We've become close, you and me, over the past year. And during that time, I suspect that you may have noticed that I'm a bit of a worrier.
I worry.
I worry a lot.
I worry about everything.
I worry about being late while walking around a block three times to ensure that I'm not too early. During shows I'm trying to hold myself in a perpetual balance of not crying or laughing or rolling my eyes too much in front of fellow audience members, while also not wanting to be a mannequin for the performers. I get embarrassed telling people about my blog while at the same time knowing it is the one thing that would explain my presence at a small amateur show where I know no one.
It's exhausting.
So you can imagine, when I discovered that to get to the Greenwood Theatre before the year was out I would need to book myself onto an amateur panto, I didn't take it well. If there was a Venn diagram of all my anxieties, this would be the perfect spirograph of overlapping circles, with me sat squarely in the middle.
Can you tell I'm not looking forward to tonight's theatre trip?
Twelve months ago I avoided all panto.
Twelve months ago amateur theatre was something that happened to other people.
Twelve months ago, I didn't even know the Greenwood Theatre existed.
Someone had to tell me about it. And I was super duper happy to add it to the list.
Things didn't get any better when I was booking and I discovered that the most hateful of all theatre questions had made it onto the booking form.
There was a drop-down list. From which I had to admit that no, I don't know anyone connected to this show.
I'm just that weirdo who turns up for rando pantos.
Anyway, here I am. Wandering around the King's College buildings, looking for this place.
Turns out, it's literally around the corner from London Bridge. Which would have been super convenient if I hadn't walked here from Waterloo.
It's much bigger than I expected.
The hoarding over the door reads GREENWOOD THEATRE in fat capital letters.
The doorway is lit up with pink lights, streaming out of a square of bulbs which makes me feel like I'm walking under one of those old Hollywood mirrors as I make my way inside.
Inside there's a tiny little vestibule, with exactly nothing in it except for a dispenser offering up plastic bags to put your umbrella inside of.
I don't want my umbrella getting all mouldy so I ignore that.
Inside, it's packed.
Like, seriously.
There are people everywhere.
Even sitting on the floor.
I find this out a touch too late, as I almost trip over a guy's legs.
But I can't blame him. There's no where else to sit. All the chairs are taken.
Even standing room is limited.
The ceiling is lit up with green lights.
There's a Christmas tree going on somewhere at the back.
What there doesn't seem to be, is a box office.
I scan the walls, looking for a counter, a window. Anything.
Nope.
There is a desk though.
With a laptop.
And a money box.
I go over.
"Hi, the surname's Smiles?" I say, still not sure I'm in the right place.
"Sorry?" says one of the ladies sitting behind the desk.
Shit. I'm not in the right place.
"Smiles?" I chance again. "S. M. I. L. E. S."
She types it into the laptop. "Lovely," she says, looking up and beaming at me. "That's great."
Oh. Okay. I think I'm signed in now.
I press into the crowd. I'm feeling a bit weirded out. Although whether that's due to a lack of physical proof of my ticket purchase in my hand, the fact that I've seen over three hundred shows within a year, or that I'm at a panto with an audience entirely composed of grown ups, I can't tell you.
I look around. There are, like, no children here.
And by no children, I mean there are two. But so small they barely count. I only spotted them because I had to dive out of the way as they pelted themselves in my direction.
Somehow, without me making any effort at all, a queue appears to have formed in the exact place where I'm standing. And I seem to be near the front of it.
This won't do at all.
I quickly hurry away.
I don't want to be first in the doors. If I'm in before everyone else, I won't be able to properly judge where the best seats are.
And by 'best seats' I, of course, mean ones that are near the back, but not so far back that the crowd begins to thin. I want to be in the last properly occupied row. Which means, I need to be going in after everyone else has chosen their seats.
"Programmes!"
My ears perk right the fuck up.
"Programmes! Over here!"
I follow the siren call.
"Programmes! Raffle tickets!"
There's a desk. It's covered in programmes and raffle prizes.
The programme seller spots her mark and beckons me over.
"Raffle ticket? Lovely prizes... Bottle of champagne?"
"Can I just get a programme?" I ask.
I may be going to amateur theatre now, but I'm not crossing that final line and buying their raffle tickets. That's a step too far.
"Here you go," she says holding one out. "Raffle tickets!"
I almost step back at that blasting call.
"Sorry…"
"Programmes!"
"Sorry..."
"Raffle tickets! Over here!"
"Sorry, howmucharetheprogrammes?"
She turns back to me.
"Two pounds."
"Great..."
I hand over the cash, grab my programme, and make a run for it.
Behind me, the queue is growing. It's got halfway across the foyer. Which means that some of the seats have been vacated. I find one and sit down.
The programme is pretty nice. Lots of notes from the creatives, which I always enjoy.
But something catches my eye in the one from the company's chair. "There's plenty of audience participation to get involved with so please listen out for direction from Buttons!"
Oh gawd.
A voice comes over the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for this evening's performance of Cinderella."
Right. No time to worry about that. We're going in.
I find the end of the queue right over by the entrance.
I seem to have found some more children. They've got themselves new sunglasses, and they are so enamoured with them they have lost all concept of how queues work.
"Come on boys," sighs their mother. "Look where you're going. You need to concentrate!"
Where we're going is through a very plain corridor, and through into the theatre.
Lights swirl over the red curtains.
On the other side are rows and rows of red seats, split into three banks by two aisles.
I eye them up. The front is pretty packed. People are wanting to be sitting near the stage tonight.
I start climbing until I find a row which is not entirely empty, but still has plenty of buffer seats. I don't want to be cosying up to anyone tonight. I looks like the sort of event where everyone knows everyone, and I don't want to be messing with any friendship dynamics going on.
I dump my coat and my bag.
There's plenty of space, even for my massive fur coat.
They ain't kidding around with the legroom in the Greenwood. I can cross my legs. I can stretch them out. I can sprawl.
I'm in heaven.
"Visitors to the Greenwood Theatre, please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will commence... shortly."
There's a small whoop from the audience.
That announcer knew what he was doing with his dramatic pause.
Someone comes to sit at the end of my row, sealing us in.
Thank the theatre gods, I've got my wall against any roving actors now.
Also, by the looks of it, he's also by himself.
I glance around, and amongst all the chattering friend groups, I manage to spot a fair few unaccompanied adults.
That's nice. I've been the only loner at the panto for far too long.
Friendless-theatre goers unite!... Separately!
The announcer is back on the microphone. "Good evening humble audience..."
The humble audience giggles, and the announcer warns us that we are, in fact, at a panto, and a certain level of enthusiasm is expected from us.
And now, here's the thing. The reason I don't like panto and never will. I kinda feel like, if a performer has to actually tell us they need more from us, like during the endless repeating of call and response to get us to scream louder, the "I can't hear youuuu....." and all that malarkey, then maybe, just maybe, their show is shit and we should all just go home.
Is that just me?
Okay, it's just me. Whatever.
Anyway, announcer-dude is asking as to give it up for the band, and like... okay. Fine. I can get on board with a bit of clapping for the musicians.
But then the curtain’s up, and the cast is singing, and Buttons is telling us how to say hello to him.
"Alright everybody!"
"Alright Buttons!"
Ergh.
Anyway, he's a postman and he has a parcel to deliver. To Becky.
"Where's Becky?"
Becky's friends all point to her while she covers her face and sinks down into her seat.
"It's a child! It's a child!" shouts a woman sitting behind me.
Which is obviously untrue because there are only four children in here and none of them are crying about being the forgotten Becky.
Buttons lobs a bag of Cadbury's Buttons at Becky.
She seems happy with that.
"Well, that was exciting, wasn't it?" announces the announcer. "There'll now be a fifteen-minute interval. See you again soon!"
I ain't going anywhere. I'm very comfy where I am. All this legroom... After spending so many nights in cramped seats, this feels like pure luxury. And while I'm not sure the dents in my shins will ever fill out again, I'm still feeling the benefit.
"It's good, isn't it?" says someone sitting behind me.
"So many children!" says her friend.
She means on stage. There are more little ones playing the role of Cinderella's mice friends then there are watching the show in the audience.
They are super cute though. All scurrying about being as extra as possible. One of them is dancing around so hard her ear-hat keeps on falling off and she has to spend the next two minutes sitting down on stage to put it back on. Only for it to fall off again moments later as she pretends to faint.
It's darling.
"Attention audience! Please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will continue shortly."
At this point, before we get started again, I should probably admit something to you: I am not hating this.
It could be that the singing is rather good, or possibly the constant stream of shoe-puns are doing it for me. Maybe I'm just enjoying the prince being an excellent trouser-role. These are all possibilities. But I suspect thevreal reason is that panto has simply just broken me.
One more and I'll be screaming "he's behind youuuuu!" with the kind of fervour you only find in American megachurches.
The whoop as the curtain rises once more is loud and long and I'm almost tempted to join in.
A young woman sitting in the row in front gets out her phone and starts filming. She knows what's she's doing. The screen is set to dim, the phone held low and aiming between the shoulders of the couple ahead of her.
Her friend spots what she's up to and tries to do the same, but he's got it all wrong. His screen is so bright he's illuminating himself as the prat he is, and he can't get the angle right.
After a few failed attempts to get a photo, he gives up.
Maybe he can get the footage off his friend's phone after.
The four kids in the audience are all screaming and laughing. They must have had a serious sugar fix during the interval, and the ghost roving around the back of the stage is sending them wild.
Unawares, the cast is having a pun-off of ghost-related song titles.
"Ghouls just want to have fun!" one says, swinging her hips and her arms in opposite directions.
"I believe I can floss!" shouts out a childish voice from the audience.
Uproar.
Complete and utter uproar.
Laughter drowns out any attempt from the cast to continue.
I spend the rest of the show giggling, and when Cinderella's wedding dress comes loose during the final number, and Buttons and the evil step-mother both grab on to her bodice to keep it closed, I realise I've actually rather enjoyed myself tonight.
Dear gawd.
What has become of me?