For some reason, I've managed to convince myself that I could get to Stoke Newington in an hour.
Yeah, yeah. No need to laugh. I get it. Stoke Newington may have an Overground station, but it might as well be in the middle of nowhere. It's a frickin’ transport deadzone.
And yet, somehow, I'm here. With a whole four minutes to spare before my show starts.
Shit. I'm going to have to run.
I hate running.
Fuck. Off I go.
"Excuse me," says a homeless woman as I slow down to check directions on my phone.
"I'm so sorry..." I say as I speed up once more. Two minutes to go.
Round the corner. It's somewhere down this road. It's so dark I can barely make out the signs. I really should have researched what this place looked like before I left. Is that it? If I needed to guess which building could be the Tower Theatre I probably would go fo the one with huge church-like windows and a gothic-ached portico over the entrance.
No time to wait for the traffic to stop. I dive across the road trusting in the theatre gods that the cars will slow down to let me pass. They do.
Not letting myself stop, I hop up the steps, though the little entranceway, and through the door. There's a bar through here. A rather nice bar. And more importantly, it has people in it. Queuing. That means the show hasn't started yet.
I puff my way over to the box office, clutching at my side as I attempt to get in enough air to say: "The surname's Smiles?" through the window.
The woman behind the counter very sweetly pretends not to notice my beetroot coloured cheeks. "That's just about right," she says, finding me on the list.
She reaches through the window and hands me something. An admission pass. A rather swish admission pass. No laminated bits of card here. Oh no. This is heavy plastic, the size of a credit card, and printed with the Tower Theatre logo. "You're just round there," she says, pointing in the direction of the bar.
I thanks her before going to find a quiet spot to take photos of the pass quickly before someone takes it off me.
A bell rings. "Two minute bell for upstairs for the theatre," calls a voice. "Two minute bell."
"Can you...?" another frobt of houser asks them.
"Sorry. I can't leave my place by the door."
Too right. I need someone to check my admission pass.
I squeeze through the small group still intent on getting their drinks' order in no matter what bells are rining, and hand over my admission pass to the lady standing stoic and unmoving on the door.
Through the door, and I find myself in a stairwell. I start climbing.
This must have been a church at some point. I can't see anything else so embracing the gothic style. I mean, I would, obviously, if I ever got the chance to build, or even own, property. But still, these pointed windows are intense. Even if they have been boarded up and filled in with posters.
At the top, there's another usher waiting. I don't have another pass to hand her, so after giving her a quick look over to check that she's not selling any programmes, I go in, and... gosh. This is quite some space. Pointy windows were only the start of it. The ceiling is high. Impossibly high. And vaulted. And round. Almost as if we were in a... okay. I get it. Very clever Tower Theatre. I see what you did there with the name.
My cough has made a bit of a reappearance today, so I want to make sure that I'm not sitting too close to the front. I need to quarantine myself. I've learnt the hard way that my cough gets worse when I'm feeling cramped. The tube in rush hour is a spluttering nightmare, I can tell you that for free.
I cross the stage and climb the steps, finding a run of empty seats in the third row that will suit me just fine.
The seats are well nice. Almost like the ones you get in cinemas. All wide and padded with proper armrests. Seats you can properly sink into and get comfortable. They gently curve around the stage.
If this is how Stoke Newington is doing theatre, I might have to come here more often. Even the sightlines are great. I mean, no one is sitting in front of me, so I'm not testing the Tower in extreme conditions here, but the rake looks good to me. I can see the set just fine, even from here on the side. And that's proving to be a very good thing because there's lots to enjoy in this set. From the cluttered sink on one side, to the warming stove in the corner, and the grimy windows at the back of it all.
I'm into it.
Slowly the seats fill up leaving a very obvious buffer around me. Usually I'd be offended, but tonight, I'm grateful. I don't want to be coughing on anyone. Not during a Martin McDonagh play. He's one of my favourites, after all. And I wouldn't want to offend Mr Fleabag.
A voice comes over the sound system telling us to sort out our phones. Grey heads bob all around as all the old ladies make a dive for their handbags. The voice goes on unconcerned. They have another play coming up. Rules for Living.
Yeah, glad I made it to this one. I saw Rules for Living back at the Nash and can't say it did much for me. The set up sounds much more interesting than the play ends up being.
Anyway, enough about that. We're not here for Rules for Living. We're here for The Beauty Queen of Leenane, which I am so excited for I could boak. I'm wanted to see this play for bloody years and now the light are dimming and it's about to begin and gawd it's good.
I mean, you already know that, don't you? You've seen it. Everyone has. Apart from me. It's the one play of his that everyone can name. Or at least, it's the one they bring up when trying to tell me why they didn't like Hangmen. "The Beauty Queen of Leenane though..."
Well, say what you like about McDonagh, but that man can write. And doesn't he know it. He revels in his ability to shock. I can't blame him. I would too. But there's a particular streak of cruelty in him, that makes me both fear and love him. It's worrying. But I can't help it.
A woman sitting near my nudges her companion and points to one of the cast members, sitting in a rocking chair and clutching a cushion embroidered with the message: A daughter is a gift of love. They both snigger.
I snigger too, but it soon devolves into a cough which I try to smoother with my scarf.
That's dangerous set design that is.
Just before I entirely dissolve into pure splutter, the lights are back up. It's the interval.
I stay in my seat. Not sure I can cope with the crowds at the bar. Besides, I'm comfy here. These chairs really are nice.
"I wonder if..." A woman examines the front row before hoiking her leg over an armrest and pulling herself up and over.
Without even pausing, she does it again, pulling herself into the third row. Then the fourth.
That's some exercise regime she's got there.
I look around the see how many people are in her row. It must have been packed all to hell to make her think that climbing over three rows was easy then asking them to move.
There are three people there.
That's some commitment to not wanting to bother people.
The two ladies from my row return, drinks in hand. I stand up to let them pass, but when the sit down, they move, closing the gap between us until the buffer is entirely gone. We are now sitting directly next to each other.
Just to check that their definitely is no space between us, my newly acquired neighbour knocks my arm every time she takes a sip of wine.
I pull myself tightly in, but it's no good. She's resting her elbow right on the arm rest, jabbing my every time she moves.
I can feel the tickle taking hold of my throat. I really need to cough. I bury my face into my scarf and try to get as much out as possible before the show starts again.
This is going to be a long second act.
I sink into my seat, trying to stay as quiet as possible, But it’s no good. As one, the audience gasps over the letter scene, I right along with them.
"Noooo," moans the man sitting behind me.
We cringe and sigh and despair as McDonagh pummels our hearts like the true bastard he is.
And then it's over. And it's time to go.
And I emerge onto the street, clutching onto a wall as I double up in a coughing fit, as my broken heart makes a bid for escape along with the contents of my lungs.
