

Front row.

Oh.

I remember booking these. Vaguely.

“You’re over here. One, two, three,” he says, counting out the seats. “Wait, hang on,” he says as I make off. “Just some things I need to tell you first.” And he launches into a short speech. We’re allowed to take photos. But we need to keep the cameras close to us. He demonstrates, holding an imaginary phone close to his chest. “No leaning on the railing. The dancers will be moving around everywhere. So keep your drinks close, and your bags under your seat.”

And with that, we’re released.

The seats are wide and comfy. And there’s plenty of leg room.

The leg room is worrying me. As is the glass platform that is running around the outside of the balcony.

The lights go down.

A roar goes up from the audience. A blast of pure animal noise.

A male MC in a blue suit comes out on stage and starts stirring up the crowd.

A front of houser comes over with a drinks menu.

He crouches down and lean in as Helen and Ellen order.

“What do you want?” asks Ellen, handing me the menu.

I stare at it, but can’t make anything out. Is this even in English? It’s all just swirly lines on a page.

I hand it back. “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t want anything.”

“Are you sure?” asks Ellen.

“Err.”

“It free,” Helen reminds me.

“Shit, err…” but it’s no good. It’s too dark. And too loud. I can’t focus. “What are you having?”

Ellen says something but it sounds like nonsense string of syllables.

“That sounds good,” I say. I trust Ellen’s drinks order than I do my own sense right now.

The MC has gone out into the stalls. He’s talking to an audience member.

A dancer comes over.

Oh, god. He’s grinding on her. The grinding has started.

This is so unpleasant.

The MC asks if she’s wet.

I am so grossed out right now.

She says no, but that answer just earns her a trip on stage where a dancer dressed as a firefighter pulls out a hose from his trousers. It squirts.

No euphemism intended on my part. That’s all on them.

The woman looks down out her outfit. Covered in a pink mess.

“Stop!” she shouts.

The dancer stops.

We all stop.

Lights change. A disembodied voice comes over the speakers.

Who is that?

Channing Tatum?

What the fuck is going on?

The audience member is outraged. This isn’t what she wants. Male MCs asking if she’s moist, and dancers throwing around double entendres. And she’s not having it.

A microphone descends from the rig.

She’s taking over.

Ellen leans into me. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

Nor do I.

Nor. Do. I.

But it looks like we’re under a new regime. The girls are taking over.

She wants the firefighter costume off. He duly obliges, throwing it into the audience and revealing a crisp white t-shirt and nice pair of jeans underneath.

Blimey, that’s… well, that’s much better.

“He’s kinda hot,” says Helen.

I nod. He is kinda hot.

And so it begins.

Our new MC introduces the dancers. We have a CEO. A man holding a baby (not our baby, she is quick to clarify. That’s not part of the fantasy going on here). The boy next door.

The audience duly roars with every new revelation.

The dancers strut their stuff in routines that seem mainly made up of lighting changes. But even in my sodden state I can see that they’re not bad. These guys can dance.

And they don’t stay still.

A minute on stage, and they are off, prowling around the audience, shifting seats around to give themselves room to show off their moves.

Our drinks arrive.

Mine is very pink. It has a straw.

I give it a sip.

It seems to be primarily made up of sugar, with the merest dash of alcohol.

“It’s very sweet,” says Ellen. She puts her’s down under her chair.

I carry on drinking.

Helen tries to say something to me, but I can’t hear her. A second later she’s showing me her phone. “The way you look next to them…” it says. She points at the girls sitting next to me.

They’re screaming. Properly screaming. And bouncing around in their seats.

They are very drunk.

Drunker than me.

Drunker than I have ever been in my life.

I don’t think it would be physically possible for me to get that drunk. The world would run out of alcohol before that happened.

As dancers gyrate their way around the glass platform, the girls scream at them, wave at them, reach for them.

They are so happy.

And all the while, young men in smart shirts and red aprons dart between the rows, taking orders and bringing drinks.

I catch Helen looking at me again. “You’re watching the audience, not the stage!” she shouts over the music.

“I’m here as a professional,” I shout back. But she’s right. I am watching the audience. It’s fascinating stuff. Seeing the excitement. The enjoyment. The letting go.

A rope descends from the rig just in front of us. I nudge Ellen and point at it.

We raise our eyebrows at each other.

Looks like we’re going to get some aerial work going on.

Someone appears next to our row.

He’s not a dancer. He’s a stage manager or something.

He grabs the rope and starts tightening knots and getting it ready and… gosh, he’s very attractive.

Fuck. No. Stop Maxine. Don’t do that. Don’t perv on the poor stage managers, who are just trying to do their jobs.

Honestly, it is so on brand of me to go to a strip show and end up getting a crush on one of the backstage team.

I look back at the stage.

The dancers are doing their very utmost. Shirts are coming off. Abs revealed. All very impressive.

And our MC is keeping them under strict control.

A dancer rubs her shoulders before moving down to her feet.

“I don’t need my foot rubbed,” she snaps back. “I’m trying to do a show here. What about her?” She points at a woman in the front row, and the dancer trots over as bidden, sits on the edge of the stage, and holds out his hand, ready to receive the audience member’s foot.

She needs a little encouragement from our MC, but soon enough, her sandled foot is getting a rub down.

Our MC has found herself a prodigy. A young neophyte she wishes to mold into the perfect man.

“What’s the most important thing when dealing with a woman?” she asks him.

There’s a pause as he considers the answer. He leans in, speaking into her microphone. “Permission,” he whispers.

The effect is electric. The room almost bursts as 300 women levitate from their seats at that word.

The MC decides what we need is a safe word. “Unicorn,” she decides. If anything happens that we don’t want to be happening, just say unicorn “and they will listen!” she promises.

Women are starting to come up on stage. They get picked up, danced over, and gyrated against.

A few of them cover their faces with their hands not knowing what to do with their faces as they get lain back on tables and danced on top of.

“Look, they’re sweeping!” says Ellen, pointing back at the stage where yes, a few stage hands have run on to clean things up while we were all distracted.

My neighbour flaps her hand in front of me. “Look! Look!” she says in my ear. “He's coming up!”

I look. One of the dancers is climbing up to the balcony.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend, or a partner,” says our MC, “sing you your favourite song?”

The dancers come back out, this time with instruments.

Helen jumps in her seat. “This is my favourite song,” she shouts and laughs, unable to keep her joy contained.

I can’t tell you what Helen’s favourite song is. I don’t know it. I haven’t recognised any of the music tonight come to think of it.

But I seem to be the only one because everyone is having great fun singing along.

I sit back and decide to wait until they bring out Marilyn Manson’s greatest hits.

A dancer comes out with an arm full of roses and starts handing them out, even lobbing a few into the balcony.

Helen catches one.

She's doing really well tonight.

And then it comes. The bit I’d been dreading.

“You’ve all had hard days,” says our MC. “You should get a lapdance! Just remember. The safe word is unicorn. Say it if you need to and the dancers will listen.”

“They are working fast,” I say, watching as the dancer assigned to the balcony moves and grinds his way along the front row, not spending more than a few seconds on each person.

He pauses a few times, to push back hair and whisper in ears, but never for long. There are a lot of people to get through.

Finishing the end of the row, he crosses the aisle and dives into the row behind us. From there he goes to the other end of our section, working on one woman then leaving again.

“It’s beginning to feel a bit pointed,” says Ellen, not sounding overly disappointed at not getting a dancer thrusting at her.

But that’s not it. I’ve noticed something. It’s been happening all night.

They’re reading the room. The dancers. Or at least someone who is telling the dancers.

Girls wearing shorts were lain down on stage. Ones wearing trousers had their legs lifted in the air. Larger girls where presented with dancers to feel up. Smaller ones were lifted around.

And those three woman sitting in the balcony who weren’t on the feet, dancing around with everyone else? Yeah, someone noticed that they weren’t totally into it. And they made sure that they didn’t need to unicorn their way out of anything.

Down in the stalls, a woman has spilt her drink. One of the red aproned front of housers runs over with a roll of paper towels. He spins out reams of the stuff. Feet of it. Metres. Making a spectacle of the paper towels flying around as he cleans up the table for her.

And I want to laugh, because that’s it, isn’t it? That’s how you look after an audience. Not just one composed of drunk women. Any audience. You look after them. Make them feel cared for. And safe. And give them an out. Just in case they need it.

“It had the kind of camaraderie you find in night club bathrooms,” says Ellen as we try to find our way out. “Girls lending each other their mascara, you know?”

“That was an amazing feeling,” says Helen, inspecting her rose. “Like, the audience is the most important part of a show. You can’t have one without them. But to feel it… to have the experience focused on you…”

Yup.

The show isn’t for me. I didn’t expect for it to be.

But what I expected it to be was awful.

And it wasn't that either.

It was all perfectly fine.

In a week when I have been thinking so much about audience consent, from the assault on audiences at 10,000 Gestures, to the warning-laden A Web in the Heart earlier today, Magic Mike Live feels like a shining example of how to treat them. And yes, Boris Charmatz fans may point out that the results here are hardly art. And the extreme behaviour of his dancers served some higher purpose. But in 2019, as the world goes to shit, perhaps what we need, what we all need, is not some choreographer’s intellectual fantasy, but reasonably priced programmes, ushers who actively want their guests to have a good time, and a safe word to arm ourselves with.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to concentrate very hard on not throwing up as I try to find the night bus home.

Scratch that

7pm starts… man, they are a challenge. I don’t think I’ve ever walked so fast in my life, racing across London to get to the Soho Theatre in time for my show.

Apologies to everyone who encountered me. And most particularly to the poor guy at the box office who had to deal with my puffed-out mess when I finally got there.

"What are you here for?" he asked, when I finally managed to suck back enough air into my lungs to talk and give him my name.

Now there's a question. Who can even remember anymore? It’s a miracle that I manage to turn up to the right theatre on the correct night. Now they wanted me to remember what I was actually there for?

"Err, the scratch night?" I said, feeling like I was about to lose this quiz.

"The scratch night," he concurred with an approving nod. I'd got that one right!

My prize was one of the trademark Soho tickets. They have to be the most distinctive tickets in London. I certainly haven’t seen anything to match them yet. Bright pink. The colour of Barbie's Dream Car. They’ll sear your retinas right off if you look at them too hard.

I tucked it safely in my bag before too much damage could be done and headed to the bar.

One benefit off 7pm start is that I actually do get to see the bar.

The Soho Theatre’s bar is one of those places that I will always agree is great if anyone brings it up, but the truth is, I've never managed to have a drink in it. It's always been heaving to the point of unbearability every time I've been to see a show.

But yesterday, let the record show, at 6.45, I got a table.

I sprawled out on the banquette and luxuriated in the space. 

I can see why people think this place is nice.

Very comfy.

Very cool.

In a kind of show-posters-wallpapering-the-walls-and-neon-lights kinda way.

All the bright young things of Soho draped themselves over the tables as they talked about all the shows they were working on, generally adding to the aesthetic.

“We should go see this,” said one guy, picking up a flyer to show to girl he was with.

“Oh, yeah. I know him,” she said, jabbing the person pictured on the front of the flyer.

Of course she did.

Five minutes later, a bloke came up and asked to share my table.

Thirty seconds after that, there were three of us perched around the small square.

The dream was shattered. My time was up.

But it was glorious while it lasted.

Oh well.

It was nearly show time anyway.

I made my way back to the foyer.

A small gathering had formed at the bottom of the stairs. Our way bared by one of those thick red ropes, we we corralled on the ground floor.

"Have we got an estimated time of opening?" the usher said into her radio.

The crackly voice on the other end indicated it would be a few more minutes. We waited, stomping about and sighing heavily. The herd was getting restless.

The usher backed her way against the lift, keeping a close eye on us as she clutched at her radio lest we suddenly charge.

Someone tutted. It was 7pm. The show was already running late. 

The radio crackled back into life.

"The show on the third floor is now open. Chinese Arts Now Scratch Night on the top floor is open," she announced with obvious relief as we bolted for the stairs.

With unrestricted seating, it doesn’t pay to be slow.

"Anywhere in the first four rows," called the usher after us as we rushed into the auditorium.

As I dashed past her, I spotted a pile of paper on the bench outside the door. I lunged and grabbed one, not missing a step as I barrelled into the auditorium and dumped myself into a seat, spreading my coat and bag around me - marking my territory.

I plumped for the third row - the first one with a rake. Very important that. As a shorty, I need me a rake. Not that it was a particularly good one. The slight lift the third row offered only meant that I was given a hint of what was happening beyond the head of the person sitting in front of me. It was a concession to the idea of a rake, an acknowledgement that such things exist, rather than a full and proper attempt to give people sitting there any kind of view.

"Even the first paragraph is a lot. It sounds heavy, doesn't it?" said a woman in the row in front, peering through the gloom at her freesheet.

All those black walls, black ceiling, and low lighting, doesn’t make reading easy.

But I gave it a go, inspecting my own freesheet.

It didn’t take me long to spot the name of the venue I work for.

Written incorrectly.

If I would ever dare give a piece of advice to artists it is this, double check your credits before handing over your biography for public consumption. It’s embarrassing for everyone involved when you don’t know how to spell the venues that you’ve performed at. Especially when you return and I have to correct it for you (because I do actually proofread and edit the biogs that come through me… just saying, Soho Theatre…).

And look, I'm not insinuating that poorly proofread paperwork is my hell, but it was rather warm up there… It was almost like I was getting punished for all my complaining about the cold yesterday. “Oh, you want it warm, do you?” laugh the theatre gods. “Don’t worry, we’ll make things real cosy for you.”

I rolled up the sleeves of my jumper, trying to remember what I was wearing underneath. Or if I was in fact wearing anything underneath.

I was. Heattech. Worse luck. As the festival organiser was already giving us the hosuekeeping speech and there was no time to wrestle myself out of my sweater.

“There’ll be a short interval between the two pieces for the changeover. No time to go to the bar but time to pop to the loo.”

I sat still, thinking cold thoughts, and tried to concentrate on the performers instead,

I must say, I wouldn’t usually think somewhere like the Soho, especially their tiny upstairs studio, is the best place for dance, but it was wonderful to be so close to the dancers. Especially in a piece so focused on facial expression and small movement. 

Even working in dance I don't think I've ever got so close outside the confines of the rehearsal room.

What a treat.

As was the horsey helium balloon in the second piece. 

There was a post-show talk, but I wasn’t sticking around for that.

I snuck out, and offered a smile of apology to the dancers who were waiting in the bench outside. 

I’m sure everyone involved was perfectly fascinating, but I wasn’t losing my chance to be in bed by 10pm (literally all my hopes and dreams revolve around this one goal right now).

So off I went. Buzzed out of the door by the bloke on box office. Race back to the tube. Home via a short trip to Tesco. Fixed a hole in my favourite vintage dress. And in bed my 10pm.

Magic.