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.
