Does an angel contemplate my fate

November 25, 2019

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.

Jammy gits

March 3, 2019

All my many sacrifices to the theater gods have really been paying off recently.

After weeks and weeks (and weeks) of trying to get tickets through the National's Friday Rush, I finally managed to score a spot at not one, but two shows! They not only got me into Home, I'm Darling on Thursday, but also got me a prime central stalls seat for the Saturday matinee of Tartuffe. Now, some might claim it was because everyone in the queue was distracted by a desperate urge to see Follies, but I like to think it was the theatre gods doing me a solid after so two months of solid dedication to their cause.

So when Saturday afternoon rolled around, I was in a pretty good mood, ready to dedicate myself to the gods once more as I made my way for the first of three trips to the Vatican of British theatre this year.

I have to admit, I don't actually like the National. Or at least, not the building that it lives in.

All that concrete.

I'm sure it's an architectural wonder, and I'm just too bourgeoisie in my tastes to truly appreciate its genius, but to me, it just looks heavy and grey. A factory crossed with a graveyard. Both of which feel like the antithesis of what a home to art should look like.

Still, no one ever said serving the theatre gods would be fun. It was time to stop hanging around, gazing at the foundry and go instead and see what they've been manufacturing lately.

Queues by the looks of it.

The ground floor box office, the one that serves the Lyttleton theatre, the first of the National's three venues that I would be checking off on my marathon, had a line stretching all the way across the foyer.

I joined the end.

A moment later, an older couple did the same.

That is, they joined at exactly the same point in the queue as I had. Right next to me.

I glanced at the pair of them, and then at the space behind us. There was plenty of room, but for some reason, they thought the queue needed a right angle, and they were prepared to start that change in direction.

With four desks open at the box office, the queue was moving forward.

The people in front of me step forward. I follow their lead, closing the gap.

The old couple does too, knocking my bag as they keep right beside me instead of dropping in behind.

"Sorry," I said, turning to them. "I think we're getting a little muddled together here." I smile as nicely as I can while still being really rather pissed off.

The woman's eyes widen in innocence. "You're in the queue, and we are behind you," she sounding like a five-year-old who's just been told she can't take her teddy to school.

It takes me every little bit of emotional resource I have left over on a Saturday afternoon not to roll my eyes at this display. Rudeness I can take. The mock-offended tones of someone you can't admit their wrongdoing when called up out on it is too much to bear.

"Fine," I say, ignoring her as continues to pull the big-eyes. But when the queue shifts again I step forward they get in line behind me.

Ergh! People!

Theatres would be so much more pleasing to visit if they didn't exist.

I soothed myself by buying a programme. Surely the best programmes in London (except for mine... obvs) and only £4.50. Though I must admit to a little surprise when the usher gave the price. I remember when they were only £3, Travelex tickets were only £12 and the police force was made up of grownups...

Those were the days... when I was still young enough to sit in the front row. My back couldn't tolerate it now. Those tickets might be cheap, but so are the seats. For reasons that I could never work, except for a sneaking suspicion that whoever designed them thought that poor people should not be indulged which such frivolities as comfort, the backs of the sets in the first four rows are incredibly low. Meaning that you having to sit ramrod straight in them. I was willing to put up with it in my youth. But the combined effects of age and falling down an icy flight of stone steps way-back-when means that I take my cheap-arse up to the back of the circle nowadays.

But those brave souls chancing it on Saturday afternoon were justly rewarded when Denis O'Hare came out and started making his way down, offering them each, in turn, a daffodil.

As with the front row at the Tara Theatre, the first few refused, but they soon got into it, taking the man's flowers. I hope, unlike the invisible cucumber sandwiches, they were properly appreciated and didn't need to be swept away at the end of the show.

Come the interval, I was left in a bit of a quandary.

Sitting right in the middle of the row in the Lyttelton means that leaving the auditorium can be quite the undertaking. Those rows are hella long. And there is no central aisle.

But I had a blog post to finish, and for some reason, I can never get signal within the National's theatres. Not a sniff of a single bar. Now, I'm not saying that the National using mobile phone jammers, because that would be illegal of them, but I'm also not saying that it isn't ever so slightly suspicious that in one of the flagship venues for an industry that dislikes all forms of sensory output caused by phones, they don't feel the need to ever put up warnings or make announcements telling their audiences to switch them off. It's almost like they know that phones won't be going off during their shows...

So back into the foyer I went, where I could use the National's dodgy, but thankfully free, wifi to finish my post before beginning the long traipse back to my seat.

"Sorry," said my seat-neighbour as we did the awkward dance past each other. "I was looking at your t-shirt! It is Firefly! With... the guy!"

She meant Nathan Fillion, who was gazing out from around the edge of my cardigan.

I tried to explain it was technically not a Firefly t-shirt, but Spectrum - a made-up show devised by Alan Tudyk (who's face was lurking underneath the cover of my cardigan) in his semi-autobiographical web-comedy series, Con Man.

That must have been the wrong thing to say.

My seat-neighbour looked at me, nodded, and promptly didn't speak to me again.

Oh well.

It looked like I wouldn't be making any new friends at the National that day.

With a couple of hours before my evening show, I found a spot on one of the large doughnut-shaped stools in the foyer and set up camp, putting pictures into my post and doing a cursory proofread before posting.

"The time is approaching six pm," came an announcement of the tannoy. "Therefore we ask those using the catering facilities who are not seeing a show to kindly vacate their seats. Thank you for your cooperation,"

No, thank you for reminder, NT. It was time for me to leave.

I set off, doing the reverse of a journey that I took most evenings. Through the West End and up to Islington.

I'd been trying to put off visiting Islington venues during my marathon. I work in Islington, so I'd been trying to save these theatres for later on. When I'm worn out my months' worth of intense theatre-going, I thought it might be nice to have a few places left on the list where I need to nothing more than stumble down the road.

But that night I was heading to the Little Angel. The Studios rather than the Theatre. Not that it makes much difference, as they both show puppet productions. Puppet productions aimed at children.

Now, I have nothing against kids' shows. But I don't want to see them. Not by myself. I've already done that this marathon, and it was excruciatingly uncomfortable. So when I saw that the Little Angel had a show coming up, Carbon Copy Kid, aimed at grown-ups... well, I almost broke a key on my laptop in my efforts to book that ticket in fast.

So, there I was. Back in Islington. On a Saturday. I ended up walking past my theatre. To compensate how wrong and unnatural it felt being there on the weekend I popped in and said hello to the ushers on duty... and yeah, no, sorry. That didn't happen. I ducked my head down low and sped past, hoping no one would recognise me.

I think I got away with it.

Fifteen minutes later I was wandering the back streets of Islington, thinking there couldn't possibly be a theatre amongst all these apartment blocks, when I saw a large sign: Little Angel Studios. I had found it.

"Surname's Smiles?" I said to the girl on the desk that was serving as box office. For some reason, I always pitch this as a question, as if I'm not sure about what my name is. For the record, I'm fairly confident my name is actually Smiles. Improbable as that seems.

"Is that M Smiles?" She laughed,. "I mean, is that Maxine?"

It was.

No tickets to be had at the Little Angel, but they do have tasteful blue admission vouchers. Cornflower for adults and baby for, well, babies.

"The house is open, you can head up the stairs," she said.

There wasn't anything for sticking around for downstairs, so up I went.

I have to admit I am a little baffled by this building. On route to the stairs, I passed a large room which appeared completely empty except for a massive trough-like sink. The walls of the hallway are all stark white, with no indication that this place has anything to do with a puppet theatre, until you find the stairwell and suddenly there are old show posters on display.

It's a little creepy.

I didn't end up taking any photos apart from this one in the stairwell, partly because of the creepiness, but also because I worried that in taking a photo of a white corridor, I wouldn't be able to capture that creepiness and then all I get is you saying, "Maxine, it's just a corridor, what's so creepy about that," and I wouldn't be able to explain why it was creepy, and then you'd think I was weird, and we'd both have to live with that. Forever.

"But at least you got a photo of the actual theatre-space, Max?" you say. "Right? Right?"

Well no. I didn't.

But I have a good reason for that.

When I made it up the stairs and into the studio, the... actor? Puppeteer? Dude doing the show, was already on stage. He was all set up behind a sloped desk, holding up pieces of paper to communicate with the audience who'd already made it to their seats.

As I sat down, he held up one with a sketch of a mobile phone. There was a massive X over it.

Ah. No mobile signal jammers here there. I put mine on airplane mode and tucked it away.

I don't think he would have appreciated me taking a snapshot.

Pity though, as I really like the setup.

Around the desk, and framing our illustrator, was a proscenium arch, complete with curtains, made up paper - the swags and folds detailed in marker pen. I tried Googling the show to see if there were any pictures on the interwebs that I could show you, but found nothing. So it's up to your imagination to fill in the gaps on this one. Sorry about that.

The drawing of a phone was followed up by an old-school landline handset (no calls please), a snoring man (no falling asleep), a bomb (no terrorist action during the show please), and a sweet... wait, what? No sweets? I quickly popped a cough sweet into my mouth while he was greeting the next set of arrivals. I mean, come on - they're medicinal!

Through the medium of paper messages, he told us the duration (One hour, twenty minutes), gently berated latecomers (congratulations, you're the last people to arrive...), advised us when we were to begin (2 or 3 more minutes), and prompted us to applaud the man on the laptop who was also in charge of the sound effects via the medium of a loop station and microphone.

Nicely done.

After that, I went straight home, and fell into bed. Only to wake up eleven hours later still wearing my clothes and with a new coating of eyeliner smeared over my pillowcases.

It's been a really hard week.

The theatre gods are hard masters to serve.