The monster in the attic

Okay, break over. I'm back on the road, pounding the pavement, running my marathon, ticking off those theatres.

And while we're here, I have to admit, it's not my first outing of the year.

I started things off with a re-visit. A trip to the Coliseum. For the ballet. But it was a rehearsal, and I was there as a guest, so I'm not sure that even counts.

Still, it wasn't easy. Tears were shed. After 17 days without live performance in my life, the vividness of the thing had me crying by the second piece. To be fair, it was an Akram Khan. 

And I have very intense feelings about Akram Khan.

But still.

At least my eyeliner stayed put.

That would have been embarrassing.

Anyway, tonight is going to make it all better, because I am off to The Old Operating Theatre.

Which is a place where actual operations took place. And is now host to actual theatre.

The website tells me that it is situated in the attic of a church, which seems weird to me. What's an operating theatre doing in the attic of a church? Although, given the limitations on medical science back then, perhaps they thought the proximity to g_d would offer more help than the doctors were capable of giving.

They tell me to head to the same street that the Shard lives on and to "search for a red brick church with white dressed stone on the corners," which I do. And sure enough. There it is. A red brick church, with the corners picked out with white stone. A sign hangs off the side of the bell tower. "The Old Operating Theatre." I'm in the right place.

The door is wide and open, leading into a square foyer. The floor is stone. The walls painted a dark grey.

Opposite there's a huge set of imposing double doors. But these are locked with a padlock. 

An illustrated hand points the way. "Museum Entrance This Way," says the sign. "Through the Spiral Staircase (52 Steps)."

Sure enough, the hand is pointing towards another door. Smaller this time. Much smaller.

And inside is a spiral staircase.

A very narrow spiral staircase.

With very narrow spiralling steps.

So narrow that my size three feet can barely fit on them.

I cling onto the brick wall on one side, and a length of rope on the other, and haul myself up, pausing every so often to take a photo and have a bit of a breather.

I'm really not in a fit state to be climbing anything right now. Not to be too, well, TMI, but I am cramping up like a mo-fo, and really want nothing more than to be at home weeping into a bowl of ice-cream.

Just as I'm about to give up hope of ever having a sure-footing again, an encouraging sign informs me that there are only eighteen steps left.

I power my way to the top.

The stairs continue, but they are roped off.

My only option is a door. There's another sign. "Museum Entrance."

I've made it.

The door is super heavy and I need to give it a great old push to open. A second later, I find myself staggering into a well-lit, cheerful-looking, museum shop. The walls are bright yellow, and covered with shelves displaying anatomy books, and glass jars of badges, and pots of blood-filled syringes which I think are actually pens. A faceless mannequin is wearing an apron illustrated with the innards I really hope the mannequin doesn't actually possess.

There's someone at the counter. He's buying a ticket for tonight's performance.

"Is there a loo...?" he asks, handing over the cash.

"Yess..." replies the box officer, before pointing him back towards the door. "Do you want to go to the loo now?"

He does.

She grabs a radio and calls to someone at the other end. "A gentlemen's just coming down the stairs. Can you show him to the loo?"

He nods his thanks and disappears out the door and back down those narrow stairs.

I really hope he doesn't bump into someone coming up the other way.

My turn.

The box officer is wearing the most fabulous red lipstick and I'm finding it hard not to stare.

"Hello. The surname's Smiles?"

There's a very neat print out of the attendees on the counter, and I spot my name near the bottom of the list. "There I am," I say. "Second from the end."

She ticks the box and looks up. "Do you want to go to the loo?"

"Gawd no," I tell her, thinking about all those stairs.

"Because it's quite a way..."

Yeah. No.

"Now." She claps her hands. "Would you like a glass of wine. They're four pounds fifty."

"No thanks."

Again. Those stairs. They were tricky enough sober. I'm not risking them with a glass of wine inside of me.

"You can go straight through then," she says, pointing to the door behind me. "There's quite a lot to see. So use the opportunity to look around the museum."

Well, I love a little poke around a museum. Especially one that is built right into the rafters.

Bunches of dried herbs nestle against empty glass bottles with alarming labels and bits of human set in heavy resin blocks.

Small groups gather in dark corners to whisper about the exhibits.

"They did your surgery, and then you just died of sepsis! Why do you think they bothered?"

"Is formaldehyde liquid? I thought it was a gas."

At the back, is a bar. A long wooden cabinet covered in a large cranberry coloured cloth of crushed velvet.

"Excuse me, folks," says the barman, stepping out from behind his demonic altar. "We're going to be going in about seven. So, if anyone needs the loo..." He looks around. "Does anyone need the loo? No? Well, there's one downstairs. You're not allowed to take your drinks into the operating theatre, so..."

I creep around the edges, peering into the display cases and steering well clear of the obstetric tools.

"Can I get a glass of wine please?" asks a man approaching the bar.

"Do you have a token?"

He pauses. "Do I need a token?"

"Yes, just ask at the desk..."

As he toddles back towards the shop to get himself a token, I take myself on a flyby of the bar.

There's a sign down at the end. "Non-alcoholic drinks are complimentary," it says. "Please help yourself."

There's a row of bottles behind it. Fancy looking bottles. No cartons of concentrate up here.

I move on. The threat of the downstairs loo is still weighing on me. Besides, it seems altogether too close to the shelves full of poison bottles to be sanitary. Even if they do look well-scrubbed.

The barman's emerged from behind his altar again. "Okay, we're going to be going in in a minute. So this is your last chance to go to the loo if you want to go to the loo."

I'm beginning to feel like we're about to go on a school trip.

I continue walking around, reading all the little cards about alembics and red clove and snailwater.

There seem to be surprise skulls everywhere. Lurking behind other exhibits, stuffed into shelves, peering at me from the shadows.

I think I want to move in,

A man huffs his way up to his girlfriend. By the sounds of it, he's just braved the loos.

"Yeah, it's just by the door before you come up," he says, breathing loudly.

His girlfriend sensibly decides that she's staying safely upstairs.

The woman from the box office appears. "Okay everyone! Welcome! Welcome!" she says and we all gather around. "You can't take drinks in, so you'll need to down them," she laughs. A few people follow her instructions. "It's very cold in there, so I advise you to leave your coats on.” She calls to the barman. “Did you put the cushions down?"

"Err," says the barman from behind the bar. "No... Please take a cushion from the pile as you go in!"

The box office lady beckons us. "Come through, come through."

She opens the door, calling in to whoever is inside that she's bringing the audience in.

We're in a small antechamber.

There's a skeleton in here.

I nod to him as we make a sharp turn towards a steep and narrow staircase.

This one doesn't twist or turn. Straight up and we're in the back of the auditorium. And yup... it's an old operating theatre. Exactly like the sort you'd see in period dramas and the young medical students faints on his first day and has to be hauled up by the plucky young woman who managed to get in despite the professor's better judgement.

Tiers circle around a small stage in an elongated horse-shoe shape.

There are leaning bars at each row, but no one's paying any attention to them. Thank the gods, because I really don't want to be standing for the evening. My stomach is doing it's very best to turn itself inside out right now and I really need to sit down.

I slip into one of the rows and settle on the floor, the leaning bar far above my head.

Knees up. I set my elbows in place and curl up.

My stomach, finally, relaxs.

Perfect.

Realising I've forgotten to pick up one of those promised pillows, I shrug off my coat and use the squashy fur as a cushion. It ain't that cold in here.

The box officer comes in, taking a space in the middle of the stage. Right where the body would have been. Um, I mean the patient.

She casts a look over all of us. "You might have to move around," she says doubtfully. "I think most of you are here, but there may be one more person. If we can just leave a gap for that one person..."

We shuffle around.

"In the unlikely event of an emergency," she tells us. "There is actually another set of stairs."

We all giggle nervously at the thought of fleeing a fire down those corkscrew steps. She points out a side door at the back of the stage. "There is a door off to the left. But please do not use it unless there is an actual emergency. Because it will take you right into the London Transport Police."

The giggles grow even more nervous.

She leaves us to it and we are left in the operating theatre by ourselves.

Two candle bulbs flicker away above our heads.

I follow the iron pole holding them up to the ceiling. It's glass. But outside is completely black.

I have to say, sepsis wouldn't be my first worry if I ended up in this place back in the day. I certainly wouldn't want a surgeon digging away at my insides with only a scrap of British sunlit and two candles to guide him.

On the stage area, there is only a table. Set up with a macbook at the ready. And what looks like, though I can't be sure, a copy of Frankenstein.

I lean in trying to get a look.

Is that the Penguin Classic edition? Hard to tell from this distance.

Still, any edition of Frankenstein is a good edition to a play.

I love Frankenstein.

I stan Mary Shelley so hard.

She's out goths all the other goths. Did you know that she learnt to read by tracing he lettering on her mother's grave? And that dome years later, she had sex with her future husband on that self-same grave? Which is rather dramatic parental-introduction, but there you go. As if that wasn't enough, when her husband died, she burnt his body on the beach, removed his charred heart, and toted it around in a silken bag for the rest of her life.

Like I said: goth as fuck.

So when some black-drenched twatter tells you that goth is all about the music... well, you tell them from me the literature came first and they did it darker than The Cure ever could.

I'm grmuinrly quite excited now.

I mean, I was excited to be seeing a show in this place, but, and I'm going to be real here, I didn't do my research into what I was actually seeing.

The Two Body Problem? A play? Great. Book.

By the looks of it, I'm about to find out what this thing is though, as an actor has just appeared.

We seem to be in a lecture. And our speaker is studying the properties of galvanisation. And while her focus is not on the reanimation of corpses, the spectre of Shelley's novel hangs over us

There are no freesheets, so I cannot name-check our actor, but she's very good. She thumbs through her copy of Frankenstein, her voice quivering in full force and stuttering to a stop as she tries to tell us her strange tale.

As recounts her trip across the water to Antarctica, I shiver.

I pluck at my coat, and wriggle myself into it. It's suddenly very very cold in here.

But I don't stop shaking.

Our actors eyes fix on something in the distance.

I feel a looming shadow cross behind me.

I find myself looking around. But there's no one there. Only my fellow audience members.

Black out.

It's over.

I breath out a long held breath.

And then clap.

Hard.

That was good. Really good.

One problem. I now have 52 steps to go down. And I can't feel my legs.

I make my way back through the museum, then the shop. I pull open the heavy door, and look with anxious eyes at the stairs spiralling down beneath me.

A queue forms behind me.

There's no room for dithering.

Down I go.

This time my phone stays firmly in my pocket. The descent is far too precarious to risk a phone.

I keep one hand firmly planted on the brick wall. and the other one gripping tight to the wooden support that threads its way through the centre of the staircase, send up a silent prayer to the theatre gods, and keep moving, all the way until the bottom, where I jump the last step in my desperation to feel the solid flagstones under my boots.

I made it.

I can't help but look behind me through.

The thunder of my fellow audience members descending the stairs echoes around me.

At least, I hope it's my fellow audience members.

I don't stick around to find out.

Crossing bridges and trying not to burn them

You can't just walk into the JW3 building.

The entrance is set back from the road and only accessible by crossing over a long bridge. Access to the bridge is through huge metal gate. A gate that is guarded by security.

"Bag check?" I ask the security guard as I approach. Probably best to at least show willing.

"Yes, please!" he says, clicking on his torch as I open my bag for him.

He pokes around inside, picking up a tissue-wrapped parcel.

"What's this, if I may ask?" he asks in a tone that mixes politeness and the promise of significantly less politeness in equal measure.

"Is a gift box," I tell him. "It's empty."

I just bought it at the Tiger down the road. The very nice sales assistant wrapped it in tissue so that it wouldn't get messed up in my bag. And I was too cheap to pay the 50 pee fee for a bag. On reflection, this was a mistake. As packages go, it does look a touch suspicious.

He turns it over, and discovers that it is, indeed, empty.

Convinced that I have no intentions of bombing the Jewish community centre, he steps back and lets me through.

I walk across the bridge.

Far below, a small ice rink has been built, and the last couple of kids skate around, protected by the high walls on all sides.

I pause to take a photo, but I don't want to hang around. I can feel the security guard keeping a close eye. I hurry over to the doors and go in.

There's a huge desk taking up one wall. That's the box office.

Over on the other side there are bookcases and huge floor cushions which a few kids are making full use of.

"Oh sorry," says one of the box officers, suddenly looking up and noticing me waiting.

"Hello! The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S.?"

"Collecting tickets?"

"Yup."

She taps something into her computer. "First name?"

"Maxine. M. A. X. I. N. E." I say. I've got a bit of a cold again. The kind of cold that clogs up my voice. Always best to spell things out.

"That's one ticket," she says, handing it over.

I take it, a touch surprised. Given all the security I thought I might at least have to provide a bit of ID. But perhaps they already ran the background checks on me before I got here.

"Thanks, err, where am I going?"

Yup, I'm ashamed to say I have never been to JW3 before.

"It's in the Hall," says the box officer. "Down the stairs, to the left, and through the restaurant."

"Down. Left. Restaurant," I repeat. "Thanks!"

And off I go, down the stairs, and into the restaurant. And it's a proper restaurant, not a cafe. Bit annoying. I could have been tempted by a slice of cake. But nevermind.

I turn left. Keeping close to the wall as I pass tables heaving with people having their dinner.

Right at the end, there are doors, flanked either side by ushers. That must be the entrance to the Hall.

It's closed.

I'm early.

I look around.

There's nowhere to sit.

I'm in a restaurant.

I turn back, wondering whether I should go back upstairs to make use of those massive squashy floor cushions. But I'm too old to sprawl.

Over on the far side of the room are some doors leading outside to the courtyard.

I go out.

The last skaters are packing up and coming back in.

I'm all alone out here.

Headlights flash.

There's a car by the gate.

It waits, engine running, the lights so bright they make my blink.

The gate creaks open.

The car drives in.

I don't hang around to find out who's driving it. I go back inside.

The doors are open now.

A queue has formed, running all the way down the side of the restaurant.

I join it.

We move quickly.

"Thanks very much," says the ticket checker as he tears off the stub. "Enjoy!"

Inside I find myself walking down the side of a seating bank until I reach the front.

It's busy tonight.

People wearing lanyards scuttle about the front, getting in the way and yet not directing anyone.

I squeeze through them as they hold hurried conversations. They don't even look up.

I start climbing, trying to find a seat.

The back few rows have been cordoned off with a rope, and I slip into one of the last rows.

The seats are a mixture of singles and doubles. I pick a double, and send up a short prayer to the theatre gods that I won't have to share it with anyone.

From here I can see tens of heads wearing kippahs. I can't remember the last time I saw a man wearing a kippah in the theatre, let alone so many at once.

That's not the only thing that's done differently here.

A woman comes in, carrying a takeaway box from the restaurant. By the smell, the contents is warm and savoury. She also has a fork.

Now, I appreciate that being around your own people makes you feel safe enough to wear religious clothing. But hot food? In a theatre? Truly that is an abomination.

She sidles into the row in front of me and she points at an empty chair.

"Can I just reserve this one?" says the man sitting next to the empty seat.

She nods and moves one along.

It's a double-wide.

"Is this for one or two?" she asks.

"There are lots of seats," comes the confused reply of the seat-saver.

"But is this for two? Or can I have it myself...?"

"If you like...?"

She sits, but as the row begins to fill up, she changes her mind.

Coat and bag are swung over the back of the seat into my row. Next comes her umbrella. Then her dinner.

Finally, she climbs over.

As she organises herself, she places her takeaway down on my double-wide. I stare at it, faintly disgusted but also really hungry.

I miss eating dinner.

Eventually, the takeaway box is removed.

But I soon find something else trying to my friends with my knees.

An elbow.

It's draping over the back of the seat in front.

I shift my legs to one side, but it's no good. This girl is doing to full flirt-stretch over her date for the evening. I can tell it's a date because as well as the arm, she's also fluffing up her curls and tipping back her head to laugh.

An action that means that my knees aren't just getting elbowed, they are getting blanketed by hair.

I'm beginning to doubt that these are my people.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to start, if you can take your seats."

A woman appears on stage. She introduces herself. She's the programmer at JW3.

She introduces another woman. Who in turn introduces our performer for the evening. A little excessive on the whole introduction front, but this is an industry that attracts people who like talking, so I suppose we should be supportive of that.

Anyway, the show for the evening is about conspiracy theories. Which sounds fun.

Antisemitic conspiracy theories.

Which sounds less fun.

As the target of Marlon Solomon's exposition narrows to the Labour party... I begin to grow uncomfortable.

I've made it no secret from you that I'm Jewish. Nor that I vote Labour.

And I can tell you now that my family have, in turn, not made a secret of how little they approve of my political affiliations.

I've been called a race traitor. I've been told that I voted for Hitler. I've been told I should be shot for voting Labour.

Shot.

Shot!

Thank gawd for strict gun laws, eh?

So, yeah. I'm feeling a little awkward in this room right now. With these people, who are my people. And yet...

Solomon tells us that he never feels more Jewish than when his Jewishness is under attack.

I get that. I've felt that.

I've never felt less Jewish than in this room.

I've never felt more left wing.

Solomon tells us that he's lost work though his calling out of antisemitism in the Labour party.

I can believe it.

My family likes to say that I'm a lefty liberal because that's what I'm surrounded by in theatre. But the truth is, it's the other way around. I went to work in theatre because I wanted to surround myself with lefty liberals.

That's where I feel comfortable.

But I've heard plenty of suspect shit over the years.

Like an old co-worker, who I won't name because... well, the arts is a small world… anyway, when I told them I had dual nationality with Britain and Israel, they quickly informed me that the reason they were anti-Israel, no, wait, scrap that, the reason they had to be anti-Israel, was that their father was posted there with the army. The British army. A statement I've thought a lot about over the intervening years, and yet it still baffles me as much now as it did then. Both in its content and the need to tell me.

Another co-worker, who I won't name because she's a dear friend and an absolute darling, once gigglingly asked me if I had heard of David Icke. She had been listening to his stuff and thought he was fascinating. Lizard people! Fancy. I told her that she should stop listening to David Icke. Because David Icke is well-known as a antisemite. I don't know if she took my advice. I hope she did.

Then there was Falsetto-gate. Which was never resolved, or explained, or even defended.

Oh, and that thing at the Tricycle theatre. Do you remember that thing at the Tricycle theatre? Back when it was the Tricycle and not the Kiln? They pulled an entire film festival, a Jewish film festival, because it recieved funding by the Israeli embassy.

I mean, of all things to boycott, art seems to me like it should be last on the list.

I was lucky enough to be employed somewhere where a lot of Israeli artists were (and are) invited to bring their work on the regular. But when they came there was also the question "who is funding it?” and then bracing ourselves for protests if the answer wasn't one acceptable to the right-thinking-left. There never were protests. Not while I was there. I'm not sure I could have coped with it if there was.

Perhaps we avoided it because the Israeliness of these artists was always downplayed

I was asked, more than once, to remove a reference to these artists' nationality from marketing copy.

It's a weird thing, being asked to scrub out the name of a country that you hold a passport for. Lest it spark trouble.

I was never required to do that with artists from any other nation.

Time for questions.

"Now there's been the little matter of the general election," says someone in the front row who has seen the show three times now. "And Corbyn will be spending a lot more time on his allotment..."

"Thank gawd," stage whispers the woman sitting next to me.

Thank gawd.

Thank gawd.

I don't hear the rest of the question.

I'm shifting in my seat, desperate to get out of here.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.

The arts is very left. This is true. And like Solomon, this is where I feel my most Jewish. But sitting here in JW3, or having dinner with my family, that's when I'm most socialist.

The questions finish.

People start getting up to put on their coats.

One of the introducers from the beginning comes back on stage and starts doing an outro.

I just want to get out of here.

The couple next to me are taking their time leaving, sorting through all their bags and pockets, clearly with nowhere else to be.

The bloke looks up and sees me waiting.

"Shall we move?" he suggests. "People want to leave."

People do want to leave.

As soon as they pick up their stuff I'm out, speeding down the steps, around the seating block, through the door, down past the restaurant, up the stairs, across the foyer and back across that bridge.

Theatre was supposed to be my safe place, and I have never felt more attacked.

As I hurry down to the bus stop, I feverishly type notes into my phone.

On the bus ride back through Golders Green and back to Finchley, I try to make sense of my feelings.

I don't think they've changed.

I don't regret voting Labour in the last election.

I just really hope that I never have to.

The beautiful people do Panto

I'm on my way to the Tabernacle.

It's been a long time coming. Eleven months I've been trying to find a marathon-qualifying event to book myself onto. Every few weeks I've gone on their website, only to find endless listings for Gong Baths, which I'm still not entirely convinced are a real thing. Things were looking up over the summer when some sand artist was putting on a show. But a few days after purchasing my ticket, I was sent a refund. No explanation. Just that. The refund. 

I figured they must have found me out and decided they didn't want a mediocre theatre blogger in their midst, but a couple of days after that, the Tabernacle's website was updated. The show had been cancelled.

On the plus side, they did have a load of plays programmed in.

In Russian.

I have no problems with seeing theatre in the foreign, but these ones didn't have surtitles.

And I'm already seen my fill of Russian theatre this year. Didn't even get a blog post out of it. It was a repeat visit.

I held out.

And held out.

And held out.

And eventually, the waiting paid off.

The Portobello Panto was in for Christmas. 

Now, I hadn't heard of the Portobello Panto, but after some Googling, I found out the apparently, it's quite the thing. Celebrities have been known to turn up. Sometimes even on stage. But it's not about them. It's made by the locals, for locals. And yadda yadda yadda, it's all super heartwarming.

So obviously I'm got my shoulders set, ready and waiting to cast a withering, cynical gaze over the whole enterprise.

But as I pass through the high iron gates, and find myself in a courtyard, in the shadow of a huge, red brick temple, complete with curved frontage and turrets rising up from the party-hat roof, I realise that I've actually been here before. With Allison.

It was to see a Bush theatre production. About boxing. What was it called? The Royale? Something like that.

Anyway, I'm back.

And as I step through the glass doors and into a bustling marketplace, I manage to hold back my surprise.

Yes, I remember this.

Stalls butt against the entrance as they compete for space. Beaded jewellery spreads out on tables and people hover as they take try and get their Christmas shopping done before the show.

Beyond the tables is the cafe, borded on one side by a well stocked bookcase, and on the other by a row of squashy-looking booths.

I ignore all this and head straight to the box office.

There's a bit of a queue going on. It's a sold out show this afternoon. As is the entire run. And by the looks of it, it's not just families wanting to take their little ones for a bit of festive entertainment. Oh no. This lot are young, and sporting the kind of cool haircuts and interesting earrings that are usually found in the wilds of Dalston.

Each of them Ooos and Ahhs over the programmes, and almost all of them dive into their wallets to hand over the two quid and walk away with one of the handsomely illustrated booklets.

Eventually, it's my turn.

"Yes?" asks the box officer who is clearly having a bit of a day.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles?"

"Yeah." I spell it out for him. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

He looks down at his list. Turns it over. Looks again. Then moves over to the second bit of paper.

I'm not there.

"You bought online?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And it's spelt…?"

"Exactly as you'd think it's spelt. I have the confirmation email if that helps?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Just to see how the name's written. Then I can see it."

I bring up the e-ticket, zoom in on my name, and show him.

"How many was it?" he asks.

"One."

He grabs a wristband from the pile and hands it to me.

"Yes?" he says to the next person in line.

"Umm," I say, interrupting. "Can I get a programme?"

He glances over. "Yeah, one pound or two. Whatever you want..."

I take two pound coins out of my purse and lay them down on the counter before taking one of the programmes from the display.

The box officer is already handing out more wristbands.

I find an empty corner where I can put on the wristband. It's orange. With TABERNACLE printed along it in blocky capitals. These things are tricky, but I just about manage it, and flash it to the staff on the door before heading up the stairs towards the theatre.

I have to step back as young families scuttle out of the theatre entrance for one more trip to the loos before things get started, but after a few aborted starts, I get myself in. The stage has been set up at one end, with the rest of the pit filled with a seating bank. Around the edge is an ornate slim balcony of slip seats.

I climb my way towards the back. I have no idea what to expect from a Notting Hill take on pantomime, but I am pretty sure that I don't want to be near the front.

I slip into the third row from the back.

A very well-dressed family is taking up the middle seats.

"Sorry, is there anyone here?" I ask one of the grown ups who has clearly spent a good deal at the hairdressers to get the shiny blow-out she is sporting.

She doesn't even look around.

"Sorry," I say, trying again. "Is there anyone here?"

This time she glances in my direction. "Noooo," she says in the primest West London accent I have ever heard in my life.

So I take the seat next to her.

Usually I'd leave a buffer, but as we know, this place is sold out, and I doubt there will be any other people here on their lonesome. So Ms Blowout is going to have to content herself with having to sit next to a North London scruff for the next few hours.

The band is already playing from their corner next to the stage and the air is filled with chatter as people lean over the rows to say hello to each other.

A family with young children comes in to take the seats on the other side of me.

A small boy holds down the flip seat for his mother.

Her hands full of coats and bags she makes to sit down.

The boy let goes.

The mum falls heavily to the ground.

All around hands grasp out to help her get back to her feet.

She's okay.

That excitement over, I inspect the set.

A sign marks out the presence of a Polling Station.

Something tells me this panto is going to get political.

A boy runs over to his seat. He's wearing a EU-themed Christmas jumper.

A tech person appears on stage, drink still in hand as he fiddles around with the street lamp.

"Remember to put your phones on silent," whispers a woman sitting behind me.

"It's a panto," comes the laughing reply. "No one will care."

The band finish their jam and the audience claps and whistles in appreciation.

The lights dim.

A man in a waistcoat comes out to introduce the show. A Christmas Carol. Not prime fodder for a panto, I would have thought, but here we are. He gives us a few instructions. Remember to boo the baddies and all that panto-stuff. The children give a quick demonstration of their booing skills, and we're off.

Into the world of fast fashion, where Ms Scrooge, in a floor length taffeta skirt and oversized glasses, presides over a clothing brand which relies on quick turnaround and unpaid labour.

Blowout-lady wriggles out of her coat, giving me a good bash with her elbow as she does so.

We journey to the Cratchett's home, where Tiny Tim sings us out with the plaintive 'Don't look back in hunger' after this family have insisted that 'Scroogey can wait.'

As the interval starts, my chair wobbles. Someone is climbing into my row. I stand up to let them pass.

The chair wobbles again. Someone else is clambering over. I stand to let them pass too.

Of all the things I've been getting annoyed by on this marathon, people insisting on having strangers stand up so that their friends don't have to move is the one that makes my blood boil the most.

I turn around, ready to glare at these lazy layabouts, and find myself staring at a row of tiny babies, resting peacefully in their parents’ arms.

There are three of them. All tiny.

"How old is she?" asks someone stopping next to the row of sleeping tots to admire the preciousness.

"Four months, but she was two months premature."

"So tiny!"

She is tiny. The tiniest baby I have ever seen in a theatre.

One of the mums returns, slipping into my row and leaning over to check on her child.

"Is she wet?" she asks.

"She just made," replies the dad.

I lean away, suddenly considerably less enamoured with these miniature humans.

"Are you okay?" asks the dad bending over the bundle. "Oh dear. A bit of vom."

I scoot forward in my seat. I definitely do not want to be close to that.

I get out the programme and have a look. The cast list is massive. And right at the end, there is the promise of a special guest playing the role of the fashion buyer. That's exciting.

People are starting to come back in. Every time I stand up to let people past the row of chairs leans back alarmingly as the unsecured feet rise up from the floor.

One of the blokes sitting behind puts out his arm to stop it encroaching on the babies.

“Is that mum's jacket?" asks a teenage girl, pointing down at my coat.

"No, that's mine," I tell her.

"Oh. Right," she says, but she keeps an eye on it all the same, until her sister recovers her mother's actual coat from under the seats and pulls it to safety.

"They must be mortified round here," says a woman as she takes her seat near me. "Because the Conservatives got in."

"There was a swing to Tory," agrees her friend.

"They showed a map of London and it was all red except this area."

And Finchley. Don't forget Finchley.

I would rather forget Finchley.

"They hated Corbyn though."

"To think this area is the area of Grenfell. It's just tragic."

It is. I saw Grenfell on my way here. Still there. Still looming. Still devastating.

One if the teenage girls starts inching her way down our row. I stand to let her past but she waves me back into my seat. "It's fine, I'm not going...," she says before plonking herself down in her mother's lap and winding her arms around her neck, messing up that salon-coiffure.

Her mother doesn't seem to mind.

The second act starts.

Things are really getting bad. Cratchett has lost his job. A sweatshop is being built right in Ladbroke Grove. And poor Scroogey is getting all these scary apparitions creeping into her bedroom.

And the special guest turns out to be a young man in a highlight pink suit.

The two men sitting in front of me turn to each other with a look of confusion.

"I think..." starts one...

But the special guest has already read his lines off the back of his folding fan, and has disappeared back off stage.

Soon enough, we are all clapping along to some Christmas song.

The cast are all introduced and each in turn steps forward to get their applause. Everyone has given their time for free and the ticket sales all go to charity.

Our special guest turns out to be called Tom Pomfrey (or possibly Pomfret?) which doesn't help me at all. I suspect I'm not cool enough to know who he is.

"A big cheer for this amazing little thing!" says one of the cast members, pointing down to a tiny toddler who is bouncing around in the front row, having the best time of his life.

The cast member leans down to pick the tiny toddler up, but finding himself on stage, the tiny toddler promptly bursts into tears.

But they don't last for long, and soon half the under-fives in the audience have found their way onto the stage to dance along with the cast.

And we are sent out into the real world with Scrooge's final message: "The real meaning of Christmas... is to change the awful people."

And on that note, I'm off to have dinner with my family.

The Fat Cats of Clapham

For some reason I have decided that taking a two hour walk to tonight's venue is a good idea. I have also managed to convince myself that my new boots, fresh on this morning, would be up for the challenge. Two miles in, I realise that I an wrong on both counts.

But hobbling along, trying not to think of the blister rapidly growing on my right heel, does give me the perfect opportunity to think. Really, I get all my best thinking done when I'm walking. Like: what I want to have for dinner, and: who will be first on my hit list when Boris introduces the Purge.

This evening, I'm thinking about my marathon. Or rather, the themes. At some point with the next few weeks, I'm going to have to come up with some finale blog post. A round up of all my thoughts. And I'm not sure I have any. I mean, I do. But I'm not sure anyone is that interested in my ten thousand word treaty on the benefits of freesheets. Nor my list of ten questions you should never ask a audience member (with number one being: why are you here?). 

I suppose if I really want to talk about things that I've come across again and again, the starting point must surely be Emily Carding. Starting way back at the beginning of my marathon, at theatre twenty, I've seen Carding perform four times. And tonight, in a neat mirror-trick as we are now twenty theatres from the end, I'm going back for a fifth.

It's almost as if I planned it.

I did kinda plan it.

Two Carding-shows in, I made a conscious decision to follow this actor throughout her London dates.

Not that I'm a stalker you understand. I'm just loyal.

That's what I've been telling myself anyway. I'm just very, very loyal. Committed, one might say.

And it's not like she doesn't know. I'm not creeping around theatres, popping up without warning, demanding blog content. Now that would be weird. 

That is not the case at all. Carding is fully aware of my marathon, and my intentions to turn up at any of her performances taking place in a London venue that I haven't been to yet. And she hasn't complained. Which to me sounds like approval.

Umm.

Just as I manage to convince myself that I am definitely not a stalker, I limp my way past Clapham Common and pause outside the Omnibus to take it all in. Yup, I'm back here again. 

And I'm slightly annoyed by it. Not about being at the Omnibus, as it's a very nice space. Nor about seeing the show, because well, we've talked about that. But because I hadn't planned on it.

The Omnibus started out the year as a single-theatre venue. And now they've only gone about opening a studio. In 2019. In the year of my marathon. It's almost like they did it just to pain me. I'll admit I did not take the news well. I may have gone off a little bit at them. And by 'gone off' I mean, I told them to fuck right off to Yorkshire on Twitter.

It was not my finest moment.

I guess I better cross the road and get this exterior photo taken. 

Almost getting run over by a car that does not understand the concept of a pedestrian crossing, I make it to the other side, take my photo, and totter back again, checking the images as I step through the great stone archway and...

Someone is coming out the door, wearing a bright blue leotard.

It's Emily Carding.

In costume.

Umm.

I smile and hope she hasn't noticed me. But as I make my way to the entrance, I find her there, holding the door.

Oh.

"You have a familiar face," she says, fixing her eyes on me. She's wearing white contact lenses. Only the pupils are showing. They're terrifying.

"I hope so!" I say. I mean, after four theatre trips and a tarot reading...

"Yes, you have a familiar human face..." 

I am no good at this kind of thing. Unfortunately, working for a drama school has not improved my improv skills over the last few weeks.

She smiles, taking pity on me and drops the character. The change is instantaneous. The cold exterior falling away as if it never existed. She pats me on the head.

"Those contacts are terrifying," I say honestly.

"They are," she agrees, and we go inside.

Oof.

Okay. That was intense.

I head straight for the box office. A small desk tucked inside the foyer.

"Hello," says the box officer in the exact soothing tone I need right now.

"Hello. The surname's Smiles?"

“For Quintessence?”

“Yes!”

He finds my name on the list and hands me an admission token. "Listen for the bell," he says. "We should ring it just before nine. The bar is just through there."

I follow the direction he's pointing and find myself in a lovely front room, complete with piano. Rustic wooden tables crowd the space, and the bar is decorated with illustrated chalkboard menus. 

It looks like the kind of cafe that should have ‘Kitchen’ in the name, with a herb garden out back and a farm-to-table manifesto scrawled on the windows. Instead, they have Christmas decorations. Which is almost as good.

I find a table and have a look at my admission pass.

It's a ticket.

I mean, it's a ticket for the omnibus.

I mean, it's a ticket for public transport. Of the omnibus variety. 

That's neat. I like that.

As I busy myself taking photos, an alarm starts. A very loud alarm. An alarm far too loud and insistant to possibly be a theatre bell. The type of alarm that should really have us lining up outside and having our names ticketed off by someone with a hi-vis jacket and clipboard.

I look over at the staff behind the bar. They don't look overly concerned about the whole thing.

"Why has that gone off?" one of them asks.

"Somebody smoking probably."

They carry on with bar business and the alarm eventually stops.

For a few minutes.

As it starts up again, one of the bar people sighs with aggravation. "Oh gawd," she groans. "Reminds me of the IRA. They used to go off all the time."

Honestly, that's not something I ever thought I'd have to be worrying about in the idles of Clapham.

At last, it stops. I hold myself very still, not wanting to jump in shock when it starts up again. But as the silence spreads out, my stomach decides it's time to take over.

Well, it is past 8 o'clock and I haven't had my dinner yet.

I go over to the bar to see what the food selection is. There's a selection of cakes, all of which look depressingly vegan and gluten free. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's very important that our vegan and gluten free friends can get a slice of cake when they go to the theatre. But vegan cakes are not visually appetising, and frankly, I like gluten. The more of it the better.

"Can I help?" asks one of the ladies behind the bar.

"I'm just investigating the food situation," I tell her.

"We also have savoury," she tells me.

"Oo!" I say, suddenly excited. "What do you have?"

She looks around, thinking. "We have quiche?" She turns to the other lady there. "Do we have quiche left?"

"We have sausage rolls," says the other bar lady.

"Vegetarian sausage rolls!"

"No, not vegetation."

"Meat."

"I would love a non-vegetarian sausage roll," I say.

"Meat?"

"Yeah... meat..." I agree.

"With salad?"

"... alright." I don't really want salad. But I don't think they get many meat-eating, non-gluten free customers in here. I should probably at least make a small effort. "And a cup of tea?"

"What type?"

"Breakfast?" I say as a question, hoping my choice won't get me banished.

She nods. Phew. "I'll make the tea first. Milk is just over there," she says, pointing to a small tray with milk jug and dishes for spoons and spent teabags.

"The fire brigade is here," she says as she starts making my tea.

"Yes, they have to come when it goes off."

Slightly dazed, I go back to my seat with my tea. I appear to have just paid over nine pounds for a cup of tea and a sausage roll. That's a lot of money. I do hope it's at least a large sausage roll. I'm starving.

A few minutes later, it's brought over.

It is not a large one.

"Bon appetite," says the lady from the bar. "Would you like mustard with that?"

"I'm alright," I tell her, looking sorrowfully at my plate. I admit, I eat a lot. A lot a lot. But even so. Nine pounds for a sausage roll, a bit of salad, and a cup of tea. I had no idea Clapham was so expensive. I would have popped into the Co-op on my way here and bought a sandwich if I'd known.

At least it tastes good.

And there's a cat.

Wait. What?

There's a cat!

Over there.

Under the table.

Am I imagining that?

No. It's a cat.

A very fat cat.

Possibly a pregnant cat.

I lower my hand and flutter my fingers.

The cat looks at me.

I flutter my fingers again.

The cat gets up and waddles in my direction.

I click my tongue, and give an extra flutter, just in case.

She waddles up, and keeps on waddling, right past me, without a second glance.

Dammit.

I knew that extra flutter was overdoing it. I was too keen. Cats and ghosts. They don't like you when you come on too strong.

I need to learn how to play hard to get.

I finish my sausage roll, and settle back with my cup of tea, watching the cat as she scampers around, chasing invisible rabbits and scratching up the table legs.

Out in the foyer, a bell rings.

It's time to go.

I wave at the cat. She looks out me before twisting around, lifting her leg, and turning her attention to cleaning her bottom.

Chairs scrape as we all get up and head for the door.

As we pass the kitchen a man leans in and asks one of the people inside to throw out something for him.

"Blueberry?" he asks, offering out his small plastic tray of berries.

She shakes her head. She doesn't take bribes.

The box officer is at the bottom of the stairs, collecting passes.

I hand him mine and head up.

The door to the theatre is open.

It's very dark in here, but I think I've found myself behind the seating block.

I edge myself around it to the front.

And there's Carding, on stage, her head bowed, eyes closed, and arms poised in a more angular version of ballet's first position.

I creep across the front of the stage and slip up the centre aisle, finding my comfort spot: end of the third row.

It's freezing in here.

All the warmth in this building has been diverted down to the cafe.

I heft my massive coat up over my knees and shiver.

A voice comes over the soundsystem.

It seems the humans have got themselves into a bit of a mess, and the androids have to step in to look after them.

As Carding wakes the story unfolds. Humans have retreated into domes, from where the androids look after our every need. As their manual, they take the ultimate authority on what it is to be human: Shakespeare.

Now, you know I'm not a big fan of Billy Shakespeare.

So, already I'm in a dystopian nightmare here, even before this supposed utopia begins to unravel.

But like... Carding is really good. And, like, she does like Shakespeare, so if anything is going to make all these excerts from his plays watchable, it's her.

There's a bit from Winter's Tale. I know that bit. Mainly because I watched a matinee of it this afternoon. But still. I'm feeling pretty smug all the same.

We also get Hamlet. And Romeo. And Juliet. And Henry Five. And Attenborough. And... Carding shudders. The lights flicker.

The voice is back.

The android is rebooting.

Carding's head lifts, her expression clear. All is well.

Something tells me this isn't going to end well.

But we press on all the same.

The audience grin knowingly to each other as the androids come up against human adolescence for the first time. Their response to it soon has the smiles fading from our lips.

Carding switches from character to android and back again, her face filling with the deepest emotions, before the shutters are brought back down in an instant, and the android takes over.

But such serenity can't last.

The lights switch to red and Carding is leaning forward, arms behind like tortured wings, her face twisted and contorted. She is perfectly still. She is perfectly terrifying.

I freeze. Something tells me I shouldn't blink.

If the Weeping Angels are real, then we have one of them in Clapham right now.

And then it's done, and we are released.

I manage to unfurl myself enough to clap. At least, I think I'm clapping. I can't actually feel my hands.

"You know those angels from Doctor Who?" says someone in the front row as we all start gathering our things and getting ready to leave.

"No," comes the reply. "But I can imagine."

Oh, sweet innocent front rower. You can not imagine. Although, perhaps after that performance...

Carding is on the landing. She has a flock of fans and friends and well-wishers around her.

"Let me just say a proper hello," she says turning to me.

"You were amazing," I say truthfully. I mean, I'm scarred for life. But it was amazing, all the same.

"I don't want to get makeup on you," she says as we hug.

Eh. I wear enough eyeliner for three people and cry a lot. I'm not afraid of getting makeup on me.

I wobble my way back down the stairs. I'm choosing to blame the five-ish miles I walked to get here. And not the fact that I am still shaking in fear.

I Am A Revolutionary

"Come on, mate," growls the man standing behind me.

Thankfully, this man's ire is not directed at me, but at the box officer at Stratford Circus, who seems to be having a lot of trouble looking up someone's order.

The woman at the front of the queue gets out her phone to find the confirmation email.

The computer is consulted. Lists are checked. The order is not found.

The queue sighs, stepping from foot to foot as we wait. The tinsel garland stuck across the front of the counter isn't doing much to get us in the Christmas spirit.

At last, some sort of arrangement is made, and the woman walks away with her ticket.

Except, no. She's stopped. She's walking back.

"Do you do food here?" she asks.

"The bar has crisps," offers up the box officer. "Yeah, just snacks."

"What about next door? Never mind," she says, stopping herself with a wave of her hand. "I don't have time. I'll have to settle for crisps. I've only eaten once today, you see."

And with that, she's off.

The queue shuffles forward.

But we're moving quickly now, and soon enough it's my turn.

"Hi! The name's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S."

The box officer looks down a printed list and taps her finger on my name. 

"Maxine?"

The one and only.

"That's two tickets," she says, pulling a pair of laminated admission passes out of a business envelope.

Yup. That's right. Ya gurl actually has someone with her tonight. No single shaming for me.

I reach out to claim the passes, but the box officer isn't letting go.

Another box officer has come over, and the pair of them are deep in discussion about the list. 

"When was it printed?"

"Last night."

"Ah! That explains it."

Yes, yes, yes. I nod along, keeping my gaze fixed on the passes still clutched in her hand.

Eventually, the two box officers conclude that the reason the woman's order couldn't be found was because she had booked on the day.

They do not approve.

At last, the tickets are relinquished into my care, and I can finally have a look around this place.

I've been here before. I already have Circus 1 checked off my list. And now I'm back for Circus 2, which gives me the perfect opportunity to inspect their Christmas decorations.

First ones of the year. Everyone else seems to be holding off until December.

But even with their early start, Stratford isn't doing things by halves. There's not one Christmas tree, but two. Each surrounded by piles of presents. Tinsel loops its way over the bar. There's even a stocking.

I retreat to the windows, where there are tables and chairs and a convenient pillar to lean against.

I'm not sure, but I think those doors right next to me are the entrance to Circus 2. This is based on nothing but the fact that they have an usher posted outside of them.

There's no signage. Not that I can see.

Circus 1 is over the other end of the foyer. And Circus 3 and 4 are upstairs. I can see their numbers all printed on the walls. But there's not a 2 to be found anywhere.

A group of young women wander over.

The front of houser steps in front of them. "Should be open in a few minutes," she tells them.

They retreat a few steps, not wanting to go too far and lose their precious place in the queue. It's unallocated seating tonight. And they have no intention of being stuck in the back.

The woman who hasn't eaten strolls over. She looks a lot more calm now that she has a packet of crisps in hand. She finds a table to munch them. 

The foyer begins to fill up.

I keep close to my pillar and check the time.

It's seven to seven. 

The doors open.

People start to form a line.

I get out the way and check my phone.

There's a message from Sarah. "2 mins!!" it says. Two exclamation marks. She must be stressed.

I'm not overly worried. We won't get the best seats, but we probably shouldn't be taking them. We're here to see Messiah. Based on the true story of that Blank Panther who was killed by the Chicago police, Frederick Hampton. And as we are a pair of white girls, we should probably be finding ourselves at the back.

The audience is going in.

I take up a spot near the doors, looking up from my phone every time someone comes in.

Not her.

Not her.

Still not her.

Neither of them are her.

Okay, now I'm starting to get slightly anxious.

I get my phone out again, but she hasn't even read my last message. The ticks remain resolutely grey. 

Shit.

She's probably dead.

"Maxxxxx," calls out someone wearing a leather jacket and a bike helmet. 

Arms wrap around themselves around me.

I think this must be Sarah.

"Shall we go in?" I say, edging her over to the doors as she tells me about her bike journey. Sounds like a bloody nightmare. This is why I don't cycle. I mean, one of the reasons I don't cycle. Other than the main one which is that I would definitely die if I tried.

I hand the admission passes over to the front of houser and we go in.

There's lots of people in here. Messiah is clearly the show to see tonight.

"Can you fill in from this side for me?" asks a front of houser as I stop to figure out where we should go. 

We do as we're told, heading towards the nearest block of seating. Except, we don't get very far. There's one of those rope barriers blocking off the back couple of rows.

I stare at it. "Ummm," I say.

Everyone else around us stops too. "Ummm."

One of the standers decides to take the initiative and calls over to the usher. "Can we...?"

But the usher is otherwise occupied and doesn't hear her.

Being the hero that we all need, the woman grabs hold of one of the metal polls and shoves it out the way, freeing up one of the rows. I follow her lead, grabbing the other poll and giving it a quick kick for good measure.

Exhausted by my efforts, I slide my way down the row, collapsing at the far end.

Sarah follows me, looking around. In a low voice she makes a comment suggesting that the people in the audience for tonight's performance of Messiah are of a considerably higher calibre, looks-wise, than you might usually find in a theatre.

She's not wrong.

We're an attractive bunch in here tonight.

A young man comes barreling down our row, shoving Sarah out the way before climbing into the seat in front.

Sarah winces. "Thanks mate," she mutters.

We both glare at him.

My appreciation of the audience has gone down a couple of notches.

"I literally just pulled something," says Sarah as she sits down.

Pretty people are such twats.

I look around, scoping out all these attractive arseholes.

But I can't help but notice that there are some amongst our midst who are taking things to another level. They are radiating a kind of energy that you don't tend to find hanging out in an arts centre on a Wednesday night.

I watch them carefully as they move about, very much not sitting down.

And wouldn't you know, they're actors, because of course they are.

I can't tell you much besides that. You know the rules: no freesheet, no crediting. I'm not Googling no one.

But one of them, who I’m guessing is our Fred Hampton, is ordering us all to our feet, arms in the air, in the Black Power salute.

We all look at each other, but Fred isn't having it.

We need to get the hell up.

We do, raising our arms in the demonstrated pose cautiously.

Sarah and I share a glance. I giggle nervously. I'm so glad I'm not here alone and have a fellow white person to share this with, because I'm feeling hella awkward right now.

Fred is now ordering us to repeat him. "I. Am. A Revolutionary," he says.

"I. Am. A Revolutionary," we chorus back to him.

A few people try to drop their arms, but Fred is having none of it.

"Don't put down your arm!" he orders. "I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

"I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

Across the way I spot a girl have trouble with the salute. Her arm is falling forward and talking on a more Nazi-esque angle than I'm sure she intended. Although... I suppose you can never tell with white people.

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

I am not a revolutionary. I mean, I pretend I am. But you and I both know it's all lies. I prefer lie-ins over sit-ins, and while I've gone to a few protests and marches and whatnot in my time, when the going gets tough, the Maxine gets going. As in, away. Far away.

"I want that to be the last thing you say before you go to sleep," he tells us. "I. Am. A Revolutionary."

Someone comes in. A white someone.

You just know he's going to be a police officer.

Fred orders us to sit down.

"Thank gawd," whispers Sarah. "My arm was getting tired."

The door opens and the usher waves in a latecomer, pointing out the reserved seats in the front row.

The police officer looks at him. "Take a seat. Sit down," he orders.

And on the backs of our laughter, we are launched into the story. Or at least, the framing device around the story. We're recreating the events of that night. When the police stormed Hampton's flat and opened fire, killing him in front of his heavily pregnant girlfriend.

The floor has been marked up with white tape, showing off the layout of the apartment. But those white lines, combined with the long stage and high walls, is giving this room serious school-gym vibes that even the blackout curtains cannot compensate for.

But I soon forget about that, as we are flung back in time, to the evening before those awful events happened. With Frederick and Deborah enjoying dinner, dancing together, calling his mum together, and laughing with each other, laughing with the Panther's head of security, William O’Neal. Oh my, they laugh together so much. My heart is melting at the sight of them.

As the lights dim to a final blackout I breath out a long sigh.

"She was so good," I say. "The girlfriend."

"She was realy good," agrees Sarah. "I really enjoyed that, actually."

I'm not sure enjoyed is quite the right word, but I know what she means and I nod to show my agreement.

"Food?" I ask.

"Gawd yes."

"I am starving."

"Me too."

It's a quarter past eight, there is plenty of time to be getting ourselves dinner.

Besides, I need to get all the gossip about my old work from this former colleague of me.

We head outside, and as I wait for Sarah to unlock her bike I get out my phone. There's one thing I need to do before we find somewhere to eat.

I look up the cast. I know, I know. I'm breaking my own rules here. But I need to know the name of the actor who played Deborah.

I find the information on the Stratford Circus webpage for Messiah.

Angelina Chudi.

Fucking brilliant.

Climb Every Mountain

Six minutes before my show is due to start and I'm jogging down a deserted street trying to find the way into this damn building.

I must have come a funny way because I've been here before, and yet nothing looks even slightly familiar.

Where are the rolling Teletubby style hills? Where are the multicoloured windows?

This looks like way to a sweat factory, not one of the most renowned dance schools in the country.

I'm back at Trinity Laban, you see. Catching a show in their Studio theatre this time around.

And hasn't it been a long time coming?

The people at Laban don't seem to use their studio all that much.

At least not for public performances.

There was one over the summer, but I had to miss it because it coincided with my moving down to Hammersmith. I thought all was lost. But just in the nick of time, they have programmed an alumni choreography showcase. Which means that I am now running down a wall of builders' hoarding, trying to find a way to get in.

I'll give Laban this, they know how to torture a girl.

I check the time.

Five minutes. 

Oh gawd.

I can't miss another studio show. Not after all the effort I went through to get in to this one.

It was not a matter of simply booking, oh no. I had to email the alumni department to request a ticket. I was a little worried about getting turned down. Not being an alum, or even in the industry, myself.

But there was nothing in the copy to say it wasn't open to the public, so I took a shot.

And sure enough, a few hours later, I was emailed back with the affirmative, I could absolutely go.

I round a corner. A sign points out the main entrance. Through a gate. And there it is. In all it's children's TV show glory. 

No time to admire it though. Hefting my bag over my shoulder I sprint my way down the path, slowing down as I near so that the security on the door doesn't worry about what the strange woman puffing away in a (fake) fur coat is doing in this bastion of dance.

A couple of dancey looking people are leaning on the box office chatting to the woman behind the counter, but I don't stop. The email said to go right through to the studio.

A small sign on a stand points to way. "Bite Size Pieces," it says, with an arrow.

I follow it's direction. Down the corridor. Past the entrance to the main theatre.

There's another sign waiting for me at the end.

"Bite Size Pieces. Studio Theatre. Second Floor."

I keep on going.

There's a staircase down here. A rather dramatic spiral of a staircase, that looks like it was hewn by Morlocks many millennia ago.

Up the stairs.

One floor.

Then two.

I find myself in another corridor, lined with pink lockers against azure blue walls.

A small group are waiting on a bench.

I dither, not sure who's in charge, until I spot the one holding the clipboard, and go over to her.

"Do I need to give my name or...?" I say.

As reply, she hands me a freesheet.

"Do you know anyone involved tonight?" she asks.

It's not an unfriendly question, but it fills me with dread. I've been asked this question so many times on this marathon, and every time I hate it just a tiny bit more. While for the asker it's probably little more than a conversation starter, but for the askee it is something else entirely. A demand to justify their presence. An explanation of why they are there. I hate it. I really really hate it.

"Err, not really," I say. "More of an interested party."

Yeah, I funked out. I don't want to take about my marathon. Not tonight. 

"Have you come far?"

"Finchley," I say with an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah. Really far. Bit exhausted. I've just run around the entire building. It's been ages since I was here last, and couldn't remember how to get it."

As soon as I say it, I realise it was a mistake.

"Did you study here?" she asks.

Shit.

"No..." I admit. "But I know lots of people who did."

That's almost true. I know one person who did.

She nods, expecting more.

Double shit. Time to pull out the big guns.

"I used to work at Sadler's, so..."

I let that sentence hang in the air. It's true enough. I did work at Sadler's. Only left a few weeks ago. That fact that I was in the marketing department and not programming is neither here nor there.

The woman with the clipboard realises that she's not going to get anything else out of me, and leaves me to it.

More people have arrived. Students by the looks of it. No wonder clipboard lady was so interested in me. 

Down the corridor, the grass green door to the theatre is opened.

Two people take up positions either side, holding stacks of freesheets.

We all go over and line up.

"Do you want a...?" asks one of the people on the door, holding out a freesheet.

"I have one..." I start at the same time as she recognises me and says: "Oh! You have one don't you?"

Inside we go.

It's large.

Much larger than the words 'studio theatre' would suggest.

The stage is floor level. The walls lined with blackout curtains, no doubt hiding those massive multi-coloured windows. 

I walk around the bank of seating, and gravitate automatically towards the end of the third row.

The seats are hard plastic. I don't think I've seen the like on my marathon so far. Usually, theatres at least pretend that they are providing at least a minimal level of comfort for their audiences, but this arrangement is so spartan it could only have been dreamt up by someone who spends more time dancing around than sitting down.

I have a look at the freesheet. Four pieces tonight. With a ten minute pause in the middle. Not an interval, you may note. But a pause.

I take a moment to ponder on the difference between the two. A pause tends to suggest a set change. A gap between performances lasting three to five minutes. I don't think I've come across a ten minuter before.

I guess in this context, terming it as a pause is probably due to the lack of bar.

The woman who tried to give me a freesheet steps out onto the stage and introduces herself. She's Lucy and she works in alumni relations.

"I made a mistake on the freesheet," she says holding it up. "Laure and Liwia are actually the other way around. That's the third and fourth piece. And after the show, there will be a drinks reception. That's a chance to talk to the artists and ask them any questions about their work. That will be taking place in Studio 3, which is the one just opposite the theatre." She points over our heads, in the direction of the studio.

And then it's time to start.

Everyone quickly glances at their freesheets before the lights dim and the first piece starts. Antigone Gyra appears in the midst of a huge spotlight, leaping about so energentically her headscarf falls away and her long hair streams out behind her as she dances. It's a short piece. Fifteen minutes or so, but she packs in a lot.

As the applause fades, the next dancer readies himself. We all gasp as Panayiotis Tofi presents us with the startling image of an upside down and headless man. As he moves around, his body appears animalistic, bestial almost. The music is dark and grinding, making my heart thump alarmingly in time with it.

As we applaud again, I grab the freesheet. The score is by Eric Holm. I wouldn't want to meant him on a black night.

Lucy comes back out to explain the reason for the pause. The first two artists are off receiving feedback on their work.

I go back to the freesheet.

Reversing running order, the next piece should be by Liwia Bargiel. It's about the physicological impact memories have on the body, which sounds very impressive. "The dancer interacts with the audience to illuminate new perspectives on individual bodily experiences."

Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear.

I'm not sure I'm quite up for that. I had more than enough interaction last night to keep me going for the rest of the marathon. I'm really not sure I can cope with more right now. Especially dance interaction. Dance interaction at a showcase. A showcase where the artists are receiving feedback. I don't want to do the wrong thing and ruin it somehow.

I try to slink down in my seat, but the plastic is really unforgiving.

I tell myself that she won't pick on me. Not in an audience of students. She'll reach out to someone she knows.

Still, as the lights go down, I find myself sitting very still, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible so as not to draw attention.

But when it comes to it, the interaction is nothing more than her sitting on a chair, and breathing some scientific theories into a microphone.

Last up, Laure Fauser, who is very much not keen on ever trapping herself in an office. She tears around the stage and falls to the ground in despair at the thought of being strapped into a skirt suit every day.

I can't blame her.

Serving the great god of capitalism is no way to live.

One last round of applause and it's time to leave.

Oh, yeah. I'm not staying for the drinks reception. Let the young people pick the brains of these talented folks.

"If you'd like to join us for drinks in Studio 3, you're welcome to stay," Lucy reminds us.

I walk quickly off to the other door, and scurry down the stairs anyone spots me.

Back through the empty corridors, and past the lone security guard. I just hope I don't get lost in the rolling hills outside.

Feeling fruity

I'm taking you to Applecart Arts tonight. Yeah, I don't know what to expect either. I don't know anything about this place. Other than the name is making me hungry.

It's one of those venues I only found out about mid-marathon. So, I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself that I managed to schedule in a little trip. Even if it does mean that I'm walking down a very long, very dark, street in Upton Park on a Friday Night.

I squeeze through a couple of parked cars and cross the road, stopping to inspect a glass door with a sign saying Applecart on it. It doesn't look like the sort of place you'd watch a play. For a start, it looks closed.

I keep on walking. And sure enough, there's a great big yellow banner on the wall. And a giant hand pointing the way. Two of them, actually. One points to the left. "Main Entrance," it says. Another points the other way, back towards the glass door. That's the stage door apparently.

Okay then.

I go left, through a short iron gate, and I appear to be standing in front of a church.

Honestly, I don't know how I got this far without guessing that. A fringe venue, in outer London, with a cutsie name. Of course it's in an old church.

The door is open and the lights are blazing.

I go up the steps and slip through the wooden door.

Inside it's a cafe. A rather cool looking cafe. All vintage furnishings and tables made out of packing crates.

And in the corner, over the counter, is a sign saying "Box Office." Looks like I'm in the right place.

"Are you here for the show?" asks the guy behind the counter.

I sure am.

I go over, pulling off my gloves. "Yeah, the surname's Smiles?"

"Right... have you bought a ticket already?"

Yup. I don't travel the entire length of the District line without a booking waiting for me at the other end.

"Sorry," he says, clicking at his laptop, "I'm just setting up the box office, What's the name again?"

"Smiles," I repeat. For such a simple name, it proves to be quite tricky. People always think they've heard it wrong. That's why I usually end up spelling it out.

"Ah!" he says, finding me on the list, "There you are. You don't actually need an actual ticket."

But I'm not paying attention, because I'm just spotted a pile of beauties sitting out on the counter.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"Yeah! They're one pound."

Perfect. I pull out my purse and start rummaging around, but all I can find are useless coppers. "I always have loads of pound coins until I actually need one," I laugh, trying to explain why it is taking me so long to purchase a damn programme. Finally, I find two fifty pees, hand them over and am able to retreat in my poundless shame.

There's no one else here. I have the pick of seating choices. And while the leather wingback armchair does look very tempting, I'm heading straight for the petite chaise longue because it's a Friday night and I'm feeling extra.

It is at this point that I begin to wonder if this lonesome state is going to extend throughout the evening. You know that's a big fear of mine, Being in an audience of one, I mean. With me being the one. I really don't think I could cope with that.

So it's with some relief that I spot someone else coming through the doors.

He gives me a nod and goes over to the counter, ordering himself up a toastie and a glass of wine.

And then he asks how things are looking for tonight.

The box officer leans in and gives him the figures.

The good news is that I'm not the only one to have booked in tonight, the bad news is that this newcomer works on the show.

I sure hope the others turn up.

I send up a short prayer to the theatre gods, and try to distract myself by editing a blog post.

But all the time, I'm watching that door.

Just as a start giving up hope, a woman comes in. She goes over to the box office. I hold my breath, hoping she's not on a purely toastie-based mission. She's not. She's buying a ticket, and she's paying cash. She throws down a ten-pound note onto the counter with an alarming confidence before taking a seat on the other side of the cafe.

After that, more people come through the doors, sign in, and take their seats, until we are an almost respectable number.

"Can I get a cider?” one of them asks.

"Course you can!"

"I don't need a glass."

The box officer sighs. "I have to give you one, I'm afraid. But they are biodegradable!"

The time inches closer to 7.45. Show time.

"Does anyone want a programme before you go in?" calls out the box officer. "One pound?"

No one responds.

"In that case, the house is open!"

He runs outside and waits for us.

I pick up my bag and make for the door.

He's stood at the bottom of the steps.

"Just through there," he says, pointing the way. There's a small gate over there. And through it, what I presume must once have been the church hall.

I go in, finding my way through the corridor until I find the entrance to the theatre space. It's narrow. With a high stage at one end. But the stage is covered with stacks of chairs.

Instead, the set has been built at floor level, taking up one of the long sides, with a bank of seats up against the opposite one.

I go find myself a seat in the third row, because that's my fave, but in the middle, because even with our increased numbers, I don't think we're going to be filling up this space, and I don't want to be the awkward penguin sitting over in Siberia on the end.

Toastie-dude is sitting in the corner. At the tech desk. So that explains his role here.

"Thank you so much for coming with me," whispers a bloke to his companion as they sit down in the row behind me. "I've wanted to come for ages and I live just down the road, and I feel we should support these things. For the community."

Bless him coming up with that excuse to shoot his shot. So adorbs.

No sure I would have taken my crush to a play called The Affair, but it is billed as a farce, so maybe he knows what's he's doing after all.

As Claudio Del Toro's Gustavo appears dressed as an Edward Gorey illustration, with a lovelorn sigh on his lips, I think that the bloke sitting behind me might be onto something. Gustavo wants to ask his lady a very important question. The most important question.

But first...

"What's the time?" he says, looking at me.

I shrug. I don't know.

"You don't know the time?"

I mean... no? I could get out my phone, I guess. But that's meant to be off.

It isn't. But it's supposed to be.

I hold up my wrist to demonstrate the lack of watch.

He looks over me, to a couple sitting just behind my shoulder. "Do you know the time? It's really important. Does anyone?"

"It's ten to eight!" calls back the bloke.

And with that, I know it's not going to be an easy play. There's going to be interaction.

Oh dear.

I'll give the marathon this though: having actors talk to me doesn't terrify me as much as it once did. Don't get me wrong, I still hate it, and will never again willingly book for an interactive show once the clock hits midnight on 31st December. But I don't want to die at the thought of it. Which is good. It would be terrible to die this close to the end, with less than thirty theatres left to go.

Even when his beloved appears, the vain and dippy Daffadowndilly, played by Amy Gibbons, Gustav can't leave the audience alone. He threatens to spray a shower of wine across the confident girl sitting upfront, before shaking his head in contriteness. When Daffadowndilly accuses him of having dandruff, he turns to the audience with pleading eyes to help him think up an excuse for the whiteness on his shoulders.

"Flour?" suggests the girl sitting behind me.

"Flour!" he cries in relief.

"Flour," nods Gibbons, accepting this answer.

Things only get worse when the other woman arrives, Shea Wojtus' Lark.

Gustuv clambers over the seats in search of his proposal worm (don't ask, I'm not sure I could give you an answer that makes sense here) and narrowly avoids stomping all over my coat.

The door opens.

We all look over.

Even Lark, from her position hiding behind a picture frame (again... best you don't ask) looks over to see the newcomer.

It's a man. He glances from stage to seats, dithering, unsure what to do.

Wojtus waves at him from behind the frame and indicates that he should take a seat.

He does as he's told, climbing up the steps towards the back row, walking across the full length, making everyone sitting back there shift and stand and move of his way, before plonking himself down in the far corner.

This is a man who really doesn't like audience interaction.

We all make it to the interval though.

I pull my scarf out of my bag and wind it around my shoulders. Turns out it wasn't the terror of having an actor almost step on my coat that was making me shiver. It really is freezing in here.

A few people head for the bar, but most stay behind, chatting quietly.

I get out my phone and start editing a blog post.

"Dada, dadada, dadadada," sings the tech guy, returning to his desk and turning on the music. He hums along with it for a minute.

Someone else appears. "Sorry ladies and gentlemen," he says, stopping on the stage to talk to us. "They lost a little something and I just went to find it. We'll be starting in five minutes."

"Don't worry about it," says on of the blokes in the row behind me, very generously.

The tech guy looks up from his laptop. "What part of London is this?" he asks the room.

"Plaistow," comes the helpful reply.

Is it? I thought we were in Upton Park. Are they the same place? I have no idea. I just go where my spreadsheet tells me.

The audience starts to come back from the bar.

"It might be good to sit on the other side," they're advised. "To balance it out."

Audience balanced out, it's time for act two, and our Gustav wastes no time in offering out a bowl of crisps to the audience. One by one everyone turns him down with a shake of their heads. Which, I respect, but my stomach is growling over here and just as he's about to turn to me, he knocks over a cup and the bowl is taken away.

Gawddammit.

When he returns, he is sans bowl. And he's still looking for that earthworm.

He finds an empty chair and sprawls himself on it, twisting around to clutch at my arm in despair. That poor earthworm, alone and frightened, somewhere in this freezing cold arts centre.

But even with an earthworm as distraction, he couldn't keep the inevitable at bay. The two woman are fully aware of his scandalous behaviour and are not happy about it.

They slap him, again and again, one after the other.

Gustav reaches out for help.

I reach back, offering him my hand, but Lark isn't having it. "Don't help him," she says, pulling him back for another slap.

He accepts his fate after that, even offering the confident girl at the front a go.

She raises her hand high above her head and his eyes widen in horror, but when his palm lands, it's only a gentle tap. She gives it a good go. Slapping one side of his face, then the other, then going for an innovative two-handed move.

Slightly dazed, he looks over to me.

"Would you like a go?" he asks.

I wouldn't definitely not like a go. That is so not my thing.

I'm not saying that I've never slapped anyone, because that would be a lie. But when I slap someone, I do it for real. I'm not into pretend violence. I mean... I'm not into real violence either. I don't even like shouting. But sometimes... well, sometimes...

Thankfully he takes my frantic hand waving well, and leaves the slapping to the professionals.

And after some applause, and a request to tell our friends if we enjoyed it (and to shut up if we didn't) it's time to go.

My stomach rumbles as I slip back through the gate.

I probably should have tried one of their toasties.

¿Dónde está el teatro Cervantes?

I'm lost.

I shouldn't be lost.

I'm in prime theatreland. Within stepping distancing of the Vics, young and old.

And yet I have no idea where I am or where I'm going. All that I do know is that I'm rather embarrassed about the whole thing.

I check the website for tonight's theatre. They have a ‘How to Find Us' page, which I am desperately in need of. I scroll down to the ‘By tube' section.

"3-minute walk (2 minutes if you’re running late!) from Southwark tube station (served by the Jubilee line)." Well, I got out Southwark tube station a good deal more than three minutes ago, and I've been walking in circles ever since.

What else does it say?

"Arch 26, Old Union Arches, 229 Union Street London, SE1 0LR."

Right. Well, that's not at all useful. I already put the postcode into Google Maps. That's what got me into this mess.

I keep on walking, squinting down every alley I pass, but nothing looks right.

A huge iron arch tops one of them.

"Old Union Yard Arches," it says.

The website didn't say anything about Old Union Yard, but if I'm looking for an arch, then this seems like as good a place as any to find it.

I step in. There are indeed lots of arches in here. There's the Africa Centre, the windows filled with bright light and colour. I keep on going. Arch 27. Okay. That seems promising. The next one must be...

There we are. Cervantes Theatre. I've found it.

I push open the door.

Wood mixes with bare brick. There are pot plants dotted around. I see we're visiting the chicer end of the fringe spectrum this evening.

At one end of the foyer, there's a small desk, Dark wood with barley twist legs.

I go over and wait for the girls in front of me to finish up.

Giggling, they disappear up the stairs together.

My turn.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer frowns. "Sorry, what's the name?"

"Smiles," I say again. Slower this time. My voice is still jacked from that awful cough I had. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

"What a beautiful surname!" she says as she looks through the tickets.

"Thank you." It is rather nice.

"Here's your ticket," she says handing it to me. She leans forward and grabs a booklet from the display at the front of the desk. "And a programme. Doors are in fifteen minutes and there's a fifteen-minute interval. Thank you!"

I blink at the booklet in my hand. A free programme. Yes, an actual programme. Not a shitty freesheet masquerading as a programme. This is a proper booklet. Eight pages. Professionally printed.

I'm mentally upgrading this place from chic-fringe to fucking-fancy-fringe.

Taking the lead of the giggling girls, I go up the stairs.

There's a twisted neon chandelier thing up here. All sharp angles and metal frame. From the tip hangs a small Christmas ornament. A tiny glittery star.

I keep on climbing and find myself in the bar. Housed under the curved roof of the railway arch.

Above our heads, a rail rumbles past.

No one looks up. They're all too chill. Lounging around in curvey armchairs and chatting quietly about the play we're seeing tonight.

House of Spirits. Based on a book apparently. One I haven't read but these people clearly have.

"Only in the English," one woman clarifies humbly.

"Oh, I've read it in the Spanish too," says her friend.

"Yeah... I should do that."

I can't do that. I can't speak Spanish. Not even a little bit. Not that I haven't tried. I took Spanish for a whole year at school, before realising that I couldn't pronounce anything and I should just stick with French. Although, I can't speak French either, so that was a waste of time too.

Oh well. The play tonight is in English at least. I checked. More than once. Because it's also being performed in Spanish, on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Switching to English on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.

Today is Thursday. English day. Suitable for monoglots like me.

I lean against the railing and look down the stairwell as I edit a blog post.

From the corner of my eye I spot something moving. I look down. There's a ledge halfway up the stairs, onto which a trailer is being projected. Fucking hell, that really is fancy.

Behind me, the barman rings the bell.

It's time to go in.

"Shall we go downstairs?" asks the girl who has read The House of Spirits in the original.

"Is that were the theatre is then?"

"Yeah. Downstairs."

Clearly, this girl knows what's she's doing. So I follow them down.

A door, tucked away at the end of the foyer, has now been opened. And a guy is standing there, tearing tickets. The queue moves slowly, as he stops to place each stub down on the edge of the box office table before moving onto the next person.

"There you go," he says to me, handing back my ticket.

In I go. Walking past a set of shelves set into an alcove. They seem to be stacked with props. Great big pots. A crucifix. An electric fan. A lamp.

I don't have time to inspect them all properly. The box officer is in here, checking the newly shorn tickets.

She looks at mine.

"Second or third row here," she says, pointing over at the central block of seats across the way. "Or you can sit here." This time she points to a side block.

I bought a ticket in the standard price range, you see. The front row myst be reserved for premium payers.

I look between the two. This kind of decision making is a bit too much for me on a Thursday night.

"Where ever you like," she prompts.

I panic. Then fall back towards my classic choice. Central block. Third row. Near the end.

I get out the programme and have a look at it. It's in English. Which is great. No Spanish at all. I wonder what they do on Spanish nights. They surely can't have an entirely separate programme for Monday to Wednesday shows. But perhaps they do. This is fucking-fancy-fringe after all.

I mean, just look at these chairs. They're really nice chairs.

Three blocks, set up around a floor level stage. There's a staircase up against the back wall, which has been drapped in the massive sheet of fabric that is serving as our set. It all feels a little bit familiar. With the staircase and all. A bit like the Union theatre, which must be pretty close by now that I think about it.

More people come in. A group. They sit right next to me. Not even leaving an empty seat to serve as buffer between us. Weirdos.

Now, I get that front of housers hate leaving gaps when the show is sold out, but I don't think that's the case tonight.

And as the box officer disappears, closing the curtains over the door behind her, I can see that while it's a healthy house, there's no damn need to be cosying up to people you don't know. And my new neighbour clearly just has problems with being alone. Even when they're with friends. Rather sad really.

The lights go down and we are plunged into a prison cell. A girl is dragged out in chains, and then, right be before our eyes, is tortured, raped, and left for dead.

Dear gawd.

What kind of novel was this?

Turns out, an incredibly brutal one. As we are swept back in time, back to the youth of that poor girl's grandmother, we are taken to a world of hardship, and death, and political upheaval. And a dog puppet. The dog puppet is great. The dog's puppeteer is great. That Gian Carlo Ferrini is doing wonders with the dog. If anything happens to the dog...

Gawd DAMMIT.

And all the while, our girl, Pia Laborde-Noguez's Alba, watches from the corner, sat by the prop shelves, pulling notebook after notebook open, to read over her family's history.

The lights go down once more. A moment of stunned silence, and then the applause starts.

I'm shivering, and I can't tell whether it's the play or the fact it's freezing in here.

The box officer reappears.

"We have now an interval of fifteen minutes," she tells us. "Can I ask you to leave the theatre please."

Once again I climb those stairs up to the bar, my legs feeling a wee bit wobbly and my head still spinning, I reclaim my place on the ledge and listen to the soothing sound of the trains passing overhead and trying to puzzle out all the posters written in Spanish.

I really should have tried harder in school.

Before I can figure out what month of the year "enero" is, the barman is ringing the bell again and it's time to reclaim our seats.

The girl is still there, in the corner, reading her notebooks.

The box officer stands guard by the stage so we don't traipse all over it.

I pull my coat up over my knees. Turns out, it actually is really cold in here.

The box officer leans out the door to check that no one else is coming, then closes the curtain, sealing us in.

And my friend, it does not get better. Sadness layers on sadness, and is squidged between two slices of pain, making up a Big Masochist ending.

Gawd it's good.

Applause done, it's time to get out of here.

As I pull my scarf out of my bag, my glasses ping out and skitter out the seats in front. I crouch down to grab them.

"Are you okay?" asks my neighbour, leaning down to check.

"Yes?" I hurriedly explain I was picking up my glasses, although I'm not sure what else I could possibly be doing down here.

The girls who had read the book stop over by the stage to pet the dog puppet, who seems to have been left behind for that exact purpose. I pause to say my own goodbyes. He's very cute. He deserved better.

I stumble out, into the yard, and head for the tube. As I walk, I realise I recognise this place. I stop, looking over at the arch next to me. It's the Union Theatre.

No wonder those stairs looked familiar. They're all in the same block.

So much for discovery all of London's theatres. I’m still getting lost.

No Body Likes Me, Every Body Hates me

The first thing you see when stepping onto the platform at Latimer Grove tube station is Grenfell tower. It looks over the station. The upper levels lit up. A green heart spotlit against the night sky. "Grenfell. Forever in our hearts."

There's no escape from it. Even when you leave the station. The Co-op opposite has a banner slung up one of the upper windows. "Justice 4 Grenfell."

As I walk through the streets to the Playground Theatre, I can feel it behind me. The tower. Looking over my shoulder.

I hope I'm not the only one it's hounding tonight.

I clutch my jacket close about me and check my phone. There's a message from Allison.

"I think I'm here!" it says.

I bring up Google Maps. I'm very much not here. Or there, rather. By the looks of it, I'm a good ten minutes walk away. And that's if I don't get another coughing fit stopping me in my tracks.

"I'm a few minutes late," I lie in my reply.

Just as I'm putting my phone away, the screen lights up again. Another message from Allison. "It's not busy at all."

Oh dear. I really don't like an empty theatre. Especially when I'm unwell. There's no one to hide behind when the choking starts. Then again, I also hate a packed theatre at these times.

As I stumble through the dark streets, I try to work out what percentage of fullness suits my current grotty condition.

Sixty-two percent.

I think that would work nicely. Full enough that I can visibly sink low in my chair and hide myself from the cast. But enough free seats so that I don't get someone else's perfume choices clogging up my throat.

I check my phone again.

I turn a corner and find myself on some sort of industrial estate. Pre-fab buildings line the wide street. From an upstairs window loud music pours out into the otherwise silent air.

I really should update Allison again on my whereabouts. Not that I think I'm about to be murdered. But I'm definitely about to be murdered.

But that's okay. I'm nearly there. That's it, over on the other side of the row.

At least, I think that's it. I can't think of any other reason that one of these stubby little buildings would be surrounded by cafe tables and parked cars.

I hurry over and make my way through the doors.

Inside it's bright and warm, with peach mottled walls and carved wooden doors. An aesthetic that would have given me serious Italian palazzo vibes if it were not for the fact that we were in the middle of an industrial park. By brain realigns, and categorises my surroundings more on the level of upmarket garden centre.

A great big chalk board points the way to the box office and I follow it around into the bar. Glass domes cover a cake selection, and wannabe Phillippe Starck Ghost chairs crowd around metal tables.

Allison waves at me.

I must look even worse than I feel because her smile immediately fades into an expression of concern. "How are you?" she asks in a tone that makes me think only politeness is preventing her from questioning: "what the hell happened to you?"

"I'm ill," I tell her, collapsing into one of the see-through chairs. On cue, I cough.

"You're coughing! Again!"

Yup. I'm coughing. Again.

Properly as well. Not just the cough that I've had for over a year at this point. But the type of really intense, hacking, cough that goes hand-in-tissue with the worst sort of man-flu.

But as I keep on telling my boss, I feel fine. Well, as fine as one can when you literally can't lie down without your lungs trying to escape through your mouth.

Probably not the best condition to be in when going to see an opera, but if I stayed home every time I coughed... well, I'd never leave the house ever again.

"So," I say, pulling myself together and getting out my phone. "There's a sign out there saying we should pick up a playing card." I turn my phone around to show Allison the picture I took. "What do you think that means?"

"I don't know!" comes the reply.

Well, okay. As long as I'm not alone in my ignorance.

I look around.

"It suddenly filled up," explains Allison as I take in the bustle surrounding us. "It was totally dead when I first got here."

A front of houser makes an announcement. It's time to go to our seats.

There's a slow stirring around the bar. No one is going anywhere fast.

As we pass the box office the young woman behind the counter calls out to us. "Hi ladies! Have you got your playing cards?"

"Have we?" I say, turning back to Allison, having completely forgotten the conversation we'd had all of three minutes ago.

"I don't even know what they are!" she replies.

The box officer smiles indulgently at the pair of us, clearly used to people being as useless as us.

"What's your surname?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Maxine?"

That's me.

"Great." She holds out two playing cards. They've been laminated, but that's exactly what they are. The Jack and Nine of Spades. Slightly beaten up and a bit grimy under their plastic coatings. "When you check in, you get playing cards, which you hand over on the door."

Ah, I see. They're admission passes. I should have guessed. They do the same thing over at Camden Peoples' Theatre. Except their ones are new and avoided the laminator in favour of a hole punch. Still, same idea. And very neat.

"And here's a free programme," adds the box officer, handing over a pair of freesheets. I turn mine over to look at it. No cheap photocopies here, oh no. This has been professionally printed. Satin finish. With the artwork on one said and all the credits on the other. Slick. I like it.

We go out into the corridor, passing the loos, and heading towards the entrance to the auditorium. As promised, there is someone on the door to take our cards from us. And then we're in.

It's a big room. Bigger than I expected given there can't be more than fifty-two seats in here. Not unless they added a couple of jokers to the pack.

The stage is floor level. The seats are all lined up on a raked platform. The type of seats that you'd expect to see at a wedding reception. With gold frames and velvet backs.

"Where do you want to sit?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know!"

I start climbing. There are two aisles going on. Three seats on one side. A huge middle section. And then two seats on the far end.

"Shall we sit over there?" I suggest, already making my way over to the other end. Over here, I won't have to sit next to anyone but Allison. I'm hoping that will help with the whole crowding thing.

The seats fill up.

I think we're going to get way past sixty-two percent.

Someone comes out. The director. We're starting out the evening with some piano.

Oh dear.

This does not bode well for my lungs.

Four hands, two pianists, one piano.

It sounds like the beginning of some dodgy YouTube video.

One of the pianists steps forward. Mark Stringer. Who from the looks of the freesheet actually composed the piece too. "As you can tell, I've lost my voice," he says in a quite rasp.

Allison looks round and nudges me. "Like you!" she whispers.

Yeah, like me.

"The producer said 'at least you're not singing tonight!'" Stringer goes on, and we all giggle along with him.

He takes his seat.

The page turner slides forward on hers.

They're ready.

I force a quick cough, hoping that will see me through, but as the four hands hit the one piano, I can tell it's going to be a tough evening.

I look around.

There's only one exit, and that's on the other side. There's no way I can escape without crossing the stage.

Shit.

It's fine.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

I've got my cough sweet. That'll last a good fifteen minutes. The freesheet said this bit of the evening was only half-an-hour long. Fifteen minutes with a cough sweet. And a bottle of water to take me through the rest. I can do that.

I can do that...

I can...

Nope. Nope. I can't.

I'm already coughing.

I bury my face in my scarf, hoping to smoother what noise I can, but Allison sympathetic hand on my shoulder is telling me that I'm not doing a very good job of it.

I reach into my bag and pull out my water bottle, chugging a good half of it before the cough subsides once more.

There. I made it. That wasn't so bad.

And someone else just coughed too. Someone sitting in the back. It's just that time of year, isn't it.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

Except it's not fine and a few minutes later it's starting again.

I dig my nails into the back of my hand, hoping the pain will distract my from the desperation of my lungs.

I doesn't.

I jerk in my seat as my body fights against me, desperate to cough.

My stomach muscles clench. My ribs contract. My face grows hot.

I can't keep it in any more.

I cough.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Loud and deep and rasping.

I sound like I'm dying.

Allison clutches at her neck, clearly horrified at what is happening next to her.

I try to sip water, but it only takes the edge off. Putting off the next bout for a few short minutes.

Over onstage, the page turner looks over at me, giving my the filthiest look I've ever received in my life..

I keep chugging water.

At last, the music comes to a halt and Springer stands up. "That was the end of the first piece," he tells us.

The audience dutifully applauds and I use the time to get out as many coughs as I can.

"The next one has three movements," he goes on. "Like this one, as you may have noticed."

Three movements.

Okay.

I can do that.

I take off the lid of my water bottle. There's no time to be dealing with that now. That's precious seconds wasted between me and hydration right there.

I sip slowly and constantly as the pianists jump back into action with a fast and jaunty piece.

The page turner removes a section of pages and sets it to one side. That's the first movement done.

I hold my entire body taught, every muscle clenched, tiny expulsions escaping from between my pursed lips.

The page turner sets aside another section.

Allison looks over to me and holds up a single finger.

One movement left.

I'm holding my stomach so rigid I'm almost bent over. I'm getting a killer core workout over here. Pity I won't live long enough to appreciate it.

And then it's over.

I curl over, the fit taking hold.

The lady sitting in front of my turns around. I want to apologise to her but I can't talk.

"Shall we go fill up your water bottle?" asks Allison.

I nod. I've drained the poor thing dry.

We go back out into the bar.

There's a table with big glass bottles of water on it.

"Sorry, excuse me," I say to two people standing right in the way. As I refill my bottle I realise the person I just asked to move is the director.

Oh dear.

He can't be very happy with me.

Allison finds an empty table for us.

Still unable to form words, I pull out a Crosstown bag and offer her a doughnut. Strawberry and champagne for her. Spiced pumpkin for me. I instantly feel better.

"It's just men's voices," says Allison, as we enjoy our carb-fest.

She's reading the freesheet.

"Hopefully loud ones," I say, taking a break from my doughnut to cough again. My voice is so raspy now I can barely understand myself.

Conversation out, I settle for reading the freesheet. All of the freesheet. Even the line of thanks.

"Is that...?" I say pointing at a name. "Isn't she a ballerina?"

We both look at the name.

"I don't know..." says Allison.

I get out my phone and google it.

Yup. A ballerina. A Canadian one. Which pleases Allison, who is also one of that tribe.

A bell rings. It's time to go back in.

Forks scrap against plates as the audience members who ordered proper hearty meals for the interval try to finish up.

We go back to our seats.

I ready the water bottle in my lap. Lid off.

The piano has been moved over to the side, and there's the page turner ready to do her bit.

I duck down a little in my chair, hoping she can't see me.

The cast comes out.

Army of Lovers, here we go.

The opera, for four voices, is about an army. Of lovers.

Does what it says on the tin, really. Everyone is coupled off. Which makes them unbeatable. Except of course one bloke has to be difficult and is refusing to get himself a boyfriend. So then they lose.

Sucks.

"You didn't cough!" says Allison as we start to applaud.

"I know!" I say proudly. Or at least try to say, because my voice has entirely gone now. "I tried really hard."

"Thirty-five minutes, you deserve applause."

I do. I really do.

We escape back out into the night air, and I let Allison lead the way. I've got a lot of coughing I need to catch up on.

"I didn't come this way," I say, suddenly noticing that we are now investigating the wrong side of an underpass. "Where are you taking me?”

"It's really dodgy," says Allison. "At least there's two of us. Two women are safer than one."

"I'll protect you," I say, striking a fighting pose before dissolving into another coughing fit.

A man walks past, and gives me a look of disgust.

Well, I never said how I'd protecting her. Being a walking plague is certainly effective.

We turn a corner. And there it is again. Grenfell.

"Christ," I say, somehow caught unawares by it again.

We both stop to look at it.

"It's awful," says Allison after a long moment.

Yeah...

Let's leave it there before I end up saying something trite.

Does an angel contemplate my fate

Turns out, even puppet theatres obey my law of creepy locations.

I've told you about this before. The more dark and dangerous an alleyway, industrial estate, canal, or whatever other deserted and foreboding place you can think of, the more likely it is to contain a fringe theatre. And will you look at this right here. The Little Angel Theatre is tucked away down the bottom of a very dark and shadow-filled Dagmar Passage. And yeah, there might be Georgian buildings with lovely sash windows hugging it along both sides, and I might be walking across wide flagstones, but that's because we're in Islington. It doesn't change the fact that I am definitely about to be murdered. I mean, let's be real, sash windows and wide flagstones didn't put Jack the Ripper off now, did it?

I make it through though, and am not actually murdered. Which is good. I suppose.

The alley opens up into a wide square, with more smart Georgian houses and their sash windows. And off to one side, looking for all the world like a village church hall, is the Little Angel Theatre.

I've already been to their studios just a little down the road, and now it's time to check out the mothership. They finally, finally, have a show for grown ups. Which is a relief. Means I don't have to spend my evening surrounded by a bunch of six year olds that I'm not related to. I'm sure they are pretty stoked about not having to spend their evening with a mardy old lady.

Yeah, as if you couldn't tell, I'm not in the best of moods right now.

I'm ill.

Again.

Barely got over the last grot-fest before succumbing to this one.

What with starting my new job and all, it's no surprise that I'm a bit run down. But still. It would have been nice if I could have got a bit of a breather. A few weeks to recover. Catch up on the blog and all that. I'm already running two weeks behind. At this rate, I won't get this published until March.

Oh well, best crack on.

I go inside.

And stop.

I can't move.

It is absolutely packed in here.

I can see the box office counter just off to one side, but there's no way I can get anywhere close to it.

People are just standing arond. Some of them over by the bar, slightly futher in. A few, like me, trying to pick up their tickets.

But mostly, they're just chatting. Standing and nattering. Loudly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser over the din. "This is your five minute warning. The show will be beginning. Please take your seats."

I brace myself for the surge of people that will be pouring in my direction, but if this lot have heard the nice lady's warning, they have no intention of actually listening to it.

The chatter continues.

Great.

Looks like I'm going to have to dive head on into this mess.

I pushed forward, knocking elbows and bags as I squeeze myself forward towards the box office.

I find myself standing behind someone for a full two minutes before I realise he's already got his tickets and is just standing there for his own personal reasons.

I side-step him, avoiding any nearby toes as much as I can, and push myself into the sole scrap of empty space nearby. Which is thankfully located right in front of the box office.

"Hi!" I say, fighting to draw out what is left of my voice. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Yup!" says the box officer, looking down at her lists. There are three of them. Two handwritten. One printed. She finds me on the printed list and marks off my name. Looks like muggins here was one of the few people who actually paid to be here tonight.

I thought that was it. I was dismissed. But nope. The box officer starts picking up a pile of printed tickets and looks through them until she finds the one that belongs to me.

Gosh. I was not expecting that. It was all laminated admission passes at their studio. Things are done on a different level in the theatre.

I look around.

People still aren't moving.

Seems like it's down to me to set the example and show this lot how it's done.

I aim myself at the door to the theatre and go for it full force, almost falling out of the crowd on the other side.

"We're totally full tonight," says the ticket checker, trying not to look shocked at my dramatic appearance. "You can sit where ever you like, so please squash up."

A full house.

Oh dear.

One thing my cough does not like, is feeling crowded.

Well, not much I can do about that now.

I go in.

And gosh, it's all rather pretty in here. Reminds me of Jackson's Lane. Sort of.

The bare brick walls are painted a deep shade of green. The ceiling is vaulted with wooden beams and dotted with paper lanterns. There's bunting. Long wooden benches are covered in patchworked cushions.

It's charming as fuck.

I spot an empty bench near the back and head straight to it, tucking myself up at the far end.

As I sit down, my arm grazes against something hard, warm, and very knobbly.

I appear to have picked a radiator to be my neighbour.

I set about preparing myself for a warm evening. Jacket: off. Cardigan: off. Sleeves: rolled up.

There, that should do it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the show will begin in a few minutes. So please take your seats. Thank you."

That got them.

People are coming in now.

"Can we move up?" asks a woman settling herself in my row.

"Yeah... sorry. There's a radiator," I say, making a show of touching it with my fingertips and instantly regretting it. "Sorry. I'll burn myself. It's really hot."

Besides that, I'm right on the end of the bench. There's no where for me to go.

The front of houser comes in and starts chivying us all to move down.

"But the radiator," says the woman in my row, gesturing over to me.

The front of houser retreats.

"The wanted us to make room for two people," says the woman turning to me with a look a horror.

I give an equally horrified look back. These benches aren't that long. And there are already four of us in here. One more, fine. But two... well, that's too much.

All suitably squeezed in, the front of houser stomps down to the front of the auditorium. There's some housekeeping rules she needs to tell us. Phones on silent, of course. The running time is one hour and fifteen minutes, but that does include an interval. "I think I said this to each of you on the way in," she goes on. "But if you have a wine glass, keep hold of them! The floor is raked so if you put the down, they will topple over and disturb the show."

"What was that about the floor?" whispers a man in my row.

"It's raked," says the horrified woman. "That means it has a slope to it." She demonstrates the slopped nature of the floor with a skiing hard gesture.

And that's it. We're ready to begin.

Can't remember what we're seeing, to be honest. I didn't get a freesheet.

I look around, sitting up tall in my seat to aid with my quest. Yeah, no one else has one either.

I rummage around in my bag and pull out the ticket. Roll Over Atlantic. That's the name of the show.

I wonder if it has puppets.

I hope it has puppets.

We are in a puppet theatre after all.

A man comes out.

He doesn't have any puppets.

He does have a rather wonderful Christopher Columbus costume though,

I know it's Christopher Columbus because he tells us it is.

"You can boo!" he tells us as we all dutifully clap at this announcement.

A few people attempt a panto-boo.

And so it goes on. Ole Columbo takes us with him on his adventures, in what feels like a low-budget Horrible Histories episode, despite this being, apparently, a show for adults.

A few scenes in, and Columbus isn't the only one in trouble. My cough is starting up again. The packed benches. The radiator. My lungs are not happy.

I reach down into my bag and grab my water bottle, chucking down as much as I can. It's not helping.

I try to time my coughs for the applause. For the loud bits. For anything that will help cover this atrocious hacking cough. But there aren't enough of them.

One man talking is not enough to compete with the mighty sound of my cough.

I shift on my bench, trying to get comfortable. But the backs are so low I can't even lean back without falling into a void.

It's no good. I have to get out of here.

Not now.

There is no way I'm escaping from this bench.

Just got to hold off until the interval. It can't be long. The entire show is barely more than an hour.

Columbus disappears behind the back curtain. I hold myself tight, willing him not to return, But nope, there he is again, popping out from the other side.

He waves his arms about, trying to encouage us to join in. "Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!" he says, for reasons that I can't work out because I'm too busy cough-cough-coughing.

He ducks behind the curtain once more and the theatre gods take pity on my, raising the house lights.

I lean forward and make a grab for my scarf and jacket.

"Do you want to get out?" asks the woman in my row, readying herself to stand up. "Cool off?"

"Yeah..." I say, winding the scarf around my neck and hefting up my bag. "I don't think a cough quite goes with this show. I think I'm going to make my escape."

"Awww," she says, sounding genuinely sorry for me. "Get well."

I slip out the row, stopping in the foyer just long enough to pull on my jacket and snap a photo of the box office, before escaping into the night.

There, in the freezing solitude of the square, I cough and cough and cough until my stomach aches and my throat is raw.

And then I begin the slow walk back to the tube station.

Back to BAC

Brrr. It's freezing out here on Lavender Hill. It feels like all the winds have come raging over the Thames to come terrorise south London tonight.

I bounce around on the pavement, willing the traffic lights to change.

This is my last trip to Battersea Arts Centre of the marathon and I don't want to be late. Or freeze to death before I even get there.

Now, I know you. And I can tell that you've been counting up all my BAC trips on your fingers, and you're gearing up to lecture me about all the other venue space they've got which I haven't been to yet. But I'm going to stop you right there. Have you seen Battersea Arts Centre? I mean, obviously you have. But have you really taken note of how many rooms they got going on in that place? Hundreds. And any one of them is a potential theatre. It's impossible. You could do a year-long theatre marathon in that building alone. So, this is it. I've done the Grand Hall. That's the biggie. And the Council Chamber. And the Recreation Room. And I'm on my way to see something in the Members’ Bar. That's four theatres. And I think that's enough. The whole point of this marathon was to experience the different theatres, and I think after tonight I'll have the BAC experience down.

So yeah, don't be coming at me because I didn't go to the Porter's Room or whatever. Because, I totally tried. I've been keeping tabs on where all their shows have been for ten months now. And I haven't seen anything come up.

With relief I spot the bright lights of the BAC shining out in the darkness and I skuttle up the stone steps and through the wooden doors into the lobby.

I pause, looking around.

Last time I was here there was a desk set up against that wall for the box office, but it's empty tonight.

I pass through the next set of doors, into the main foyer, with its glorious bee-patterned mosaic floor.

It's quiet tongiht. There's a group in the corner, chatting around a table, and there's a bit of buzz going on in the bar, but otherwise, it's almost deserted.

I can see the box office though. A small desk tucked up next to that grand staircase.

"Hi!" I say, pulling off my gloves with relief. It's lovely and warm in here. "The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer opens her mouth to say something, but I get there first.

"It's for A Haunted Experience," I tell her.

"That's brilliant," she says with a nod, looking through the ticket box. I notice she's wearing a great big badge, asking me to ask her about a free drink. That's weird. "What's the first name please?"

I tell her. Should I ask her about the drink?

"Great! That's your ticket and your card receipt. The house is opening soon. You're upstairs."

I decide not to pursue the drink angle.

I don't even go to the bar. I probably should. What with it being my last trip to BAC and my last opportunity to write about it. But honestly, what I want is to to sit on one of those wooden school chairs and just... not talk to anyone for a few minutes.

It's so warm, and quiet, and cosy, I feel myself getting dozy and I have to stifle a yawn.

I know how this place works. When the house opens, the usher standing on the stairs will make an announcement and we'll all traipse up. All I have to do is settle down and wait.

Above the staircase there's a sign. It says hope.

All the lights are out.

That better not be a metaphor.

It's five to eight.

A woman sitting near me gets up and goes to talk to the usher on the stairs.

"Yeah, it hasn't opened yet," says the usher brightly. "But it's up the stairs and to the left."

The left, eh? That's exciting. I haven't been to any of the rooms on the left. Good thing I decided to pay this place one more visit.

A few minuts later, the annoucement comes.

"The house is now open for A Haunted Experience."

People emerge from every corner, and we start to make our way up the stairs, turning left, then right, and heading down to the end of the corridor.

I'm glad all this lot know where they're going, because I have no idea.

Right at the end, there's a table set up with stacks of plastic cups ready for drinks to be poured into.

And a front of houser, a pile of freesheets slung over her arms, ready to check tickets.

"Can I get one of those?" I say, indicating the freesheets.

"Sure you can," she says. She tries to pull one free, but they're all clinging together. "If I can get one loose," she laughs. She manages to peel one apart though and hands it to me.

Freesheet acquired, I go through the door. There's a ticket checker waiting on the other side. "That's grand," she says as I show mine to her. "You're in the second row. That's round the stage and up the stairs, and you're on the end there." She points at my seat, which, as it happens, is right by where we're standing.

I need to go round the long way though. There's a bit of a railing situation going on.

The seats are a single raked bank. Set within a large room displaying the kind of decayed elegance that is very chic at the moment in the world of theatre. The walls are a collage of paint jobs-past, speckled with missing plaster. Large windows have been bordered up with heavy-duty shutters involving wooden planks and metal rods. These are the kind of shutters a vampire would install in his holiday home. Not a scrap of sunlight would dare attempt to get in past those.

As the usher cheerfully guides the rest of the audience to their seat, I get comfy in mine.

Three record players line up in front of us, glowing in their individual spotlights. A black cloth has been hung up behind them.

I don't know what to make of any of it.

I'll admit I have no idea what I booked for, just the title was intriguing and the venue required.

I look at the freesheet.

There's a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. The heading is: A Pestilence. It's about the surprising number of "homosexual crimes" being brought before the assizes.

Something tells me we're not going to get a cheeky ghost story tonight.

The lights dim.

Tom Marshman appears behind the black curtain, made sheer by the lighting.

He stands with his back to us, his arms outstretched into semaphore as letters are projected onto the black cloth. The alphabet of inadequate language.

When we reach z, he steps out, all smiles and welcoming.

He's going to be using the record players. He's not an expert on them. But he wants to be. We all giggle at that.

And so it begins. Marshman setting up records as he tells us the story of a seventeen-year-old boy, on a train in 1953, who propositions an undercover policeman, and then goes on to name other homosexual men. He's not ashamed. He's almost blase about the situation.

"You may find these things morally wrong," he tells them. "But I do not."

Going off to one side, Marshman sets up a slide projector, to show us the translations of a secret language, Polari, spoken by gay men.

The young man sitting next to me reaches forward and pulls a pale pink notebook from his bag. Flicking through it to the next free page, he writes something down. "Clobber," he writes in black felt tip. "Clothes," in Polari.

Marshman sets up more records, dances around, even gives us a couple of headstands. All the while delving into what it meant to be a gay man before the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967.

By the end, the young man next to me is crying.

"Don't say I never take you to anything," he says to his date as the lights go up. His cheeks are bright red with tears. He wipes them with the back of his hands and gives us a great big sniff.

I can't blame him. That was traumatic.

But Marshman isn't done yet. He has three things to tell us. The first is that there is a trip to Wandsworth archives if anyone wants to join. The second is that he's selling pewter mugs. He holds one up for us to see and smiles sheepishly. Twenty quid and they say "you may find these things morally wrong, but I do not," on them. They're rather tasty. I wouldn't mind getting my hands on one of those.

"What's the other thing?" says Marshman, placing down the cup. "I know I had three things to tell you... ah yes!" We're to tell our friends. And if they could come on Saturday that would be great, because it's rather quiet.

That would be a shame. Marshman is one hell of an engaging performer.

Now, who can I convince to buy me a pewter mug for Christmas?

Is there anyone out there?

I'm in Kingston for my second show of the day. There's the Rose Theatre up ahead. After my long trek from Bromley, I'm looking forward to a bit of a sit down. Might even buy myself a cup of tea.

I stand on the opposite corner and get my phone out to take a picture of the outside. Bit of an odd angle this, but never mind.

At least there aren't too many people walking around.

There aren't many people at all.

I lower my phone and peer at the building.

It looks deserted.

I follow the road around the building and look through the windows.

The cafe, which had been packed full on my trip here last week, is now entirely empty. The shutters on the counter are down. It's closed.

That's... odd.

You'd think on a Saturday night they'd be doing a roaring trade. All those pre-show glasses of wine won't drink themselves after all.

Unless, of course, it's not pre-show.

Oh gawd.

I get out my phone and after a few stress-filled seconds, find the confirmation email. No, there is it. Out Of The Dark on Saturday 02 November 2019 at 20:00 in Rose Studio.

20:00.

8pm.

Shit.

What time is it?

Not even half past seven.

I'm far too early.

Double shit.

Okay then. No need to panic. Better to be early than late. At least that gives me time to explore the delights of Kingston.

I turn around and walk back to the centre. I could buy myself that cup of tea. Scrap that, I could buy myself a hot chocolate. Yeah. I'm going to give me an upgrade on this miserable day.

Trouble is, everything is closed. The people of Kingston have all gone home. Every cafe I pass is busy stacking up their chairs. Aproned baristas carry out large bags of rubbish and pile them up on the pavement. Shutters are being lowered all around me.

I walk through a silent arcade, marvelling how dead things can get so early in the evening.

I forgot what it was like living in the countryside.

Okay, I kid. You know I grew up in the proper countryside. The type of countryside where you have to walk a half mile just to reach a payphone, and there's only one bus a week.

But also... not really.

Even the Costa in Finchley manages to eek it out until 8pm, and that's in zone bloody four.

What zone is Kingston in?

Six.

There you go. The bloody countryside.

I keep on walking, looping around and weaving back and forth through the streets.

Eventually, on my third rotation, I figure that I've killed enough time and make my way back to the theatre.

There are people here now. Queuing at the box office.

"Have you got any cash? Two pounds?" asks a woman.

"Yeah," comes the reply. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for me."

"Same again?" asks the box officer as the next person takes their turn.

I'm beginning to think these people must be members of some kind of audience club.

Oh well. I paid full price to be here. So that's okay.

As I reach the front of the queue, the box office is busy filling out some paperwork.

It takes him a minute to see me. I occupy myself by looking around and trying to warm up my hands.

"Oh, sorry!" he says as he spots me waiting.

"Don't worry," I tell him, still rubbing life back into my fingers. "It's nice just to be out of the cold. The surname's Smiles?"

He finds the ticket.

"What's the postcode?" he asks.

I tell him.

"That's the one!" he says cheerfully. It must be on my record that postcodes are a bit of a challenge for me.

There's no show in the main house. Not tonight. The Lovely Bones has closed.

A sign tells us that the Rose Cafe is closed.

Bummer.

Another sign indicates that the Circle Bar is open. Not really what I was after, but okay...

A front of houser smiles at me.

"Is the Circle Bar up here?" I ask, pointing to the nearest staircase.

"Up the stairs and the bar is open," she says, pointing in the complete opposite direction. Towards the cafe.

There isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe. Okay, I mean, caged animals and starving children, sure. But apart from that: there isn't a sadder sight in all the world than a closed cafe.

At least they haven't stacked the chairs.

I walk around the dramatic staircase that takes up the central point of this space and go up.

There's a lot of people here. Turns out there really isn't anywhere else to go in Kingston tonight.

I look around and spot the loos. Ah. I should probably see what's happening in there. For investigative purposes. And not at all because the loos in Bromley were grim and I kinda need to pee quite badly now.

I go through the door just to the side of the bar, down a long corridor, and find them.

They're nice enough. Clean. Whatever. Don't really have anything further to say.

Back in the bar, and it is a proper bar. A little tray of citrus sits out alongside a procession of different sized measures.

Somehow I don't think asking for a hot chocolate would go down all that well.

Over by the windows is something far more interesting. A water station. Two jugs. A stack of cups. Perfect.

I go over and pour myself a glass, taking it over to the little ledge that surrounds the staircase and claiming a spot.

This is a great vantage point. I can see all the people walking over from the box office, inspecting their long reams of tickets as they head for the stairs.

I can also keep an eye on the entrance to the studio.

The door bangs open and someone comes out to give the nod.

"Good evening," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Welcome to the Rose Theatre. The Studio is now open for this performance of Out Of The Dark. The Studio is now open. You can now take your seats."

We all slowly stir, and make out way round the mezzanine, lining up to go inside.

As we inch our way forward, I spot something on the ledge. A pile of freesheets. At least I think they're freesheets. They have the show artwork on them, so they might just be really lousy flyers.

Not sure if they're up for the taking.

I grab one all the same and folding it up, stuff it safely into my bag before slipping into the auditorium.

You know, you can never guess what you're going to get with studio theatres. Main houses tend to look the same. Oh sure, some might be fancier than others. Some have all that Edwardian splendour and others are all stripped back wood and steel. But for the most part, they follow a general design. Studios however, are all over the fucking place.

Some of them are proper little theatres, just miniaturised. Just this afternoon, I was in one which was really, when it came down to it, a well-lit storage room.

This one is a school gymnasium.

Breeze-block walls. Floor level stage. And a block of seating, which, let's be real, is just bleachers with cushioning.

I go over to the far end, and set up just in front of the tech desk which has taken up residence on the end of the back row.

We're got those double-wide flip down seats that they also have in the main house, but it doesn't look like I'll have to share. Most people are choosing to sit further forward. Some so far forward that they're actually in a row of chairs either side of the stage. Rows that are raised on short little platforms. Not sure why. It's not like anyone is sitting in front of them. It does add a certain regalness to their position though.

A couple of ushers are whispering to each other.

"They're on the bar," one says.

The other goes off, returning a few seconds later with the freesheets.

"Would anyone like a free programme?" he calls out, holding up the pile so that we can see. And yup, that's the pile I pilfered from earlier. "Free programme, anyone?"

He walks along the seats, handing them out to anyone who raises their hand.

More people are coming in. They try to sit in the front row, but the usher on that side isn't having it. "We're trying to save these seats," she tells them. "For latecomers. Otherwise we'll desturb you."

They meekly go and sit further back.

Another tannoy message plays. This one inside the auditorium. A reminder to turn off our phones.

And then the lights are dimming and it's time to begin.

Two cast members. A couple. They're having a baby.

They speak in stilted sentences. Repeating themselves and each other, forming patterns with their words.

It feels awkward at first, and hard to grasp onto. But I soon settle into the rhythm and am swept away on the tidal wave of the characters’ desperation.

We're very quiet on the way out.

Groups form on the mezzanine and long held breaths are let out in puffing sighs.

"Oof."

I slip down the stairs and down the corridor.

"Goodnight!" I say as cheerfully as I can, wrapping my arms around myself to keep away the chill, and the heartache.

Oof.

After the Marathoner has Bolted

I'm back in Ruislip. Down on Manor Farm.

It's All Hallow's Eve Eve, and I'm going to watch a play about witch trials in a seven hundred-year-old barn, because that's how I roll.

And if you were ever in doubt about my dedication to this marathon, let me tell you, that in order to go to this event, and get this venue checked off my list, I extended the notice period at my job by an entire extra day.

Yup.

That's real.

I was supposed to have finished up my job today. Six weeks notice, ending at 6pm this evening.

But then I'd have to go and see this show. Which would mean missing out on the whole leaving do thing. Something that my grand-boss was not going to allow me to do. Oh no. I'm getting a party, whether I like it or not. Which means tomorrow, I'm going back into work. And I'm getting the full works: speeches, fizz, presents probably, I don't know. And then the traditional decamp at the pub.

On Halloween.

Which I am not unhappy about.

Walking out for the final time on 31 October is very me.

Good thing Brexit's been postponed though. That would have been awkward. One of our visiting companies already started calling my departure "Maxit." Which is super annoying. Because I didn't think of it first. Dammit.

Anyway, I'm here. I just hope they're grateful.

Just need to figure how where I'm supposed to be going.

It's so damn dark here.

I trudge up the drive, squinting at every sign I can see.

That's the library. It's not there.

Then there's the Cow Byre. I don't know what that is, but I know it's not that either.

I keep going.

Until I reach a hedge. A hedge I remember from the first time around because I freaked the hell out the last time I was here when a couple of adorable terriers were playing around it.

I double back. It has to be here somewhere.

There's no one around.

Not even a terrifying terrier.

Between the Cow Byre and the library there's a path. I follow it.

It the blackness, I spot a long, low, silhouette.

Is that the Great Barn? It's certainly great.

At the far end there's a square of yellow light.

I crunch my way along the path towards it.

The wooden doors to the probably-the-Great-Barn have been thrown open. And inside, there are some decidedly more modern looking glass doors. I push one open.

Warm air floods over me in a great wave.

The room is filled with chatter, and the roar of heaters.

There are three tables. One covered in CDs. Another in bottles. And a third with paper.

Merch, bar, and box office.

The trifecta of every decent theatre.

I go over to the papery one and give my name.

"Ah," says the box officer, pulling the last remaining ticket free from under the money box. "Help yourself to a glass of wine," she says, indicating the table behind her.

She sees me hesitate.

"It's free!" she says.

"Umm."

Look, here's the thing. I'm not really into wine. Even if it's free. It just doesn't do anything for me. I mean, sure I'll drink it. At like, an event, if I'm handed a glass. To be polite, you know. But I'm not going out my way for it.

"Or a soft drink," says the box officer, sensing the direction my thoughts are going in.

"Well, alright then. Thanks," I say. Might as well. It is free, after all.

I go over to the bar.

Wine is ready poured, but I spot a carton hiding behind them.

"Could I get an orange juice?" I ask.

The lady behind the bar looks down.

"Let me just grab you a clean glass," she says, disappearing into the back of the barn and out a side door.

I stand around, and take a few photos.

It is pretty spectacular in here. Those 13th-century barn builders know how to vault a ceiling.

Not sure they would have appreciated it much in 12-whatever-year-it-was. You wouldn't have been able to see them for shit. But the looks of it, there's only one window, set high in the wall on the far side. Even with the barn doors open, the main crop this place would have been storing is shadows.

"There you are," says the bar lady returning with two damp wine glasses in her hand. "Freshly washed," she adds, proudly. "Just in case."

"I feel honoured," I say, meaning it.

"You shouldn't," she laughs. "It's all part of the service."

And with that, she hands me my orange juice and I go off to explore the space.

A stage has been set up down the other end, under the window.

Seats run in narrow rows in between the rough pillars holding up that vaulted roof.

I look up.

It really is quite something.

And must be a total bitch to clean.

Look, over there. A blue balloon is caught in the rafters. It's streamer trailing sadly behind it. And further along... I pause and get out my glasses.

It's a man. Or perhaps more accurately, a guy. A stuffed figure. Straddling one of the beams.

That's... well, okay then.

I go to find a seat.

It's pretty full in here. Surprisingly full. The people of Ruislip are well up for witch trials in barns.

And by the looks of it, there's a surprising amount of Goths living locally. Black eyeliner is being rocked all over the place. And one sweet young man has got a Slytherin scarf slung around his neck. Bless. I do love to see my house represented out in the wild.

"Is there anyone on the end here?" I ask a family taking up the remainder of a row. Mum and two young girls.

She shakes her head. "Nope." It's all mine.

There's a freesheet waiting for me on the seat. It's black. Professionally printed. With a very Blair Witchy style title treatment.

I'm well excited now.

I spend my time happily alternating between sipping orange juice and taking photos. I like it in here. It's creepy and cool and cosy. The three Cs.

And then the heaters go off.

We must be ready to start.

A front of houser comes forward. Turns out, she runs this place. Fire exits are pointed out, including the one hiding behind the stage.

I look around. It has just occurred to me that we are sitting in a very old, wooden building.

Good thing we've been getting plenty of rain recently.

There's no stage lighting to speak of, so when the play starts, it's within a shared light environment. Very true to the period. Although the blinding electrics in this place would have been more light then any of these characters saw in their entire lives.

We're in the 16th century, and Mark Norman's Sir William Tyrell is called upon when Sam Burns' Thomas Latimer accuses Tracey Norman's Margery Scrope of witchcraft.

We follow the accusations, as Norman scribbles away making notes to the distant sound of church bells pealing away.

And I have to admit, even with the ecclesiastical soundscape, it's not quite doing it for me.

It feels like we've been dropped into the end of the story. We're watching Poirot's wrapup without ever getting to witness the murders. And I can totally see why its done this way, but... yeah. Not for me.

It doesn't help that it's freezing cold. Without the heaters on blast, we are basically sitting in a old barn. Even cows are given hay and stuff to keep out the chill.

As the cast comes out to receive their applause, we launch straight into a Q&A. With Norman still wiping the tears of desperate anguish from her face as they do so.

But it's the actors asking questions of the audience.

What did we think? Was she guilty?

Honestly, debating the possible guilt of a fictional character is not something I’m bothered by. They tell us that the story is meant to be balanced. That you are not meant to know. And that's enough for me.

But then Norman starts talking about the historical background of it all, and I suddenly get interested.

And yes, there's the usual twat in the audience who feels the need to show off that they know what year the poor laws were codified, but on the whole, this a fucking great discussion.

If they were all like this, I might actually start staying for them willingly.

Questions done, we're invited to hang around, talk to the cast, sign the guest book.

I'm not having with any of that, even with the assurance that the heaters are going back on. I am the first one out the door.

This is my third trip to Ruislip, and I'll be damned if I'll be spending another evening shivering on a platform. Sending up a prayer and a promise of a thousand offering to each of the theatre gods, I half-run down the hill towards the train station.

As I beep through the turnstiles, I can hear the sound of a train approaching.

Now that's real witchcraft for you.

Elbows at Dawn

I'm off to the Bush Theatre tonight. A place I love. Although I'm fairly confident I've thrown a lot of shit over the years, complaining that they are hard to get to just because they're lurking all the way down at the end of the Circle line.

Yeah, well. My tolerance of hard-to-get-to-ness has been raised this year. I've shivered on platforms for twenty minutes waiting for trains that would never come. I've walked miles. I've had nice ladies on trains offer me sweets to stop me from fainting in overheated carriages. The Bush Theatre is not hard to get to. It's right opposite Shepherds Bush Market, for gawd's sake. I admit it. I was precious as fuck at the start of this year. But I have had my consciousness raised. And I think we can agree that I'm the better for it.

Anyway, as I was saying, I do love the Bush Theatre. It's so nice. And homey. And warm. And welcoming. And shiny. Let's not forget that. It's looks hella swish, with its bright yellow signage and fine red brick walls.

I don't think there could even be a more welcome sight than that of the warm light pouring out of the Bush's glass frontage after you've just battled against the Hammersmith and City line to get there.

Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop talking about trains now. I am. I promise.

I scoot through the little courtyard area that the Bush has going on, and through the automatic doors.

It's packed. I'm late. And everyone is busy getting their drink orders in before going in.

I join the queue at the box office. It moves fast, and soon enough I'm at the front giving my surname.

"Pardon?" says the box officer, leaning in.

"Smiles? S. M. I-"

He's already off, looking through the ticket box, and yup. He's found them.

"Your tickets are here," he says, handing them over. "It's seventy minutes straight through. No readmission."

That has to be the most perfect sentence in the English language. Seventy minutes straight through. The absolute dream.

As I double back the way I came, I find myself practically having to step over people as they pour through the door.

I know I should have avoided all this by looping my way around the box office and past the bar in order to get to the auditorium, but there's a chalkboard here that I want to get a photo of.

Yes, there it is.

"Baby Reindeer," it reads in pretty purple letters.

"70 minutes. No interval."

Oh bliss. I read that again just to revel in the sheer joy of it.

"No readmittance."

Yup. Love it.

"Contains haze." Cool. "Strong language." Fuck yeah. "References to sexual abuse, violence, stalking & transphobia." Oh. Shit. Well, guess you can't have everything in life. Here I was thinking I was getting a nice play about Rudolph from before he got famous.

"Hello and welcome to the Bush Theatre. For tonight's performance, Baby Reindeer, please take your seats. It'll be starting in five minutes."

Right then. Looks like I've going in.

I go through the strange stairwell that the Bush has in the middle of their foyer.

Over on the other side is the entrance to the newly named Holloway Theatre.

I had forgotten about that. And the near heart attack that the announcement had given me. I don't want any theatres tweeting out about their 'new theatres' between now and New Year. I'm calling time on openings, reopenings, renamings, and anything else until the clock hits midnight on 31 December. Then they can do what they want. Open pop-ups in their gender-neutral loos if that's what they want to do.

But some of us have marathons that we're still pretending are possible to finish. And I don't want any more nonsense before it's over. My heart cannot take it.

On the bar is a huge dispenser of cucumber water. A woman stops to pull out a water bottle and fills it up with spa-goodness before rejoining the queue.

The ticket checker is selling playtexts.

Fuck yeah.

You know how much I love programmes. And playtexts? Well, they are just another level on top of that. You get to take the entire play home with you, for four quid! That's epic. As is the knowledge these fuckers are going to cost the best part of a tenner when they hit the theatre section of Foyles.

"Can I get a playtext?" I ask the ticket checker.

"Of course!" she says with suggests that people here don't know what a damn bargain they're getting. "That's four pounds."

I get out my purse, but the queue behind me isn't going away.

I step back and wave the next person forward.

"Oh sorry," they say, as if it was them getting in my way. They dither for a second, but then, with the more embarrassed expression ever, step forward.

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask the very patient ticket checker. The queue is growing bigger by the minute, and I'm not sure there's enough cucumber water left to keep these people going while I start searching for four pound coins.

Turns out she does, and we do that awkward hand shuffle as we trade currency and balance a playtext between the both of us.

Inside, another front of houser waits for us. I shove my purse back in my bag and show him my ticket.

"B11? Over there, second row," he says, pointing across the stage to the opposite block of seating.

I pause to look around.

You never know what you are going to find in the Bush.

Tonight we're in the round. Or rather, in the square. With seating on four sides.

An almost Gothic arched architecture has been sculpted out of the space with cloth sails stung up between pillars.

In the centre is a circle of light.

I make my way around to what the sign tells me, is block D.

I find my seat. Second row. Right on the aisle.

Nice.

A group of girls come over. One of them is pointing to the empty seats next to me.

I get up to let them pass.

"That's not us," one of them says with the type of disdain that can only be levelled against someone you are really good friends with.

"Oh, sorry," says the pointer to me, with a hand motion for me to sit back down. She squints at the seats. "No! It is! Look! Sorry, that is us."

The two girls thank me as they pass.

A third, silent one, follows on behind. She doesn't say anything, but does give me a good jab with her elbows as she takes her jacket off, which I'm sure you can agree, is almost as good.

As I nurse my bruised arm, I look around.

It's a very young crowd in here. Lots of cool-looking people. Even the usher is wearing a beanie with his t-shirt.

Strange pits have been sunk into the floor, and the people sitting in them manage to not "oof" as they climb into them. That's the level of youth we're talking here.

As the lights dim, projections whizz around us on the gothic sails, and Richard Gadd appears to tell us the tale of his stalker.

It's great.

Like, it's really great.

Like, properly fucking amazing.

I'm not the only one to think so.

Across the way from me is a young woman with red hair, watching rapt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with horror at Gadd's story.

She winces and gasps and clutches her wine glass to her chest.

I can't stop staring at her.

It's getting embarrassing. But I have never in all my life seen such an expressive face.

Just as I realise that I'm quick becoming the stalker in this room, the man sitting in front of my rams his elbow back, right into my knee.

I wince and shift away as his arm retreats.

But a second later, he does it again. His elbow rising up as his rummages around in his trouser pocket.

Then a third time.

Gawd knows what he's keeping in there.

I add my knee to my list of bruised limbs.

Honestly, there must be some point-based game going on at the Bush tonight. How many times can the audience elbow the person in B11?

Four times.

That's how many.

Gadd finishes his tale, leaving a cuddly toy reindeer on the stage behind him as he retreats from our applause, only returning to give the room a general thumbs-up.

We head for the exit, crowding it as four different blocks of seats aim for a single door.

"I like the space," says someone standing behind me.

"Great space," their companion agrees.

"You'd never been to the old space though," says the first, with the smugness of a true Bush-hipster.

As I wait, I turn airplane mode on my phone off.

There's a notification.

A general election has been called.

Oh, what fun.

At least I don't have to get on the tube now. I can walk to Hammersmith from here. That's something...

The next day I'm still thinking about Baby Reindeer.

Fuck, that play is intense. Seventy minutes of pure heart-pounding fear. And it was funny too.

There's a level of talent there, that I just can't process. I don't understand how people like that manage to exist. I can't even say I'm jealous, because we exist on entirely different levels of reality.

I scroll through Twitter, half to read about what people more intelligent than I am are saying about the election, and half to distract myself from thoughts of Martha the stalker.

And then I see her.

That girl.

The one with the red hair.

I stop scrolling, picking up the phone to so at it closely.

Yup, that's definitely her. She's even wearing the same jumper I saw her in last night. Black. With roses.

She's only bloody in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. That's Emma May Uden!

Fuck's sake. I told you she had an expressive face. She's a frickin' actor.

I very carefully do not follow her on Twitter before shutting down the app, putting away my phone, and deciding to take a break from social media.

A Nightmare on New Cross Road

I'm a little bit nervous about going to tonight's theatre. I've never been there before, but I've seen it. Many times, Back when I was a post-grad student, I used to walk past it all the time.

It lurked. Underground. Just off to the side of the pavement. Only a black board covered in rain-soaked flyers hinting at its existence.

I've told you before about my theory on finding fringe theatre venues when you are a bit lost. The trick is to always head in the direction that looks most likely to contain your inevitable death. The darker and more narrow the alleyway, the more likely it is to have a sixty-seater venue specialising in diverse new writers. I'm telling you. You could plot those points on a graph and get yourself a very tasty sigmoid curve going on.

And so it is with The London Theatre, luring us down beneath New Cross Road for the most nefarious purpose of all: theatre.

I should say, so it was with The London Theatre.

Because it's not called The London Theatre anymore.

Perhaps they had one too many confused tourists come in thinking they were going to get their weep on at a big-budget performance of War Horse, and decided to switch to a slightly less misleading name: The Ale Room.

Whether the theatre will live up to the promise of its new name, I guess I'm going to find out.

Soon.

I pause on the pavement and take my usual exterior photos. But they are taking forever. I tell myself it's because it's dark, and that my camera is struggling with the reflections from the street lights. But both you and I know that this is all a crock of shit. I'm dithering. Not wanting to go inside. Putting it off for as long as possible.

An old man laden down with shopping passes by and gives me a funny look.

I should get a move on, before people start thinking that I'm casing the joint.

Down the stairs I go, and through the door.

Inside is a very small corridor. Brightly lit and painted white. It doesn't look like it belongs to a theatre. It doesn't look like it belongs to anything. What it looks like, is a mistake.

Over on the wall is a small gap. More of a hole, really.

A woman peers out at me from behind it.

"Box office?" I ask doubtfully.

"Yup?" she says, confused at my confusion.

I slide over. "The surname is Smiles?"

She runs her pen down the list of names in front of her. "Yup! Enjoy," she says with a finality that suggests that our exchange is over.

Well, okay then.

I guess I just go through.

There isn't any signage, so it with some trepidation that I follow the corridor around a corner.

But it isn't a man wearing a ski mask and wielding a samurai sword waiting for me on the other side. Oh no. Instead, I find a small room, with a bar taking up one wall, and a large mirror over on the other. The space in between is rammed with a chaise longue and various other seating arrangements.

I appear to have just stepped into the smallest pub in all the world. And while the crowd over by the bar is too dense for me to actually get a good look at what's on offer, I'm sure they have a very fine selection of ales going on back there.

I don't really fancy asking the girls sharing the chaise longue whether they mind squishing up to make room for me, so I go through to the second room to investigate what's going on in there.

In here, there's a long wooden table with an equally long wooden bench, which I immediately claim as my own.

And from this angle, I can see that there's a set of dog bowls down on the floor. They're empty, but they're there. I look around for the corresponding hundry dog, but if there is the scamper of four paws going on anywhere in this place, I can't find it.

There is a poster though. Stuck up at dog-height. "Mutt Stop," it says, with an arrow pointing down at the empty bowls.

I'm not sure what to make of that.

Nor of the aeroplane seating I've just spotted over at the back of the room. There's even an oxygen mask hanging down from the ceiling.

Nice to know that we'll be looked after in the event of The Ale Room going down, I suppose.

And then I remember the empty dog bowls.

That oxygen mask probably isn't even hooked up to an air supply.

"And The London Theatre...?" asks someone, who is isn't me, but probably should have been, over at the bar. Bless them, tackling the hard-hitting questions I want to know the answer to, but am prevented from asking because of my crippling social anxiety,

"Yeah," says the guy behind the bar, with the tones of someone who has had to answer this question a lot. "Basically, The London Theatre was sold..."

I don't hear the rest of his explanation because I am immediately distracted by a group talking about the play.

"Did they tell you anything?" asks the person in the group who clearly knows everything there is to know about this work.

"It's comfort girls?" comes the tentative reply.

"Yeah," says the first person, nodding regally. "Pretty much. I saw it last night and it's... harrowing."

Oh good.

That's what I really wanted tonight. A harrowing play in a basement theatre in New Cross.

I can't claim to be surprised through. I knew full well what I was booking.

Joy Division. Not the post-punk band that features heavily on my Spotify playlists, unfortunately. But the name for the Nazi sex slaves kept to service the officers.

I did consider wearing my band t-shirt today but thought better of it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it's fucking freezing. But also, perhaps more importantly, no front of houser deserves to be confronted by some who so clearly misunderstood the nature of the show they were attending. Even if they do work in a creepy basement. I can see them now, their poor little faces, all scrunched up as they try to work out how to explain the situation. Oof. Even I'm not that cruel.

The line of people at the bar shifts and I manage to catch a glimpse of a huge glass jar crammed with what looks like dog treats.

That's a relief.

The dog bowl is ready to be filled when the moment comes. Even if this audience does remain disappointingly human.

A young woman comes in and takes a seat on the bench next to me.

It sinks alarmingly under our combined weights and I brace my feet against the ground, sending up a short prayer to the theatre gods that we won't need that oxygen mask.

I check the time.

It's ten past eight. Ten whole minutes past the start time, with no sign of the house opening. There's a door in the opposite room, a black curtain and metal chain keeping us out. I presume that's the entrance to the theatre, and not just where they keep the bodies.

It's packed in here, but I can't help but think they must be stalling while they wait for latecomers to arrive.

Plenty of small venues do it. And it's not like I disapprove of the practice. But, it's now twelve whole minutes past eight. On a Monday. And I kinda want to get on with things so that I can either go home or get murdered. Either way, I want to be sleeping before midnight.

The music cuts out.

"Right guys," says a man stepping through the crowd towards the dark door. "If you want to come through!"

I'm not sure I do, but I fall in line with everyone else just the same.

Beyound the black curtain, is a small black room.

With a dead body on the ground.

A guiding hand points me towards the front row.

"Can I go in the back?" I say, keeping a careful eye on the body.

It's a woman. Lying face down on the floor. She's dressed in a shift, except so boxy it might as well be a hospital gown. It's filthy with blood and grime.

The man hesitates "There's so much action," he says, waving in the general direction of the dead body, "we're trying to fill up the front."

Oh.

I glance at the body. Her feet at bare. The soles pointed towards the front row. They look vulnerable and sad, and I really don't want to be staring right at them.

"Can I sit over there?" I say, pointing at the small group of seats on the short wall by the door.

I can, so I tuck myself into the corner.

I look around.

It's a small room. Long and quite narrow. The walls are painted black.

There are two rows of chairs, on two side of the room. With a few extra tucked under a window in the corner. I can't quite make it out, but I suspect the tech desk is on the other side of that glass.

Behind me is a clock. You don't often get those in theatres. They tend to take the casino approach, in that it's better for audiences not to know how long they've been in there.

Not that it matters. It's showing entirely the wrong time.

Below it, behind the last row of chairs, is a model railway. A small one. But even so. That's weird. Like, super weird. Like, serial killer level of weird.

I twist back in my chair and try to pretend that I've haven't even seen it.

More people come in and they fill in the seats around me.

"Go in the front, you'll see more," is the constant advice.

I watch the body down on the floor carefully. If that's an actor regulating her breathing, she is damn good at it.

Disconcertingly good.

We are definitely all about to get murdered.

Although when it comes to it, the last people through the door have to plonk themselves in the second, and only other, row.

I'm slightly jealous.

Even more so when the play starts.

Things are not going well for the woman on the floor. She's not dead, but that's hardly an upgrade given the circumstances. As the other girls in the camp discover her, sympathy is not first on their list of priorities. And it's left to the new girl to look after her.

Everyone is frightened. Terrified.

They live in a prison where three mistakes will have them taken out back and shot.

They're jealous of the Jewish Poles over at the other camp. They only have to do factory work. They don't have the constant threat of bad reports hanging over them.

There are compensations though. Stockings and sweets from one of their regulars.

That is, until he finds out that the beautiful newcomer is Jewish.

Reminding us that now, although the camps are nothing more than a tourist destination to take selfies, the crimes they perpetuated are still happening all over the world, the cast returns, stumbling in too high heels as they gyrate under the red lights.

The men in the front row squirm, embarrassed, not sure where to look.

"Can I ask everyone to go to the main room, as the actors are coming out."

We file out, past the model railway and the clock saying the wrong time, and back into the smallest pub in the world.

A queue forms at the bar. I'm not surprised. You need a drink after that.

But I make a break for it. Up the stairs and back into the cold night air, glad I got away with my life.

Sneaking Feels

"Taxi!"

I'm not a taxi, but I look round all the same.

We're at the traffic lights on Waterloo Road and a man is hanging out of the window of his car, waving at the black cab next to him.

"What's that building called?" he hollers at the black cab. With a huge sweeping gesture, he motions over to big building opposite us.

I feel like shouting back that it's The Old Vic, but I think the cab driver has it sorted.

I cross the road and peel away. I'm not going to The Old Vic tonight. I've already been to The Old Vic. So, unless The Old Vic decides it's opening a new studio theatre, which wouldn't surprise me given that all the other theatres seem to be doing it at the moment, I have no business in the place before 2020.

Instead, I slip down Cornwall Road, away from all the cafes and restaurants and general bustle of the area, to a road that looks like it got lost on its way to an industrial estate.

There, little more than a door in the wall, is the Waterloo East Theatre.

And it's packed.

I can barely make it through that door in the wall, the corridor inside is so crowded.

Pushing through into the foyer area doesn't help. If anything, the press of people is even more, well, pressing, in here.

Through the jam of backs and elbows and shoulders, I can just about see a sign indicating the presence of a box office and I make my way towards it. Only through careful examination of who are holding tickets do I manage to work out the existence of a queue. I join it.

A minute later, it's my turn.

I give my surname.

"Ah yes!" says the box officer, turning to reach for the ticket box. "I was marvelling at that earlier. I had a wager with myself about whether you'd be really glum. But you're not!" he adds hurriedly.

"Well, with everyone saying how great my name is the whole time, it's hard to be glum." Which is true.

I spot something on the counter. A sign advertising programmes for two quid. Well, it's advertising ‘programs’ for two quid because apparently we're American here in the Waterloo East Theatre. That or they're actually shifting some really niche computer software. I decide not to point this out. Don't want the nice box officer thinking I'm letting my surname down.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"Yes, but they're over at the bar, actually."

Somehow I manage to make it over to the bar on the opposite side of this miniature-sized foyer.

Past the loos and a ladder leading up to a terrifying-looking balcony.

At least, I think they're the loos.

The gendered signage in the forms of dancing silhouettes is a little confusing.

As for the ladder.

"That convenient door," says someone. "I'm sure that's the entrance, and not rather up those inconvenient stairs."

"The stairs do look very inconvenient," comes the reply.

"I wouldn't want to try them."

Nor would I. I'm very glad to here that we will be accessing the space through a door. At ground level.

I reach the bar, and pay my two pounds. Getting a handsome programme in return.

I have a flick through.

More American spelling. Theaters instead of theatres abound. They should rename this place the Waterloo Iowa Theater.

I wouldn't mind so much if they didn't flip-flop between the two throughout. Theatre or theater. Doesn't matter which. They need to pick one and own it.

The cover is very much on-trend, in that you would know you were seeing a gay play without ever having to read the marketing copy. Lots of abs. Lots of soft purple lighting. I'm beginning to think of it as the Above the Stag aesthetic.

Judging by the fire code violation that is this overstuffed foyer, it's clearly doing the job.

The men are out in force for Afterglow. And a couple of women. And by a couple I mean literally two. Me and another girl. She's over by the bar, buying herself a very small glass of wine.

The man behind the bar retreats through the convenient door, reappearing a few minutes later. "Apologies for the delay," he says to us all. "We had a slight technical problem which is now solved, so we'll be opening in a few minutes."

"Thank you!" someone in the crowd replies.

I use the time to look around.

Brick walls alternate with corrugated iron. All coated with a layer of framed playbills, and what looks like drawings of actors. There's Alan Rickman as Snape. And Carrie Fisher with her big bunned Princess Leia. And Charlie Chaplin as... Charlie Chaplin? Literally can't name any of his roles.

A chalkboard advertises the price list for the Wet Bar, which is a term I know the meaning of, but will never understand.

The front of houser reappears. "We are about to open the house. It's very busy tonight so please sit in your allocated seats," he says, in what must be a first for this marathon. I've encountered a fair few seat-swappers along the way, but never enough to warrant that kind of announcement. Apparently, at the Waterloo East, seat numbers are only a suggestion.

"No phones inside the auditorium," he goes on. "Under any circumstances at all."

Shit. Well, that's okay. I'll just have to be super sneaky about my auditorium photos.

"Anyone spotted with a phone will be removed."

Double shit.

"Switch off social media and enjoy live performance."

Okay, Grandad.

I put my phone away in my bag. I don't want to get kicked out. I'll figure the photo problem out later.

The box officer is on the door now, and I show him my ticket as I pass through.

We file into the auditorium, the ceiling curving over our heads. We're in a railway arch. The natural home of fringe theatre in London.

The stage is tucked in at one end. With a proper, full on set.

Rising away from it is a very narrow block of seating. So that we're not just sitting inside a railway arch, we actually get the experience of sitting within the close confines of a train.

I climb the stairs until I reach my row, but am left blinking at the seats, not knowing where to go.

There are seat numbers. I can see them. But they've been stuck on the backs of the seats. Am I supposed to lean over to find out if I'm in the right chair? That sounds way more acrobatic than I am capable of on a Sunday night.

I look at the row in front. We're starting at 'one' on the aisle. That's simple enough.

I decide to count my way into my seat, and hope for the best.

"There's no seat numbers?" says a bloke staring out my row.

"They're here," says his companion.

They both stare at the numbers, before deciding to sit next to me.

I now understand why there's a pre-show announcement telling us to sit in our allocated seats. It really is more complicated then it sounds.

A second later, they are getting up and leaving the row.

They stand awkwardly in the aisle and a group of young women squeeze in.

"Shall I get out?" I ask, standing up to let them through, and realising there isn't much room for passing.

"No, it's okay," says one of them and they press on, my leaning as far back as I can and them side-stepping their way to their seats.

This must be what they mean by intimate theatre.

And then the play starts, and... I mean. I'd heard that things were rather... But this is very...

They are naked. They are all naked.

And it's fine. Because I am a grown up. At the theatre. And it's actually a rather good play. With excellent actors. Who just happen to be naked.

And... hey. I just got elbowed. The man sitting in front of my just elbowed me! Stuck his pointy arse elbow in between the seats and rammed it back into my knee. And... hey! He just did it again.

What a twat.

No matter. He seems to have got control of himself now. Back to the play.

I love all these characters. Even when they are awful And I swear if this ends badly, I am going to be very upset.

They've really got to stop having shower scenes though. I'm not sure I can handle any more.

Gasps ring out and there's a quiet moan of "noooooo," as one of them does something awful. Bastard.

The girl sitting next to me starts to sniff.

First a delicate one, but then a great big snotty one. She's crying.

Oh gawd.

She's not the only one.

Sniffs and sobs surround me on all sides.

Those bastards drew us in with well-lit abs, and now they making feels explode all over the place.

That's not fair.

Blackout.

We sit in stunned silence.

Then the applause starts.

The girl next to me sniffs and claps, sniffs and claps. The guys on the other side jump to their feet in full ovation mode.

Then it's time to leave.

I get out my phone and sneak a photo.

Well, it's not like they can kick me out now.

Plus, that's the least they can do after pummeling my heart.

Just rip my fucking throat out already

It's Saturday morning. And I'm still very, very ill.

Okay, it's past noon and I'm mostly just feeling sorry for myself, but the point still stands.

I'm tired. And I have a cough. And the only show I want to be seeing is the immersive drama: The Duvet. Very conceptual. It involves lying under a duvet. And then being left alone for twelve to fourteen hours. Cups of tea are lovingly placed on the bedside table next to you by a silent and unseen presence. Sadly, I couldn't get the funding. So here we are.

At the Bloomsbury Theatre, for another go at the Bloomsbury Fest.

I'm just gonna pause right now and say that I'm actually super grateful for the Bloomsbury Festival because I was having the absolute worst time trying to find a show in the studio space in the Bloomsbury Theatre to book for. Ten months I've been waiting for something to be programmed that not only qualifies for the marathon, but also, you know, is on a day I can actually attend. And yes, the festival has been booking up churchs and common rooms, adding extra venues to my already overlong list, but it's given me the opportunity to check off this one, so... I can forgive it.

This place is surprisingly big. Lots of glass. It could easily be a fancy office block. Home to hundreds of accountants. If it weren't for the oversized scribble of the Bloomsbury Theatre sign I would never have guessed what was lurking inside.

I go in.

The foyer is almost empty except for the excess amount of wood panelling striping the walls. There's a box office off to one side, sealed behind glass walls.

"I'm collecting for Declan?" I don't know why I felt the need to say the name of the show. Something about this place makes me feel like I need to explain my presence. Perhaps because it's a university theatre. And the knowledge that I wasn't clever enough to go to UCL. And now I'm here. Creeping about their theatres.

"The surname's Smiles," I add hurriedly, just in case she thinks that I'm the Declan I'm collecting for. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

The box officer doesn't seem bothered by my stuttering incompetence. From behind her glass screen she looks at her computer. "Is that Maxine?" she asks.

It is.

A man appears at the counter next to me.

He leans in to talk to the other box officer. "We're performing on Sunday," he tells them. "And I was just wondering whether you could tell us our ticket sales."

I don't get to find our how well my neighbour's show is doing, because my box officer is sliding a ticket under her screen.

"Where is the studio?" I ask at the exact same time as she attempts to give me directions.

"That's just downstairs," she says.

I thank her and go in the direction she's pointing.

Wood panelling competes with dark brick walls as each try to prove that they are the most seventies.

Downstairs, the stripes of pale wood win out, as the dark bricks give way to white walls.

It's busy down here. Turns out it's not just me prepared to wake up early on a Saturday morning to see a one man show in a Bloomsbury basement.

That's a cheering thought.

My biggest fear throughout this entire marathon has been the possibility of finding myself as the only audience member at a show. It hasn't happened yet, and by the looks of it, it won't be happening today. Not even close.

"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser. "If you'd like to fill in from the front without leaving any gaps, that would be very helpful."

There's a gentle stir towards the door.

I follow them, handing my ticket to the ticket checker, who tears off the tab before waving me though into a small lobby.

There's a table and chairs in here. An old show posters on the wall.

Through another door, and we're in the studio.

It's small.

Well, it is a studio.

But even so. It's a small, dark, room. With rows of chairs, and black-out curtains covering the walls. Nothing more.

Everyone ignores the front of houser's instructions to fill in from the front, and start dotting the rows with their presence.

I slip into the third row, remembering too late that, with my cough, I should be sitting on the aisle. Way too late. More people arrive.

"Are you saving these?" a girl asks.

"No, go for it," I find myself saying before I can stop myself, and a second later, I'm blocked in by a group of young people.

I rummage around in my bag and find a cough sweet. Hopefully, that will tide me over.

It's really warm in here. I'm wearing a sweatshirt. It's a nice sweatshirt. With dinosaurs on it. But it's a sweatshirt none-the-less. And I am rapidly overheating.

Still, it's a one-hander, in a basement studio, in a pre-lunch slot on a Saturday. We're not going to be in here long. I can do this.

Our performer is already on stage. Well, on the bit of the room that isn't taken up by chairs. Well, the bit of room that isn't taken up by his chair. He's sat slumped down. Asleep. Shifting around every few minutes to find a more comfortable spot. Can't say I blame him. These chairs aren't great. I wouldn't want to nap in them either.

People twist round in their seats, watching who comes in.

As they arrive, hands dart up, waving and beckoning the newcomers into the fold.

Eventually, the trickling stops, and the door is shut.

We begin.

Our man in the chair wakes up. I usually wouldn’t name him without a freesheet, but fuck it. I remember it from the website. Our man in the chair, Alistair Hall, wakes up.

He has a story to tell us. It seems to be distressing him. He just got bitten. On the bum. And if a bite on the bum wasn't enough, the biter then drank from him.

As updates to the vampire myth go, this one is truly concerning.

I pull my sleeves down over my wrists. It may be sweltering down here in this basement, but I don't think I've ever felt so aware of the veins under my own skin and I don't want to be giving the potential biters in the audience any ideas.

There is more to the tale then bum biting though. Our new friend has to tell us about a boy. Declan. A friend, yes. But also more than that.

Someone sitting a few rows behind whispers something to their friend.

"EXCUSE ME," cuts back the saviour of the audience.

The whispers stop.

The air is so dry in here. So dry, I can feel my throat rebelling.

I cough, hoping to clear it.

It doesn't work.

I cough again. And again. And again. I can't stop. Every attempt to do so has my entire body shaking with the effort. Now my sleeves are all the way down over my hand as I do my best to stifle the noise in this tiny, overheated room. I coil in on myself in embarrassment, praying to all the theatre gods that this cough will just stop.

I need a saviour. Someone to give me a withering "EXCUSE ME."

Or even a vampire. Fuck it, I'll even take a biter right now if he promises to rip my throat right out.

The girl sitting next to me leans forward and picks something off the floor. "Would you like some water?" she asks, offering me a cup.

"Thank you so much," I whisper back, trying not to choke on my own words.

The water helps. The cough subsides.

Not long after, our tale ends. I was right. It was a short one.

"Thank you so much for the water," I say to me hero as we put on our coats and prepare to leave.

She touches my arm. "No problem," she says with a smile, as if to say: us audience members need to look out for each other. There's probably some truth in that. I've given out my fair share of cough sweets to fellow theatre-goers in need over the years.

I pick up the cup and drain the rest of the water, leaving the empty plastic on the table out in the foyer.

I've got another show to go before my theatre-going is done for the day. Let's just hope my throat can handle it.

When the moon hits your eye

It's Friday night and I'm off to church, which is not something I ever thought I would say. But hey, that's my life now. The Bloomsbury Festival is in full force and if they say they are having a theatrical event in a church, then dammit, ya gurl is off to church.

I'm actually a little bit excited about this one. Firstly, because it sounds fucking cool. Or at least, there is an element of it that sounds fucking cool. We'll get to that later. But mostly, I'm excited because it's taking place in a church I actually know. And by 'know,' I mean that I've walked past it a lot and vaguely wondered what it looks like on the inside.

So, even though I'm still feeling grotty as fuck, and it's raining down hella hard outside, I have a bit of a bounce in my step as I make my way down Cromer Street towards Holy Cross Church.

There's a security guard on the door, which is not usual practise round here as far as I know. I thought those guys are all busy looking after the synagogues. Guess that's the world we live in now. Everywhere is in need of a bit of muscle.

As I go up, there's someone talking to the security guy.

"But there should be a service now," says the someone.

"It's closed," says the security guard, pointing at a sign. "It's open again tomorrow morning."

"But what about now?" insists this guy, who has clearly got a real need to pray going on.

"There's an event now."

"But I should be able to go to church!"

The security guard shrugs. It's not like he programmed the festival.

With a wave of disgust, the guy goes, and the security officer turns to me.

"Hi. Box office?" I ask.

"You have a ticket?"

I show him the confirmation email on my phone and he nods with relief.

"Just there, they'll take your name."

And that's how you buy your way into church, I guess.

As promised, inside there is a table set up with people ready to take names.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say to someone wearing the Bloomsbury Festival STAFF badge that I recognise from my Goodenough outing.

"Maxine?" he says.

"Yup." That's me.

"Great. Take a programme," he says, patting a pile of freesheets on the desk in front of him.

I pick one up, keeping my eyes fixed on it while I move away from the table.

It's a dangerous move. Especially for someone who isn't all that steady on her feet even at the best of times.

But I know what I'm going to see when I look up, and I want to make sure I'm in the best possible spot before I do.

There's a good line of people here, all with their phones out, taking pictures. I think this is it.

I look up. And there's the mother fucking moon.

Inside the church.

Probably shouldn't swear.

But can you see that?

The twatting moon! Inside the church!

It hangs there, slotted in between the stone pillars as if it had always been there, as if it were the church that came later. Built around this floating moon to house and keep it. A temple for those ancient moon-worshipping followers.

Down below, the pews have been set up in an elongated horseshoe, so that we may be the ones to orbit the moon.

I find a spare spot and sit myself doen, gazing up in wonder at this magical orb.

As I watch, staring, I start to see it moving. Gently swaying. Almost as if it were pulsating. Or breathing.

According to the freesheet, the moon is seven whole metres across. It's made by an artist called Luke Jerram and goes by the name Museum of the Moon.

It then bangs on about all the performers who'll be in here tonight, but I'm going to be real with you right now: I don't care about any of them. I'm here for the moon.

We all sit back in our pews, staring at this mystical object.

I kinda want to touch it. To place my hand against it. To feel if it really is breathing in there. But I'm scared. Partly of the security guard who I know is outside. But also, I'm nervous about finding out what this moon is made of. Of discovering that all those crevices and valleys and pox marks across the surface, are, in fact, only printed on. I can't decide what would be more horrific, a rough and scratchy canvas, or a smooth rubber. The thought of either sends me into a shudder.

A photographer walks around, moving chairs and pews as he goes, clearing himself a gangway so that he can walk around the space uninterrupted.

Our host for the evening comes out. Sam Enthoven.

He asks if any of us don't know what a theremin is. An old lady in the row in front of me pips-out a shrill "No!"

A surprising about of people join in.

I appear to have found myself in a church full of people who don't watch American Horror Story.

But off we go. Enthoven on the theremin as Minnie Wilkinson tells us a story... and, I'm going to admit something now. I don't dig storytelling. Like, I actively dislike storytelling. It's just not one of the performing arts that I'm into. I'd probably rank it just below circus if I were to ever spend a very dull Sunday afternoon rating all of them,

I don't know what it is. I think it has something to do with the telliness of way storytellers construct their tales. Because I have no issue with, like, audiobooks, so it's not the listening to a single voice that puts me off.

Instead, I focus on the moon, matching my breathing to it, and falling into a strange fantasy where the valuted roof opens up and the pair of us, me and the moon, sail off into the dark night.

A group of latecomers arrive. A front of houser walks them around the back, pointing out empty seats.

I twist my knees around so that one of them can get past and sit next to me.

She looks over at her friend in the next pew and they both giggle and raise their eyebrows.

The first tale comes to an end. We all applaud. Even the latecomers - though they do it with another shared glance and a giggle.

Jordan Campbell is up next, accompanied by the stunning Lou Barnell wearing a Grecian white dress. Now this story I can get into. Mainly because it has a werewolf in it.

But just as I find myself having to realign all my thoughts about storytelling, the photographer comes round and places himself right in my sightline, blocking my view of Campbell.

In an instant, the magic is broken.

Unable to see our performer, I look around at the audience instead.

It's a very white audience. A very very white audience.

A very very white audience, in the church on Cromer Street. Which if you've ever walked down it, you'll know it's not a white street.

That man who was turned away by the security guard? Yeah, he wasn't white.

I don't want to make this a 'thing' but it does make you think, doesn't it, when a venue whose very existence is dependent on locals, gives over its space for an event that is then attended by non-locals.

Now, I mean, it's for art. And art is great. And I'm sure the congregation was encouraged to attend. But still.

At least one man out there isn't happy about missing out on this evening's service.

And instead, all these white people are sitting around, gazing at the moon, and listening to bedtime stories.

Enthoven reappears. There's going to be a ten-minute interval. "The nearest loos are in the pub across the road," he tells us.

The girl sitting next to me looks over at her friends. "I really need to go, actually," she says.

"Yeah, me too. Actually."

And off they go.

I make a bet with myself that they won't be back.

Underneath the moon, the people gather. To take selfies.

"Shall I face you, or face away?" a young woman says as she races out.

The man she's with tells her it doesn't matter and she raises her arms above her head.

"Nowhere near," he laughs.

"Did I do it?"

"Nah, you're way too short."

After a few experiments in perspective, they get it right, and have a photo of her balancing the moon on her fingertips.

We're recalled to our seats. It's time for the second act.

The seat next to me stays empty. As does the one in the next door pew. I was right. Those latecomers had no intention of coming back.

Enthoven comes back out to introduce to next set of performers. Apparently there had been some complaints about sound levels. But it seems to have been fixed now.

Or perhaps not, because I can't make out a word Laura Sampson is saying. It's lost over the screeching, saw-like noises made by Greta Pistaceci.

High above us, a wooden Jesus gazes down on the luminous moon, flanked by two figures, Mary and... yeah, I'm not Christian, I don't know who the other one is.

I wonder what they make of the whole thing. Their church given over to this event. Their congregation turned away. These new people brought in, but unlikely ever to return for a service.

At the end of their tale, a dozen or so people make a break for the exit.

One left.

Alys Torrance steps out under the moon to gaze at it in wonder. "What's in there?" she muses, before chatting with her musician. "Can you play the moon?" she asks Sylvia Hallett.

Hallett tells her to wait and see.

"It's like that, is it?" laughs Torrance. And then we begin.

Torrance really is an engaging storyteller. Stepping away from the microphone to use the entire space, use her body, and the audience, the air and the moon. I don't think I'll ever truly get into this art form, but for the first time, I think I understood the appeal.

The house lights rise and Enthoven sees us off, with a thanks for "supporting unusual evenings like this one."

Come to the dark side. We have cushions.

I’m still ill.

But no longer dying. Which is nice.

Which means that I can make the long journey towards Walthamstow without worrying that I might collapse on the way, only to be found six years later, half-eaten by tube mice.

Feeling slightly sniffy and very sorry for myself, I make my way to the Mirth, Marvel and Maud. On Hoe Street.

No need to look at me like that. It’s not my fault that Walthamstow was doing a roaring trade in farm implements back in the day.

Anyway, if we’re talking names, then the alliterative triptych of Mirth, Marvel and Maud is much more worthy of contemplation.

One thing that’s been on my mind a lot, usually when I’m walking in circles in an unfamiliar area, trying to find one of these blasted theatres, is what the locals call a place.

Do the residents of Stockwell call the Stockwell Playhouse the Stockwell Playhouse? Or is it just the Playhouse?

Is the Bromley Little Theatre the Bromley Little Theatre to the people of Brommers? Or merely the Little Theatre? Or perhaps the BLT? Or maybe the Sandwich? These are the questions I want answers to, but am too embarrassed to actually ask.

And it’s no different tonight. I don’t believe for a second anyone around here calls the Mirth, Marvel and Maud the Mirth, Marvel and Maud. For one, it’s ridiculous. And for two, it’s way too long. So, what do they call it? Is it the Mirth, as the towering letters on the outside of the building suggest? Or maybe it’s the Triple M. Or…

“It’s the old cinema,” says a man as he holds the door open for his companion.

Well, okay then.

I follow them in.

The box office is just inside the door, with a fat letter M resting on the counter, glowing in the ambient (dark) lighting scheme they’ve got going on.

“Sorry,” says the box officer. “I also need to stamp her.”

The lady in front of me goes off in search of her friend and brings her back for a good stamping.

That done, it’s my turn.

“Hi,” I tell the box officer. “I have an e-ticket? Do I also need to sign in?”

Ah yes. The e-ticket.

Now, that had been a bit of work to acquire.

The Marvellous Mrs Maud have left their ticket providing services to Dice. Which is not theatre ticketing software. It’s an app. For gigs. An app that I did not have, and did not want, but was forced to download anyway.

Now, you know, I get it. Some theatres run music events. Some theatres are predominantly music venues. So, like, fine. But also, it doesn’t work and I hate it.

Case in bloody point. Door time. We all know what that means in gig-world. But in theatre? Is that when the house opens, or the show starts? Who knows? Dice certainly ain’t telling me.

And this e-ticket? Is someone going to scan it, or do I have to report into the box office, like I am now. There’s no way to know until I ask. And I hate asking.

Then there’s the whole having-reception thing. Dice won’t let you see the QR codes more than two hours before door time. Nor will they let you screenshot the page once you do have the code.

“Yeah,” says the box officer. “What’s the name?”

With a sigh, I realise the whole app thing was pointless. I drop my phone back into my pocket and give my name.

“Just you?” asks the box officer.

“Just me,” I say, now resigned to my fate of always having to admit my lonesome state at box offices across this city of ours.

She stamps me up high on the wrist, which is apparently a thing now. Backs of hands are no longer in vogue when it comes to stamping.

“Can I get a programme?” I ask, spotting the display on the counter.

“That’s two pounds.”

“In the cup?” I ask. There’s a plastic cup with a scrappy bit of paper stuffed in it. “Programmes,” it says.

I drop my pound coins in it.

One question still remains.

“Where am I going?” I ask her.

She blinks at me. This is clearly not a question she gets often.

“Err, down the stairs?”

Okay then.

It’s ten minutes until door time. Whatever that means. So I go for a look around.

It’s a beautiful building this. Impossibly high ceilings. Panels. Chandeliers. The works.

There seems to be a trend at the moment with theatres. About making the foyer spaces accessible to non-theatre goers. They want people coming in off the street to have a drink and then not see a show.

Mostly I think that’s a nonsense. Not because of the ambition. You do you, theatres. It’s just that there aren’t many theatre bars I’d willingly spend time in without having to be there for theatre purposes. Too big. Too loud. Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to hide.

But this place? This place is nice. A wooden carnival stall of a cocktail bar in the middle breaks up the space. Huddles of chairs and tables hug the walls. There are sofas.

It’s quiet, but not echoey.

Ornate, but not intimidating.

Large, but not overwhelming.

I could see myself coming here for a drink.

I mean, if it wasn’t in Walthamstow.

Bit of a trek for a G&T.

I lean against the back of the cocktail stall and have a look at my newly-acquired stamp. It says Marvel.

So, we’ve got Mirth. And Marvel. Where on earth is Maud?

This place may be nice to look at, but it seems to have picked looks over books.

There is a horrendous lack of signage.

Apart from the solitary chalkboard proclaiming the existence of toilets, I can’t see a single notice to direct me anywhere. Let alone the theatre. Which, I would have thought, would be an important element of the M&M&M experience.

I put my glasses on, just in case I’m missing on signs in the general blur, but nope. Nothing. Not unless I’m in serious need of a new prescription, my poor eyesight is not the problem here.

But the box office lady said to go downstairs. So I go downstairs. To the bar. And what do you know. There it is, a sign pointing towards the Maud. Between the water station and the loos.

I follow where it's pointing, into a corrdior that smells like a lavatory, and right opposite the door to the ladies', is a bloke. He's standing next to a posing table covered with plastic cups. I think he must be the ticket checker. Or he would be the ticket checker, if this place had tickets.

"Got a stamp?" he asks as I approach.

I pull at my sleeve to show him the back of my wrist. "Yup," I say, and he nods me through.

Inside it's red.

Very red.

I mean, last night I was in a red theatre, so it shouldn't be that shocking. But if anything, the Hilariously Amazing Maud is even redder than the BLT.

The walls are red. The ceiling is red. The decorative mouldings are red. Even the chairs are of a reddish hue.

I stand and stare at the chairs.

They are weird. And it's not the reddness that is bothering me. It's that they're evil.

And no, they're not evil because they're red.

I mean, they might be evil because they're red.

I don't know why they are evil. I just know that they are.

Because the powers that be at the Mirthiless Maud have banished them off to the sides of the room.

The rest of the space is given over to long wooden benches.

Clearly, the puritans are in charge in Walthamstow.

So as not to anger them, I take a pew.

Everyone else in here has decided to face the forces of evil arse-on, and sit on the sides.

The same conversation is played out over and over as people file in.

"Where do you want to sit?" a newcomer asks. "Shall we sit in the middle?"

"I might go for a softer seat..." comes the tentative reply.

Eventually, the chairs fill up and people are forced to turn to the benches.

A couple of women join me on mine.

A few minutes later, their friend arrives, and insists that I stand up to let her pass so that she doesn't have to go about the indignaty of walking around and entering via the other side.

Honestly. What is it with people? This is the second night in a row this has happened. Stop making strangers get up when you can ask your friends to get up instead. They presumably want you to sit with them. Me on the other hand, would rather not have to exert myself for that honour.

I'm beginning to think it's the curse of red theatres.

I knew those chairs were evil.

"It's warm in here," says the woman who can't walk round.

There's a pause, and I realise she's talking to me. I quickly hit the power button on my phone, sending the screen black. I hope she hasn't seen me typing all that shit about her.

"It is," I agree. Very warm. They have got the heating on blast.

"Why?" she asks, and I'm left stumped by this question.

"I do approve of heating in October," I say. "But this is a bit much."

She seems satisfied by that statement and she goes back to talking to her friends, and I go back to typing up smack about her in my notes.

Right, now that I have established myself as evil a character as those chairs, I check the time.

It's ten past eight.

Door time or start time, that question remains unanswered. Are we waiting for the clock to run down or has something gone wrong? Who can tell?

Across the way, I can hear the hand dryers rumbling away in the loos.

Sixteen minutes past.

I'm getting kind of bored now.

I twist round in my seat.

Someone is sitting themselves down at the tech desk. That's a good sign.

The stamp checkers closes the door.

The house lights dim.

We're off.

The cast emerge. Eleanor Bryne, Niamh Finlay, and Sara Hosford. They move around a stage cluttered with lamps, shifting things around and doing the sort of busywork that is probably supposed to set the mood but has me wiggling my foot and willing them all to get on with it.

But then we're on the line in a fish factory. Guts are flying everywhere and the talk is pouring out too. Life is hard in 1980's Dublin, even if the music is banging. Tainted Love is on the lips of all three girls, and although I'm a Manson Girl (Marilyn, obviously) I am not unappreciative of the Soft Cell version.

Our cast shimmy and sprint through the lives of an endless procession of characters. Less slipping into them and more running full tilt until they crash right in: bosses and boys and friends, so many friends, and babysitters, and first loves.

And I love them all.

The girls I mean.

The men in their life are terrible. The absolute worst of the worst.

And as we return to the fish factory, and see them on the line, dragging their knives against the firm flesh of those fishy bellies, I can't be the only one thinking those knives might have served a greater purpose.

Applause done. House lights up.

I try to stand but sharp pains run up and down the backs of my thighs.

I winch as I haul myself up to my feet and turn around to glare at the bench responsible.

I knew I should have embraced the dark side and taken one of the cursed chairs.

Being virtuous is a young person's game.

If your name's not on the list

"Madam! Madam! The entrance is this way, the first left. Phoenix Street," comes the familiar call of the Big Issue seller on Charing Cross Road. 

I don't know how long he's been directing audiences to the correct entrance of the Phoenix Theatre, but he's there, keeping the crowds in check, almost every night I've been in the West End on this marathon.

I tweeted sometime back that the Phoenix should put him on the payroll, and I stand by that. He's already doing the work. Might as well make it official.

I am not in need of his assistance tonight though. I know where I'm going. Yes, onto Phoenix Street. But not to the Phoenix Theatre. I've already made my trip to the rock, and there's no time for a return trip before the marathon is over and I draw a thick Sharpie line under my theatre-going for the rest of my life.

I'm actually off to the theatre neighbour. The Pheonix Artist Club, which you might have rightly surmised, is not actually a theatre. But a club. For artists.

But as part of that remit, they have a programme of events. Cabaret. Music. Not marathon-qualifying stuff. Except tonight there's a scratch night. So off I go.

I've never been before. It's been on my list for years, but I never quite got round to it. And by that, I mean, I never managed to work out if I'm allowed in. I've heard from various people that you need to work in the arts to get access. But what that entails seems to differ depending on who you ask for. Some say it's members only. Others that you only need a business card proving you work in the industry to get through the door.

Oh well. No such restrictions exist for attending this show, so it looks like I'm finally getting my chance.

I tuck myself under the canopy and try my best to stay out of the rain as I use my final free minutes to edit a blog post. By the looks of it, this place is underground and I'm not sure what the WiFi situation is going to be down there.

A man comes over and starts singing to the guy next to me. "My old man's a dustman," he belts out, with hand motions to match. "How's your night going?"

The guy mumbles "fine thanks," before moving away.

"Excuse me, ma'am," says the Big Issue seller as he inches his way around me. His leading an entire procession of Come From Awayers. "That's the entrance down there," he tells them, pointing the way.

They thank him and skuttle through the rain towards the long queue where an usher with a strong Scottish voice is keeping everyone in check. "If you're collecting your tickets, it's the last door!"

Blog post vaguely proofread, I figure it's time to go in.

Or at least, try to.

There's someone standing in the doorway. He looks like he can't quite make up his mind about the whole thing.

Perhaps he also got confused about their entry requirements.

"Are you...?" I ask.

"No. Sorry. You go ahead."

So I do.

Inside there's a small podium desk. With a theatre mask stencilled on the front. Gold on blue.

The person ahead of me is trying to pick up their ticket. But by the sounds of it, their name isn't on the list.

Oh dear.

Even though I know I bought myself a ticket, I can feel the anxiety rising. Mainly because I never got a confirmation email. And yes, I checked my spam folder. Nothing. I have nothing to prove that I spent my coin to get in.

I look around in an attempt to distract myself.

There's plenty to look at. The ceiling is painted with a dramatic depiction of a bird. I'm guessing a phoenix, given where we are. Paintings line the stairwell, and there's a general sense of this place having been built into the remains of an antique store, with statues and chandeliers competing for attention.

The person ahead of me and the box officer appear to have reached an impasse.

"Let me just deal with this person," says the box officer and he leans around to beckon me forward.

"Hi, I'm here for the scratch night...?" I say, feeling more unsure about everything with every passing second.

"Yup!" says the box officer.

Well, that's one hurdle cleared at least. There is a show happening. And it's the one I thought it was.

"The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S." I say.

He looks down the list. I shift my weight from foot to foot as he works his way down one page, and then another.

"How is it spelt?" he asks.

I spell it out for him again.

"Ah!" he says, alighting on my name. "Maxine?"

"Yup," I say with relief.

"Got it. Enjoy your evening!"

And with that, I'm off down the staircase and into the basement.

"Hiiii!" says a young man in a red waistcoat that I can only presume is an usher. Bit smart for this kind of joint, but I'm not complaining.

"Hello!" I say back. "Um, where's the best place to go?" I ask as I look around, trying to make sense of what is happening down here.

It looks like a regular old bar. Tables and chairs clutter the space. I can't even tell where the stage area is.

"Anywhere you can find to sit," he says with a wave of his arm. "Sit down."

He makes a fair point. There doesn't look like there are many options going spare. Might as well grab any chair going.

I creep around the edge until I find an empty table against the wall.

There are cast sheets on the table.

Hastily edited cast sheets. Someone as gone over one of the titles with a biro. It's ‘NOT Been Fingered, ’ rather than ‘NEVER Been Fingered.’ Better remember that.

Looks like there are seven of them in all (with the Not Been Fingered acting as our finale). I hope they're short. I was rather hoping for an early night.

Now that I'm settled, I can have a look around.

This place is not somewhere that has ever said no to decoration. Rows of headshots top the bar. Chandeliers and disco balls hang next to each other. The walls are covered with signed show posters. A few even making their way onto the ceiling, finding their way into the small scraps of space that aren't crowded with gilded panels that look like they got knicked sometime during the dissolution of the monasteries.

A group of red waistcoated young people rush into the middle of the room, onto a platform which I can't see, but I presume must be a stage.

They're not ushers at all. They're actors. Playing ushers. Or actors playing ushers while trying to make it as actors. Actors who, incidentally, I won't be naming as they are all acting students this evening. So really, they're... students trying to make it as actors, playing ushers, who are trying to make it as actors. All very meta. Anyway, they are not happy with the audience. Orders to turn off our phones fly in between sneers of disgust at our behaviour and mocking jibes at one another.

A great choice to start the evening. Make sure we're all on our best behaviour.

Between acts, a host comes on to keep the energy up and introduce all the players.

A woman sitting on the table in front turns around. "Can I take?" she asks, indicating one of the spare freesheets on my table.

I slide it over to her.

"Can we…?" This time it's the woman on the table next to me. She wants to bunk up at my table in pursuit of a better view. I slide across the bench, and both she and the guy she's with squidge in next to me. This bench really wasn't meant for three.

After the fifth short of the evening, featuring a woman awaiting her execution, our host returns to the stage. "I think it’s time for a five-minute break," she tells us. "Head to the bar and I'll call you back when we're ready to start."

There's a scamper towards the bar, and the exit, as those who've already seen their friends perform make a bid for escape.

The table next to me frees up and I no longer have to share my bench as the interlopers make their way over in search of better climes.

"Ladies and gentlemen and everything in between," says our host. "We are good to go. Ting! Ting! Ting!" she says, mimicking a theatre bell. Adding: "Shhhh," when that doesn't work.

As we make our way into the final two pieces a man comes over from the bar and gestures towards the space next to me on the bench.

I gesture back, to indicate that he's welcome to it.

After being squished for so long, I'm beginning to feel a little lonely back here all by myself.

We make it through to the end. Seven plays. And not a single dud. That must be a record. Okay, one dud. But out of seven, that’s still very impressive for a night of new writing.

Though, I am a little concerned as to what was wrong with that banana in the last one. At least it had a clear moral though: don't be eating fingered food.

The host brings back all the actors for one mega bow session, which really has to be the way to do it. None of this stop-starting with curtain calls. Save it all for the end.

"Is that what we just watched?" asks my new neighbour. He points over to my cast sheet.

I slide it over to him and he reads it while I get my applause on.

I can't help but sneak glances over to the other end of my table though.

I really hope he doesn't want to keep that cast sheet. I took pictures of it. I'm not an amateur over here. But still. I kinda want to take it home with me. And by kinda, I mean: I will literally be thinking about that lost cast sheet for the next fifteen years if he doesn't give it back.

He does, but whether that's due to his lack of interest in the more papery things in life, or the feeling of my narrowed eyes watching him carefully, I don't care to ask.

I check the time.

Twenty-past nine.

Right then. That's a challenge right there: bed by ten-thirty. Here we go.

Cast sheet in bag. Jacket on. Umbrella out. I'm off.