After two bus journeys, and a dash across a busy road, I am in Edmonton. And I appear to be heading in the right direction because the AA sign is pointing the way to the Millfield Theatre Panto.
I had no idea this was such a landmark on the cultural landscape.
But here I am, ready to enjoy it.
Or at least, attend it. You know I'm not a bag fan of panto. Or even a little fan. Or any kind of fan.
I really don't like panto
But liking a show is not a prerequisite of seeing one on this here marathon, so I grit my teeth and follow the direction of the sign.
Huge iron gates lead off the main road. A sign on the long brick wall indicates that the Millfield Theatre lurks beyond.
I find myself in a car park, wandering down a road with no pavement.
A car comes, and I am forced to choose between standing in a puddle, or getting run over.
I choose the puddle.
I hope I don't come to regret that.
Round the corner, the car park widens out.
It's full.
Grown-up sons help their elderly relatives limp across towards the main building. I duck between the cars and make my own way over, looping around the front to where I find the low green doors of the entrance.
Inside, Christmas has officially landed.
The large island in the middle of the foyer that serves as the box office has been decked out in far more tinsel than could ever be reasonable. A small Christmas tree made of what looks like tennis balls is sat on the counter, and another, larger one has been upturned and stuck up above the box office's roof.
It's a startling image.
I wonder vaguely if it's a reference to the crucifixion of Judas Iscariot, but I decide, on balance, that they probably just liked the upside-down look.
I go over and join the queue.
The man in front of me reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Sorry," he says, abandoning his place to take a call.
"Hi!" I say, bouncing over to the counter. "The surname's Smiles?"
"Have you got the card you paid with?" asks the box office.
"Oh... yes. Probably," I say, rather taken aback. This is some high-level fraud prevention going on in Edmonton here. Clearly the Millfield Panto is more of a thing than I anticipated.
"It's your Visa, please," says the box officer, helpfully.
I get out my Visa and show him.
"Thank you," he says, giving my card a quick glance before handing over my ticket. "You'll need to go upstairs for that seat."
On the counter there's a pile of cast sheets, and I grab one before heading to the staircase that loops its way around the back of the foyer, taking me right up close to the upturned Christmas tree.
I pause on the top step to take a photo.
When I look up, I spot the ticket checker on the door watching me curiously.
"I'm just enjoying the upside-down Christmas Tree," I explain to her.
She looks back at me, unimpressed, and holds out her hand for my ticket.
"Thank you," she says, handing it back without a smile.
Okay then.
I head inside and find myself in an aisle, splitting the seating area in two.
I'm in the back half, of course.
Not that it was cheaper. All seats were the same price. I was just busy procrastinating on buying my ticket. I only committed to coming here last night.
For some reason, I had managed to convince myself that I might be able to get away with not going. But that was never going to happen. Because the only marathon-qualifying event the Millfield does, is the panto. The rest of the year is stuffed full of those strange musical tribute acts that tour around small regional theatres, with the odd kid's production of Shakespeare on a weekday morning. But other than that, it's solid The Eagles and Motown and Led Zeplin.
And panto.
Thank the theatre gods for panto, eh?
For all the AA yellow signage outside, the Millfield Theatre is actually pretty small. Not quite a studio, but still on the diddy side of things.
I find my seat.
Second row from the back and right in the middle.
I'm the only one sitting in my row.
I picked this row especially because there was only one seat left for sale in it.
And now the fuckers haven't turned up.
I look around.
Grown-ups with huge gaggles of children around them look at me curiously. The weirdo woman by herself at a production of Mother Goose. I can't blame them.
I try and distract myself with the free cast sheet. I do appreciate a free cast sheet.
Especially one that informs me that Priscilla the Goose will be appearing as herself.
I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but I like it.
Now that I'm on my fourth panto of the year, I can start to make compassions. It looks like it's a lot more casual here in Edmonton than it is in Notting Hill. Clothing choices lean more towards the comfy Christmas jumper, with a sensible waterproof over the top. There's not a metallic jacket or drop-waisted smock dress to be seen. I'm very glad I'm in my oversized-sweatshirt Sunday special.
Not that this lot aren't here to party. I spot the ticket checker down in the stalls flick out a ream of tickets so long it pools on the floor at her feet. There must be four generations in that group, cousins included.
At three on the dot, the rest of the audience arrives.
One family takes up the rest of the row on one side of me, another family on the other side.
I'm safe.
"How many times have you been to this theatre?" asks a woman, looking around at her surroundings.
"Twice," comes the immediate reply. "Once for Romeo and Juliet and then for... ummm, oh. I don't remember the name."
Romeo and Juliet? Fucking hell. If I knew there was a Romeo and Juliet on offer, I would never have booked for Mother Goose. Romeo and Juliet isn't my favourite Shakespeare, which is saying something considering I don't even like Shakespeare, but even ridiculous teen tragedy is better than panto.
As the lights dim, I steel myself for the worst.
We're in Puddle Upon the Marsh. Mother Goose can't pay her rent, and Billy Goose is in love with the landlord's daughter. There's also a villain. Not quite sure what her role is, but she's got a slinky blank dress on and I appreciate that. And then there's the faerie. Reasons for her presence also unknown.
Well, I do know the reason. It's panto. But narratively speaking, I don't think either of them need to be here.
Billy teaches the traditional call and response.
"Hiya folks!"
"Hiya Billy."
Obviously, we have to repeat this, because panto characters are all hard of hearing..
I do my best though.
Which is more than can be said for the teenage boy sitting in front of me. He got his phone out the moment the lights went down and has been scrolling through Snapchat ever since. He hasn't once looked up at the stage. Only putting down his phone long enough to pull his tiny brother up onto his lap when the little boy decided to go for a wander.
The little brother isn't the only one on the move.
As I ponder how hard it is to shout a name like "Priscilla" in time with three hundred other people, I jump as a childish hand presses into my back.
I turn around and see a tiny face looming over my shoulder.
"Come back," calls the child's mother, tugging on the toddler's sleeve.
"No!" snaps the child.
"Come back! You're annoying the people!"
"Nooooo," roars the child, going into full dinosaur mode.
I stifle a giggle, trying hard to pretend not to notice as the hand returns to my back.
Her mum shouldn't worry. No one under the age of ten has any intention of staying in their seat for the show.
The aisle is a constant thoroughfare of parents and offspring going back and forth to the loos.
When the younger members of the cast appear in order to get us all clapping in time with a song, there's almost a pile up as the two factions clash near the doorway.
Dad's drag their little ones away, and there's a moment I worry they might be leading the wrong ones off. But after a small scuffle, they manage to get it sorted and the costumed ones are left to jump around and grin at an audience that is really not playing along.
I sink down in my seat and let it wash over me. I can't claim to be a great expert on panto, but I've seen a fair few of this year's offerings and this has to be the most curiously basic one yet. Apart from some fence-sitting references to Brexit, and a nod to Katie Price's bankruptcy, cultural references are thin on the ground.
As the interval hits I get out my phone to check who the local MP is.
Kate Osamor.
Labour.
And yet not a single jab at Boris.
My first panto of the year that hasn't even mentioned him.
Odd.
I wonder what pantos are like in Tory strongholds. There's one at the artsdepot. My local theatre in Finchley. For a brief moment, I'm tempted to add an extra theatre trip before January. But I quickly manage to quell the urge. Life is hard enough without adding the sight of Corbyn-the-panto-villain-cockroach to this hellfire of a year.
The ushers close the doors to the auditorium.
I look around.
One of my families hasn't returned.
I'm exposed on my right flank.
Bastards.
But I take it bravely, and we move on.
Back into the village which 2019 forgot, as a reference to Susan Boyle utterly fails to land. I'm not quite sure who that joke was for. Not dirty or political enough for the grown-ups, and far too stale for the children. Even the Snapchatting teenager is too young to remember who she is.
The children don't mind.
They're too busy racing through the aisle, their arms stretched out behind them like wings, ducking under the spotlights.
But the games come to an end as the house lights rise for birthday greetings.
And a few kids make it on stage for a singalong, courtesy of a golden ticket.
Like all children dragged up for these things, none of them want to be there.
We're ordered to our feet to help out with a round of Old Macdonald, but after the Dog goes woof here and there, we all determinedly sit down and cannot be coaxed back for the duck, cow, or goose.
And then, after an announcement that ushers are collecting for Brain Tumour Support, we are released.
I slip out as quickly as I can, racing down the stairs before the children have been wrestled back into their coats.
It's all for nothing though. There's a nine-minute wait for the bus.
"That was brilliant, wasn't it!?" exclaims a woman in a group waitibg at the bus stop with me. "Bet you're going to tell your mum! Guess what? I'm going home to be fabulous, darling!"
I wish I was going home to be fabulous, but as it happens, I've got a pile of laundry waiting for me.
Still better then panto though.