Sparkle and whinneeee

"What are you seeing tonight?" asks one of my coworkers.

"Nativity! The Musical," I tell them with a sigh of resignation. I'm not particular looking forward to it.

"Oh, I love that film!" pipes up a voice from the other side of the office.

It's a film? "It's a film?"

"Yeah, I love all of them."

All of them? “All of them?"

"Yeah. There are three!"

"Three?!"

"Yeah. There's a cute dog."

"There's a dog?!"

This changes everything. I get Googling, finding the Nativity! The Musical website and heading straight for the cast list. And yes: there's a dog. Poppy is playing the role of Cracker the Dog. "Starred in her first West End production at just 8 weeks old," I read aloud from her biography. "Wow."

I'm impressed. I love stage-animals. And this one seems like a pro. She even has her own instagram.

I keep on clicking around, fascinated by this cultural phenomenon that has apparently passed me by.

"Featuring the hit songs Sparkle & Shine, and Nazareth?" I say doubtfully.

"Yeah, Sparkle & Shine!"

"You've heard of it?”

"Of course!" 

"Are you joking?" They must be joking.

"Sparkle and shineee..." they sing.

They are definitely joking. That does not sound like a real song.

I guess I'll find out soon enough.

If I can find the venue.

It's a bit embarrassing, but even after living in Hammsersmith for five months, I still don't actually know where the Eventim Apollo is. 

I used to get stopped quite a lot, on the way out of the tube station, by lost tourists, and I would always point them in the direction that I thought it was. That is, the direction of all the restaurants advertising pre-theatre menus. I figured they had to be close by. But according to Google Maps, I spent five months pointing these poor people in entirely the wrong direction, because it's actually just behind the tube station. And I've been walking right past it without even noticing.

Oh dear.

"Wow, that is massive," says a young woman as she races past with her friend.

They are both wearing a lot of sequins and hairspray and are out for a good time tonight.

"Is that it?" asks her friend. "We're here already?"

"That was quick."

Turns out I'm not the only one surprised by this venue's location.

With approximately six thousand other people, I cross the road, pass a parked coach, and find myself in a snaking mass of crowd control barriers.

I know I've complained a lot about long queues outside theatres, but this seems a bit extreme.

Every metal corner is punctuated by a sign telling us to take out our keys and phones and to open our bags ready to be searched. 

Not sure what keys and phones have to do with it. We're not getting on a plane as far as I'm aware. 

The signs also tell us that tickets are one per person and we should have them ready to be scanned.

I do not have my ticket yet. I look around for a sign to point me the way to the box office, but everywhere I turn it's keys and phones and bag inspections.

I stick to the queue I'm in, winding my way around the maze, having paths blocked in front of me as queue controllers move barriers to divert the line into new directions. It's like being caught in the worst game of Snake, where every possible turn will have me bumping into my own tail.

"Got your tickets?" asks a queue controller as I near the front.

"No, I'm collecting," I tell him.

"Box office queue over there?" he says, pointing away from the main doors to a secondary, smaller, queue.

I join it.

But not before a man rolling a suitcase manages to squeeze himself in front of me.

So desperate was he to get ahead that I ended up having to jump over that damned suitcase of his. He must have travelled a very long way to be here tonight.

He calls over a queue controller and says something to him.

"This is the box office queue," says the queue controller.

"No," says suitcase man. "I was told to come here."

I puzzle over his statement. Looks like the queue controller is too, as he tries to explain that regardless of what he was told, this is the queue for the box office.

"No!" insists suitcase man. "I was..."

"Yeah," says the queue controller. "You jumped the queue."

I hold my breath as suitcase man staggers back at this accusation.

"Noooo," he wails, finally recovering himself. "I didn't! They told me to come here."

We're nearing the front now.

There's a massive scanner. The sort you'd find in an airport after placing your belt and bag in a plastic tray.

Perhaps we are actually getting on a plane. I hope we're going somewhere warm.

A queue controller appears. Another one. I didn't think it was possible for so many to exist in the same place. Eventim must have got themselves a job lot on those padded waterproof jackets they're all wearing and felt the need to hire staff to fill them out.

"Two steps to the side!" he calls, waving us closer to the wall. "Bags off shoulders! Leave everything in your bag, Phones. Keys. If you don't have a bag, put them in your pockets."

I don't think this guy has read the signs.

Suitcase guy is next up at the scanner.

I pull my bag off my shoulder.

The queue controller beckons to me, out of the line.

"Bag?"

I open it for him.

He peers inside.

"Through you go, madam." 

I race ahead of suitcase guy, feeling a bit smug about not having to go through the scanner.

Inside, there's a massive window in the wall with "Box Office" signposted above it. Dot matrices indicate what all the different lines are for. I join one called "Sales & Collections."

The suitcase guy arrives. He joins the twin "Sales & Collections" queue next to me.

He looks at his queue.

He looks at mine.

Then he wheels his suitcase over, placing himself right in front of me.

I laugh.

Out loud.

"Mate! Are you serious?" I say, still laughing, his ballsiness knocking the anxiety right out of me for a moment.

Without looking at me, he returns to his old queue.

Wow, that actually worked. 

I make it to the front of my queue without any more queue-jumpers.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?" I tell the box officer.

"Can I see ID?"

"Err... yeah?"

I pull out my purse and see what I have. There's a provisional driving license in there. That'll do.

I slide it under the glass and he takes it, giving it a close look before handing it back.

Blimey. Who could have guessed that Nativity! The Musical had higher security checks that Hamilton? Certainly not me.

This must be one hell of a show.

He hands me an envelope. It has my name hand written on it. I test the flap. It's sealed.

As I walk over to the doors I peel it open wondering if perhaps I've won a prize.

No such luck. It's just a ticket.

I show it to the ticket checker on the door and she beeps the barcode with her scanner.

And I'm in.

I'm in a massive room.

Huge staircases on each end go up to the circle.

There's a long bar. And a merch desk. And a Christmas tree.

It's also very green.

Green lights bath the art deco architecture making the whole space look like it was cursed by an evil, but very stylish, sorceress.

For a moment I wonder if I've perhaps booked by mistake for Wicked. I am not disappointed by this thought. But the programme seller in front of me is selling a massive booklet that is very much not from Wicked.

"How much is a programme?" I ask her.

"Ten pounds."

Oof. Ten pounds.

I get out my purse. "I have a twenty?" I say, pulling out the last note I have in there.

"No worries," she says, as if I wasn't handing over a stonking amount of money to her in exchange for a few pretty biogs.

We trade notes and I pick up a programme from her proffered pile.

I'll give it this, it really is big. I can barely fit it in my bag, and my bag is huge. 

Ushers in what looks like football scarfs hold up lighty-up things that spin around and twinkle. The merch desk is full of hoodies and lunchboxes emblazed with the Nativity! The Musical title treatment. You can even buy a Nativity! The Musical Christmas bauble. For eight pounds.

There's also a t-shirt with "Sparkle & Shine" on it. With great big red stars around it.

I don't think I have ever, in all my travels for this marathon, seen merch for a specific song.

Except for Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. But that's not a song. It's an abomination.

It can't be real. I refuse to believe it's real.

No song so hyped can ever be worth listening to.

I decide to go up.

The stairwell is one of those fancy double-sided ones which definitely deserve some ballgown action on them.

Sadly, they have to settle for my long black witch's skirt.

Upstairs I find a chain of green banquettes surrounding the huge oval oculus that looks down on the foyer below. Stars float across the space. The Eventim Apollo has really invested in Christmas.

My ticket says I need door three. I follow the signs until I find it.

Up some more stairs and I am in the auditorium.

Lights stream over the walls.

I blink, almost blinded by them.

Noticing my dazzled expression, an usher steps forward.

"Err, U51?" I say, showing him my ticket.

"Yup! That's up these stairs and on the right."

I thank him and head over to the aisle he was indicating.

I start climbing.

And climbing.

And climbing.

I'm a long way back.

When I turn around, the stage looks like a puppet theatre in the distance.

"I'm just here," I say to two young women as they make to get up and let me past.

The seats are comfy enough. Plenty of legroom.

But as soon as the family in the row in front sit down, I realise that the price of such luxury is the absence of decent sight-lines.

I decide not to worry about it and set about taking photos, doing the classic blogger pose with the programme in front of the stage.

The programme is so weighty I struggle to hold it up, and when I go to stuff it back in my back, I end up cramping my hand.

Theatre blogging is a young person's game, for real.

"I was thinking," says my neighbour to her friend. "You know those little side bits..." She points out the boxes either side of the stage. "They can't be nice to sit in."

"Fun though," says the friend.

"But you wouldn't be able to see anything!"

As someone who has sat in a box a few times, I can confirm both of these ladies are correct. They are fun. And you can't see anything.

The lights dim and a woman comes out on stage. She introduces herself as the creator of Nativity!. Both the films and the musical. It's a special night, she tells us. The first performance in the London edition of this show.

The audience whoops appreciatively.

There are lots of new children in the show tonight, she tells us. 

This gets another whoop.

"Who knows Sparkle & Shine?" she asks, to yet another round of whoops.

Turns out I am surrounded by people who do know Sparkle & Shine.

We should feel free to sing along if we know the words, she tells us. And if we don't? Well, just listen and we'll pick them up and can join in then.

Holy. Shitballs.

What have I got myself in for?

It starts.

And it's... not good?

Like, really not good?

Like... positively bad?

Scenes drag. Jokes extend too far. Everything takes so damn long.

Just as I'm debating getting my programme out to check the running time, a dog comes out. A cute dog. A cute beige dog with curly fur.

It's Pepper!

The audience "Awwwws" as one.

The young woman sitting next to me gasps and actually covers her mouth she's so excited.

Pepper is very cute.

"That's mum's dog!" cries out the young girl sitting in front of us. "That's mum's dog!"

One of the adults in the party gets out her phone. She finds a photo and shows it to the group. Yup. That's a dog. And it almost looks like Pepper.

The dog is removed, and the story goes on.

At least, I think there's meant to be a story. It's hard to tell.

Now, I've seen bad musicals. A lot of them. Ones without budget for decent costumes or rehearsal time or even talent.

But this has them all beat, for the sheer fact that they have spent a shit load on all these things, and yet still ended up with this trash.

I have never seen a turd polished to such a high shine in my entire life.

"That's Sharon!" whispers my neighbour as a black silhouette appears on stage.

And sure enough, as the spotlit hits, Sharon Osbourne is revealed. 

The audience goes wild.

But that's nothing to the reaction the bloke playing the theatre critic gets as he appears.

I squint, trying to make out his face at such a distance, but nope. I don't recognise him. 

I must be even more out of touch than I thought, because this lot is screaming at the sight of him.

The screaming is replaced by more squees of appreciations when Sharon brings on her puppies. That's better. If this show could just concentrate on small dogs getting cuddled, I feel I could get on board with it.

The woman in front gets out her phone again. I can see the time. It's eight o'clock.

We've been in here a full hour, and yet nothing has happened. Narratively speaking.

How long is this show if it manages to have a full hour of preamble? Good gawd.

With a whimper, we reach the interval.

"This is boring?" says a woman sitting behind me. She sounds doubtful. "I saw the film last night and it wasn't like this?"

I get out the programme to have a look.

Turns out, the person I can't recognise is Ryan Clarke-Neal.

This information doesn't help.

I turn to the biographies.

Apparently he does a lot of reality TV.

I'll admit, I'm a bit behind on the whole reality TV stuff. So that explains it.

I go back to the credits. Pepper is listed with "The Grown Ups." I find this very pleasing.

The puppies are also there. "Holly and Star."

I really hope they weren't named in honour of this show.

The interval draws to a close and people return to their seats.

Apart from the family sitting right in front of me. The lights are going down, and those seats are empty.

Which means I have a fair shot of actually seeing the stage.

It doesn't help.

This show is just the worst.

All around me people creep out of their rows and head for the exits. They're holding their coats. They're not coming back.

On stage, we've managed to limp forward to the actual purpose of Nativity! The Musical. Which is the nativity musical.

Multiple Marys and multiple Jpsephs flood the stage. I expect this is meant to be charming, but I don't have the capacity to care anymore.

And then, there are stars.

This is it. Sparkle & Shine!

The children start to sing.

"Sparkle and Shinnneeeee...."

I can't make out the rest of the words.

The mumbles are lost against the music.

I mean, I get it: diction is hard. Especially with childish voices. But I thought we were meant to be singing along to this?

As the final notes disappear, I realise the only words I know are in the title.

A fresh set of children are brought on. These ones clap their hands above their heads to encourage us to join in, but the audience gives up after a few lines. This is not a clapable song.

The lights go out.

The stage is dark.

Candles are brought on.

"If your phone has a light, point it at the stage!"

The audience obliges, pulling out their phones at holding them aloft.

I look around. Only about thirty percent of the people in the circle have figured out how to turn their torch on. The rest are just bathing in the glow of their own home screens.

As the song builds, everyone starts waving their phones in time with the music.

My heart shrivels.

This is so depressing.

Even the reprise of Sparkle & Shine can't pull me out of this stupor. I still don't know the lyrics.

With the cast still on stage, getting their final round of applause, I grab my coat and head for the edit. I can't take this a second longer.

Up the stairs, through the door to the gents, and then down, down, down until I reach the exit. Cross the road. Into Hammersmith station. Down to the Piccadilly line. I squeeze through the crowds just in time to make it onto the first train heading east, plonking myself down into an empty seat.

And there's a dog sitting in front of me.

A very cute dog.

A very cute beige dog with curly fur.

Is that...?

It can't be...

"Is it alright to take a picture?" asks the girl sitting beside me.

"Of course you can!" says the man holding the dog.

But as she gets her phone out he clutches the dog to his chest and comes over, sinking on his knees in front of me and placing the dog in her lap.

She coos and awws and gets her selfie.

"Oh look!" she says, pointing down to a small carrier on the ground. Inside tiny puppies snuffle at the mesh.

As we reach the next station, a woman walks over and scritches the dog under the chin without even asking.

"That must happen all the time!" says the girl.

The dog handler nods.

"Did you just see the show then?"

They had.

"Did you enjoy it?"

I hold my breath, waiting for their answer. But I needn't have worried. They loved it.

"It funny isn't it?" he says, and they spend the next couple of stations chatting tour schedules and whatnot.

When I leave them at Leicester Square, they're still gabbing away.

Pepper sleeps throughout, her dreams soundtracked by Sparkle & Shine.

A very Brexit Musical

I got chatting with one of the students at my work yesterday. Told her I was seeing Hamilton.

"Be nice to the ushers," she says, lowing her voice and her head as she fixes her eyes on me.

"Tough gig?" I ask.

She sighs and nods. “They have it really hard."

"Is it the audience?"

She hesitates. "Well, it's the security. It's considered a high risk venue. With Buckingham Palace on one side and Victoria station on the other."

"Ah," I say. I've seen the sniffer dogs prowling the aisles pre-show when I've been before (twice... not that I'm showing off about having seen Hamilton twice already, but I'm totally showing off about having seen Hamilton twice already). "They don't get danger pay I take it..."

She laughs. "No. They do not."

Well then.

I decide to walk to the Victoria Palace. I'm not taking any chances on the tube. Not tonight.

As I wait for the traffic lights to change, I pull out my phone and double check the pre-show email. Last time I was here it was chock full of instructions to arrive early, bring photo ID, your mother's birth certificate, and a full family tree stretching back to the Norman Conquest. But things have changed since then. Or least, I hope they have. Because I haven't brought any of that shit with me.

The queue to get in stretches all the way along the front of the theatre, down the road, and to the corner.

"If you're collecting, keep to the left," orders a dog handler. His charge monitors the queue with watchful eyes and ever ready nose.

An old woman pauses on the pavement to stare at the line incredulously. "These people are all queuing to get in the theatre!" she says, sounding absolutely flabbergasted at the idea. "My word!"

I find my way to the end. Within seconds more people fall in behind me.

"Certainly the longest theatre queue I've been in," sniffs the person standing behind me.

We shuffle forward.

"Tickets on the right!" calls out a queue controller. "If you're collecting, follow round to the left."

I stare down at my hands. Which way is left again?

I panic. I can't remember.

"Sorry," I say to the queue controller as I pass him. "Which way if I'm collecting?"

"To the left, madam," he says, helping pointing out which way left actually is.

I head for the left. "Are you collecting, madam?" asks the controller of the junction.

"Yes!" I say, happy that I'm going the right way.

"Perfect!" she says, beaming right back.

We're moving fast now that we've got rid of those people who had their tickets posted to them in advance.

The two men in front of me turn around.

"Do you want to go ahead?" they ask in very American accents.

"Are you sure?" I say, going into full-scale Queen-mode with my British one. 

"Yeah, we're waiting for someone," they say, and step back to let me pass.

I'm near the front now.

"If you could get your bag ready," says the bag checker. He doesn't sound impressed.

I open my bag.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm great!" I say.

"That's the way!" he says, waving me through.

The woman on the door puts out her hand to still me. "If you could stop there, my love," she says, turning to look back into the foyer.

We wait until one of the box officers is free and she lowers her hand. "Right over there, if you don't mind."

I don't mind at all. In I go.

The box officers are running back and forth behind their counter, fetching tickets. My one smiles at me from the end of the line.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles!"

With a nod, he disappears to the back, returning seconds later with my ticket.

"Maxine?"

"Yup!"

"You're in the Grand Circle. Right at the top."

After spending eleven months trying to get a ticket on the Hamilton lottery app, I admitted defeat and bought the cheapest ticket I could find. Thirty-seven quid to sit in the Grand Circle. Right at the top.

It's a quality show. But still.

I turn around and almost bounce against the mass of people heading towards the Stalls. Oof. Okay. I hang back, waiting for a gap, but I soon realise that I'm going to have to make my own.

Elbows out, I step forward, and don't stop until I reach the bottom step of the stair that will take me up to the Grand Circle. I keep on going, not even pausing as I take a photo. I find myself in a bar. There's a pretty light installation falling through the oculus that runs though the ceiling and then the floor.

It's very pretty, but there's not time to hang around. I've just spotted a programme seller lurking over by the door.

"These ones are four fifty," he says, pointing to the smaller of the two options he is clutching in his hands.

I pull out my purse. Not Fred. Fred is dead. This one is black. A gift from my sister-in-law from years and years ago. It's a grown-up purse. Patent leather, and not in the shape of an elephant. I'm not sure how I feel about it.

"Err, do you have change for a tenner?" I ask, as I peer inside the black interior.

"I do! Here's five and fifty pee."

As he hands me the change, someone else comes up and asks to get a programme.

"That's four fifty," says the programme seller, turning away from me.

"Sorry," I say, as the newcomer hands over a five pound note. "Can I get my programme?"

The programme seller jumps. "Oh!" he exclaims. "Sorry!"

He pulls one from his pile and hands it over.

I squeeze myself past him and start the long climb up to the Grand Circle. There are a lot of stairs. Every time I turn a corner I think I'm done, but nope: there's even more.

As I emerge into the auditorium, my head spins at the sight of the stage far below us. It's really high up here.

"It slopes," warns a woman we go in.

No kidding. The steps are very steep. And very tiny. Small enough that even with my size twos, I can't fit my entire foot on one, giving a constant feeling of unbalance. Not the emotion you really want to be having when you are hundreds of feet above the stalls.

I clutch at the balustrades as I make my way down to my row.

A woman stops right ahead of me, and I almost barrel into her. But I manage to regain my footing just before I send her flying into the orchestra pit.

I wait, but she doesn't seem to have any intention of moving.

We stand there, blocking the aisle. Me struggling to stay upright on these tiny steps. Her... doing whatever she's doing.

Just as I consider fainting as a viable way of getting myself out of this situation, she moves on, and I am able to sink into my seat, helpfully placed right on the aisle.

My shins bang against the chair in front.

I don't remember the leg room being this bad down in the Stalls.

Yup, I saw Hamilton from the stalls. Twice. Did I mention that I have already seen Hamilton twice? Well, it's true. I've seen it twice.

As bruises start to form on my legs, I try to distract myself by the cries of anguish from the people still tackling the stairs.

"Oh gawd, these steps!"

"Oh gawd, these are so high!"

"Oh gawd, I hate being so high up!"

The man sitting in front of me arrives, blocking my view of the stage and immediately sets about ramming himself back into his seat, right against my legs.

This is going to be a long night. What's the running time on this musical again?

I look it up. 

Two hours and forty-five minutes.

Holy fuck.

Eventually the stairs clear and the lights dim.

A disembodied voice introduces himself as our king and tells us to turn off our phones before enjoying his show.

A small whoop goes up from the back of the circle, and those familiar beats start. We're off.

And I mean... I fucking love Hamilton.

I know it's cool not to be into it anymore. All the sneering hipsters have moved on to rhapsodising about panto, because that's how the world works nowadays.

Well, fuck them. I think it's great. And if they want to spend their days shouting "it's behind you!" then they are welcome to it.

It does occur to me though, about halfway through the King's first song, that Hamilton is a bit... well, Brexity. I mean, all that stuff about wanting to be independent from a distant ruler across the sea who controls the price of tea...

The thought it making me very uncomfortable.

As the battle-smoke clears and the victory song of Yorktown starts I hold my breath for that famous line.

"Immigrants: we get the job done."

Silence. 

Then a wry titter flows through the audience.

Lafayette and Hamilton barely even pause. They're used to this lack of reaction to the line. A line that stopped the show for a full minute when I was here in 2017, as the audience exploded into applause.

Oh dear.

I wince as the man in front of me rams himself back again, like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a car seat.

The King is back.

"All alone, across the sea," he sings and I cringe. He couldn't be more on the nose if he tried. That Lin-Manuel is a bloody fortune teller. "When your people say they hate you. Don't come crawling back to me."

Christ. We'll on be crawling on our knees to Brussels like medieval pilgrims soon enough.

I clamp my lips shut, struggling to keep down the need to scream out: “VOTE LABOUR!” in this packed theatre. 

We're at Non-Stop now. Thank the theatre gods. It got here just in time. The pre-interval banger in a musical stuffed with bangers.

This is the song I always put on when I need to crash out a two-thousand word blog post in my lunchbreak. 

"How do you write ev’ry second you’re alive?" is a question I ask myself every damn day as I approach the half-million mark on my blog's word count for the year. These fingers are typing like they're running out of time... just twenty-two days left to go.

As soon as the house lights are up, I grab my bag and make a bolt for the bar, unable to spend another second in that seat.

"It is clever, isn't it?" says someone as I pass them. "Who wrote it?"

Mind-boggling I listed as their friend tries to explain who Lin-Manuel Miranda is.

"Is it based on a true story?" 

"... I think so? He was a founding father. I think. Yeah, like, in seventeen...something."

I mean... she's not wrong?

"Five minutes until the start of act two!" shouts the bar man.

"Act two?" asks someone.

The person he's with shakes his head. He doesn't know that term either.

We go back in.

I lean against my chair until the rest of my row arrives. I don't want to be sitting down in that seat a second longer than I need to. As the last person squeezes past me I wriggle my toes and then give my knees a good rub in preparation.

A disembodied voice who is very much not the King warns us that there is three minutes to go and we should probably be turning off our phone now.

The man sitting in front of me bounces against the back of his chair, adding in a few elbow thrusts into his repertoire.

As the lights go down, his elbow connects with my knee.

He half turns his head, but soon realises it's only a woman he hit, and goes back to his bouncing and thrusting and moving his head around.

I follow his movements, tilting my head right and left in the opposite direction to him. But every turn sends shoots of pain down my back as the pressure on my legs makes itself known in the rest of my body.

I'm going to need a gift membership with my local chiropractor for Christmas at this rate.

Hamilton runs about, building his new, independent country.

It may be my imagination, but I can feel the yearning in the audience. These huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

They want the American dream. But in Britain. And with wifi.

The King is back. I'm beginning to feel quite kindly towards him and his tyranny.

As he dismisses us with a sneering "Good Luck" I can't help but think it's going to take a good deal more than luck.

We're nearing the end. The bit that always makes me cry. But it's alright. Three trips is enough for me to be over that. My eyes are dry. I'm safe.

But as Burr tells us that both Eliza and Angelica were at Hamilton's side as he dies, that's it. I'm gone.

Tears are falling. Eyeliner is lost.

And I sob my way through to the end.

We're all fucking done for, aren't we?

I pull my coat tight around me as I race down the stairs and out into the cold December air and dive into the tube station.

The train pulls into Green Park.

Doors open.

Doors close.

We don't move.

A breathless voice comes over the tannoy.

There's a fight in car number five.

Men run down the platform to break it up.

Doors open.

Doors close.

We move on.

And I make my way back to that Tory-rat hole, Finchley. 

I'm all ready to cast my useless vote. Useless because those meglamanical, power-hungry, statistic-twisting Lib Dems have been trying to pretend they have a chance and are determined to split the Labour vote in a marginal seat where they barely scrapped through as the third party in 2017.

Not a day has gone past in the past two weeks were I haven't got their nonsense flyers coming through my letterbox, wanking on about bullshit antisemitism. Yeah, well fuck all that. I may be Jewish but I'm not blinkered. 

Because when all is said and all is done… Corbyn has beliefs; Boris has none.

VOTE LABOUR!

Wake Me Up When December Ends

I am having such a good day. I just found out that Helen (you know Helen) has passed her master's with a distinction, Ellen (you know her too) has done a mega work-thing, and me... well, just the little matter of me getting name-checked in the December round-up on Exeunt. 

As day's go, this one is proving to be pretty spectacular. I am ridiculously happy. Stupidly happy. Deliciously happy. Okay, maybe not deliciously. That one's weird. But the others: definitely. I can't stop smiling.

"I like your coat darling!" says a rando bloke on the road.

"Thanks!" I say cheerfully. It is an amazing coat. 

"Can I get your number?" he says. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

But my coat and I are already bouncing away. Nothing can touch me today, not even...

A man rolls down the window of his white van to wolf whistle in my direction. 

It's such a cliche I almost laugh in response.

Honestly, this whole smiling thing is dangerous.

Oh well, I make it the rest of the way to Bloomsbury without further incident. 

Signs decorate the railings with messages supporting the university pension strike. Can't say I completely understand the intricacies of it all. Or even the basics. But frankly, I'm too worried about my own lack of pension to care about anyone else's.

Oh well, I'm here now. The Bloomsbury Theatre. My second and last visit. I skip up the steps and head into the bright foyer. More steps and up to the box office.

I set my shoulders. In the reminder email from UCL Event Ticketing, they tried to convince me that I don't need a ticket. That I can just show my confirmation email on the door. Well, I'm not having it. I want a proper physical ticket, and nothing is going to stop me.

"Hello, the surname's Smiles," I say to the box officer behind the counter.

She taps something into her computer. 

I run through my pleading speech on my head as I wait.

There's a sheet of paper stuck up on the window.

There's a QR code on it. "SCAN FOR THE PROGRAMME!" it says.

Oh dear. They are really committed to this no paper thing. Not even a programme! If this is the modern age, I want none of it.

"Maxine?"

"...yes."

She nods, and a second later my ticket is printing and she's sliding it across the counter.

"Oh... thanks!"

Okay then. Umm. Not sure what to do with myself now.

I decamp to the nearest pillar and set about tearing off the receipt and stuffing it into my bag and eyeing up all the QR codes with suspicion.

There's a group of young people hanging around nearby, jumping up like meercats whenever someone comes through the door.

"Oh! You're seeing this!" they cry in unison.

None of them are scanning the QR codes.

In the corner there's a big set of double doors, guarded either side by ticket checkers. 

I watch as a young man with a suitcase rolls over.

The ticket checkers both look at it.

"Umm," says one. "You can leave it in the office?" He grasps the handle and helps the young man move it inside.

I join the queue.

"First door on the right!" says the ticket checker. "Enjoy the show!"

Through the door and I find myself in a secondary foyer. Doors on the right lead off to various parts of the theatre, while on the right is a small concession desk, with a not particularly generous display of snacks. Galaxy bars and Tyrell's crisps are laid out in rows. I suppose it's hard to make a merch desk look good without programmes to baulk them out.

At the back, there's a proper bar, surrounded by old posters. There isn't much of a queue. That's Gen Z for you. All heading to their seats to sit quietly and get ready for the show. They've probably pre-downloaded the programme and are busy memorising the song order in preparation. Bless them.

Music pours out of the auditorium, from a playlist that must surely be called Green Day's Greatest Hits, because, you guessed it, I'm here to see American Idiot. UCL Musical Theatre Society style.

I go through the first door, as directed. It takes me to the front of the stalls in what is a decently sized theatre. There's a circle overhanging the back, but that appears to be closed for tonight. The walls are covered in those slim wooden planks that are so beloved by higher education theatres. LAMDA has them. ArtsEd too.

The stage is raised, and big enough for the dance performances that happen here occasionally.

I go find my seat. The end of the third row. As is my preference. 

Not the best angle. I'm losing a bit of the stage, in the back corner, but I do get a clear view right into the wings, where I can see the cast jumping up and down as they warm up.

A girl pauses at the end of our row, trying to get in.

The bloke blocking her way reaches down to pick up his glass of beer and then proceeds to not move. Not himself. Not the huge puffer coat on the floor. Or the massive rucksack taking up the entire path.

Seeing that he has no intention of moving any further now that he's rescued his beer, she hops over his mountain and stumbles to her seat.

I think we've discovered who the British Idiot in the audience is tonight.

I glare at him on her behalf.

He doesn't notice. He leans forward to place his glass back down in front of the buffer seat that separates us. I contemplate kicking it over, but I don't want to ruin my boots.

The recorded music stops, and the band takes over, as the cast come out racing.

And can we just take a moment to appreciate those boys wearing mass levels of black eyeliner. I mean... that is some quality audience service going on there.

I am not ashamed to admit that boys wearing eyeliner is a teenage weakness of mine that I never grew out of.

Okay, I am slightly ashamed to admit it, but if me telling you this results in the world just being that tiny bit more kohled up, then my embarrassment will not be in vain.

But then I notice something. The boys may be in eyeliner, but the girls are all rocking the plaid shirt and skater skirt look.

I look down at my outfit.

Red plaid shirt and little skater skirt.

Oh shit.

I swear, before all the theatre gods, this was not intentional. Yes, I love theme dressing, but this time it is just a coincidence. I did not turn up to watch American Idiot, by myself, in costume. I just like tartan. And skirts. I would go so far as to say, those both feature in my top ten things to wear.

I slink down in my seat, hoping that no one else has noticed, and try not to worry about the fact that I'm dressed like a teenager from 2009. Was I even a teenager in 2009? Shit. No. I wasn't. I was already a fully-fledged adult. Christ. That's... let's not talk about that anymore.

I try to concentrate on the story.

There doesn't seem to be much of one.

Oh, sure. There's a plot. Rather a lot of it. But no characters. Just mannequins going through the motions without the hinderance of personality.

The songs are good though.

A girl in my row is having a great time, bouncing around her leg in time with the quality tunes.

And then it's the interval.

An usher comes in with a tray full of ice cream, setting up right in front of the speakers, now gone back to pumping out those hits.

If the usher is worried about damaging his hearing, he isn't letting it show. He's drumming his palms against the back of that box, bopping around, and looking like he is seriously enjoying himself, even if he doesn't manage to sell a single ice cream during the entire interval.

It's just not that crowd tonight.

As the lights go down for the second half, there's a massive whoop.

The students are out in force to support their friends. And by the looks of it, a few parents too. I spy a few grey-haired couples amongst the crowd, who don't strike me as massive Green Day fans, but then, I could be wrong. 2009 was a long time ago, after all. Even if I haven't managed to update my wardrobe in the past ten years, doesn't mean the fans weren't busy raising kids and sending them off to university.

They're certainly enthusiastic enough during the applause. It must be something quite mega to see your little darling being up there, on that massive stage, and being all talented and shit. Not something my parents were ever subjected to, a relief on all of our parts, but this lot seem happy about it.

I leap out of my seat and dive into my coat. I need to give some serious consideration to the continued presence of little skater skirts in my wardrobe.

One of the students at my work called me ma'am the other week. He's American, and was holding a door open for me at the time, so I think he thought he was being respectful. But... oof. I can't deny that it really hurt.

I'm going for twin sets and pearls from now on.

At least my coat is cool.

As I trot down the steps and make to push open the glass doors, I pause and look at my reflection.

I bought this coat thinking it would make me look like a Tolstoy heroine, but turns out I giving off more off a Pat Butcher vibe.

Huh.

Still, it's a good day. I guess...

Dial M for Mary

The queue to get into the Prince Edward theatre is stretching right down the pavement and around the corner.

They shudder close together, everyone looking up suspiciously as the sky begins to drizzle down on them.

With a big sigh, I walk to the end.

Except, is this the end? I can't tell. There seems to be a great old gap going on.

"Sorry," I say to the first person after the jump. "Are you not in the queue?"

"Yeah... we are..." she says, sounding just as dozy as you might imagine someone would who hasn't quite grasped the concept of moving with the line.

With a side-eye of confusion, she shuffles forward, closing the gap. And I fall in behind her group.

The queue moves slowly. Painfully so.

I don't mind. Even though I'm standing in the rain with no room to put up an umbrella. Because there is a sniffer dog on duty tonight and he is so super cute my heart is melting along with my makeup.

"Please have your bags open and ready for inspection!" shouts out the queue controller.

The young woman ahead of me opens her bag, ready for inspection.

"Have you got any food?" asks the bag checker.

"Yes," she says, looking confused.

She probably still believes that bag checks are to protect our 'comfort and security' and not the theatre's bar sales. So sweet. So innocent.

"Sorry," says the bag checker. You can't bring in food or drink."

The dozy woman steps forward. "Can she leave it somewhere?" 

The bag checker looks around. "Let me get a manager."

A manager is called. We all wait for his arrival.

"Sorry, you can't bring food in," says the manager, repeating the party line.

Honestly.

This wouldn't happen at the Shaw Theatre. They were putting people's food shops in the bar fridge for their audience members. You just can't get the service in the West End.

With the ladies now occupied with the manager, the bag checker moves on to me.

He reaches into my bag and grabs my water bottle, giving it a good squeeze. I'm not entirely sure what he was checking for there, but whatever the test was, my bottle passes.

"Got your tickets?" he asks.

"No, I'm collecting."

He points inside. "Just through there," he says and I am waved into a foyer that would very definitely feature as a puzzle room in some megalomaniac's house of death. Curved walls are punctuated by multiple exits that almost certainly lead to torture chambers, and we are crowded in, like sheep in a abattoir, all bleeting as we surge forward towards the bar or box office to be bled dry.

"Anyone collecting tickets, round that way," says the queue controller. Another one. It's all about controlling the queues at the Prince Edward.

I go round. 

And round.

And round.

Until I find the end of the queue.

Halfway up a flight of stairs.

I balance on a step and try not to fall over every time someone squeezes past to get to their seats.

"Very disorganised," a bloke mutters as he elbows me.

"You guys collecting tickets?" asks another before looking with despair at the end of the queue, far behind us.

But we move fast enough, the queue controller directing people to the next free box officer.

"What's your surname?" asks my box officer, just as I'm trying to tell him.

I repeat it. "Smiles. S. M. I. L E. S."

He looks through the ticket box, but the Ss are gone.

He turns around. "S?" he says to one of the other box officers.

"I've got the Ss!"

He turns back to me. "Can you spell your surname again?"

I can. And do. Slowly.

"Maxime?"

Eh. Close enough. 

"And what's the postcode?"

I tell him. He hands over the ticket.

It's well swish. It has the show artwork printed on it. I don't have time to admire it though, I already have someone trying very hard to walk through me.

I escape through the rope barriers and look around. I need the Grand Circle entrance. 

Ah! There it is.

Through one of the doorways that surely has a tank of piranhas waiting underneath a trapdoor on the other side.

"Looking forward to the show?" asks the ticket checker as she tears off the stub.

"Yeah!" I lie.

I'm not really looking forward to the show. I'm here to see Mary Poppins, and, I've got to admit, I really don't like Mary Poppins. Never did. Not even as a kid. So much do I not like it, that the last time it was in the West End, I refused to take my nephew to go see it. I just... could not face it.

And here we are.

Turns out I'm more committed to my marathon than my nephew.

Sorry Alexander!

Eh, he's alright. Started uni this year. I'm sure he's totally over it now.

But no usher needs to know all that. Best to be enthusiastic. Or at least, pretend to be.

"You're in door M!" she says, handing my shorn ticket back. "M for Mary!"

Lucky me.

I manage to evade the piranha tank, and start climbing the stairs. I have to admit, it's rather nice in this stairwell. As theatre stairwells go. The carpet is red. So are the walls. The stain of victims past, I suppose. But with lots of art deco gold details to lift the mood.

"Door M is through the bar!" says an usher, posted in what could be a very confusing crossroads, as signs pointing in every direction attempt to direct us to the correct doors.

Sure enough, I find myself in a bar. There's a glass cabinet filled with show merch. Rather upmarket show merch. The mugs are tall, the blankets fleecy, and the umbrellas have parrot heads on the handle.

Just like Mary's.

I'm almost tempted by one of them.

And the Bert Bear. Complete with chimney-sweeping broom. He's a cutie.

I have to remind myself that I don't actually like this musical.

I back away, keeping my debit card firmly in my bag as I head for door M.

The auditorium is red. Very red. I've seen a few red theatres on my travels, but mostly of the dingy sort. Ones where the walls are bumpy from years of polyfilla repairs. This is an entirely different sort of red. A glossy red. An expensive red.

I'm staring at it so much, I almost bump into the usher.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask automatically, unsure if she's even selling programmes.

Thankfully, she is.

"Of course you can!" she says. "Programmes are four fifty."

I stand aside to let her deal with the next person as I find the cash.

She pulls a programme from her satchel, and hands me the fifty pee of change.

"Err, D10?" I ask.

She leans in to peer at my ticket.

"You're down the stairs on the fourth row," she says, gesturing with her hands. "On the right."

Down the indicated stairs I go, to the fourth row, and find my seat, as promised, on the right. On the aisle as it happens. Well done me.

Coat safely stowed under seat, I twist around to get a good look at this place. It's a lot bigger than I'd imagined. I'd always thought of the Prince Edward as one of those diddy West End venues. Like the Phoenix. But it's bloody massive. The circle is broken up by a warren of split levels and aisles and brass railings. It's a good thing I asked for directions. I was have definitely got myself trapped somewhere if I hadn't, and my wails of anguish would have echoed around this beast of a space until a kindly usher took pity of me and put me out of my misery.

The seats fill up around me.

There are a lot of kids, but not as many as you might think. This isn't a Matilda audience. Lots of young women appear to have dragged along their equally young beaus, and are providing us all with a sneak preview as they do their best to sing the hits from the movie.

A couple of Americans are sitting behind me. They haven't joined in the sing-a-long. They're too busy munching their way through a Milky Way.

"It doesn't have carmel?" one of them exclaims.

“No. They don't over here."

That revelation stuns him into silence for a solid minute before they move onto their weekend plans.

The lights dim.

Whoops go out all over the theatre.

Childlike voices comes over the soundsystem. It's Jane, and Michael, Banks. They have something very important to tell us. And that is that Mary is here, and she has rules. We're to switch off our phones, and unwrap our sweets. Spit spot.

Mary sounds like a right bitch if you ask me.

The curtain rises and I grit my teeth as the children dash about being charmingly nauseating.

And then Mary appears, and is brusk and efficient and magical, I guess.

I mean... even my cold dead heart has to admire the stagecraft. Every minute is packed with a prop whizzing about or appearing suddenly, or disappearing, or turning into something else.

The tech team must be having constant kittens trying to get it to all work on cue.

I'm not the only one who's impressed.

A woman sitting down the front of the circle and she's got her phone out.

She's being pretty sneaky about it, she's turned the screen light right down, and she's holding it low, down close to her lap. She takes a photo. First portrait. Then landscape. Then at an artistically tilted angle.

I think she's done, but nope. She taps around on her screen, brings up Whatsapp, attaches the image to a chat, and then starts typing up a message.

I can't see what she wrote from all the way back here, but I'm willing to put money on it being a rave review of how much she's enjoying herself.

That done, the puts down the phone. But only for a moment, because down on stage the set has just changed and our lady needs to get herself another set of photos to remember it all by. Portrait. Landscape. Titled. Whatsapp. Done.

Interval.

Thank gawd. I don't think I could have handled a second more of those chirpy chimney sweeps.

"Chim chimney chim chimney..." sings a woman as she trots up the stairs to go to the bar.

"Chim chimney, chim chimney, chim chim cheroo..." sings one of the Americans sitting behind me.

"Chim chim cheroo..." whispers the small girl sitting next to me as she digs into her ice cream.

I now know why the walls are red.

This is my hell.

All the audience are all demons sent to torture me, to the tune of this gawd-awful musical.

There's nothing for it, but to surrender to my fate, letting this irritatingly cheerful tunes swarm around me.

Up ahead, the Whatsapp Woman gets her phone out again, but an interval has passed since last she tried and and someone must have complained to the front of house team because the usher is ready and waiting.

She runs down the aisle, and bringing out her torch flashes it right into the Whatsapp Woman's eyes.

Dazzled, the woman quickly puts away her phone.

Ha.

Sadly, the usher can't pull the torch flashing trick on the cast, and I'm forced to sit through this overly long show. How they can turn drag out this lack of narrative for nearly three hours would almost be impressive if it wasn't stuffed full of filler. I amuse myself by playing dramaturge and picking out all the bits I would cut. The vase? Smash that. The shop in the park? Close it down. The statue? Bury it,

I am rudely brought back by the cast encouraging us to clap along with their singing. Which is just mean. Everyone knows I have no rhythm.

I do my best, but my heart isn't in it.

And as soon as the house lights are up, I'm already out of my seat and pulling on my coat, unable even to wait for the orchestra to finish up.

Let's just hope I don't fall in that piranha tank on the way out. This is not the theatre I want to be haunting in the afterlife.

Shake it off

I'm stuck somewhere in the middle of the junction between Shaftesbury Avenue and High Holborn, waiting for the traffic to find itself around all the road works. But even from my little island I can see the queues stretching all the way out of Shaftesbury Theatre and down the road.

People clog the pavement on both sides.

A wedge of solid humanity balancing on that small corner, and spilling right into the road.

The lights change and I manage to make it across the road, but that's as far as I can get. Every inch of this pavement is blocked.

Among the crowd people in waterproof jackets holding up small laminated signs with the logos of various ticketing companies on them.

I try to spot the familiar TodayTix red, but if they are here, I can't see them.

Looks like I'm heading to the box office. If I can even get in.

I join a queue at random. There seems to be at least three of them going on. And all of them have a mixture of people who are already clutching their tickets, and those feverously looking up confirmation emails on their phone.

"Where do we go if we have tickets?" sighs a young girl standing on tip toes to look around.

"I know, right?" says her friend. "This is so unhelpful!"

A woman standing in front of me flags down one of the waterproof coat crew.

"You don't happen to know where the box office is?"

He does. He points through the door where we can just about make out a sign stating "Box Office."

Right, well at least our queue is pointed in the right direction.

Slowly, oh so slowly, we eek our way through the doors.

"If you don't have a bag, you can go straight through," says a bag checker, ignoring the fact that there's nowhere to go. The foyer is just as rammed as the pavement.

I make it through the bag check and stand blinking in the entrance, trying to work out how the hell to get over to that box office.

In the chaos, a collection of people have gathered in what could almost be called a line. I join the end of it, and sure enough, we start moving, ever so slowly, towards the box office windows.

As the last person in front of me picks up their tickets, the woman at the window grins at me. I start forward, but the crowd have sensed the vacuum and is pouring into it.

But my box officer keeps eye contact, smiling encouragingly, drawing me through until I collapse out the other side.

"What's the surname?" she asks before I even have a chance to open my mouth.

I tell her, spelling it out in case she can't hear me over all this noise. But she's nodding. She's got it. And she's off to the back of the office to pull the Ss from their pigeon hole.

"Maxine?" she says, returning to the window.

That's me.

Okay then. I've got my ticket. I should probably go find a programme now.

There's a merch desk just behind me, and after a bit of shoving I make it through.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask, slightly out of breath after my exertions.

"That's seven pounds," says the merch desker promptly. There's no room for nonsense round these parts.

"Can I pay by card?" I ask, unsure I can summon up an entire seven quid in cash.

He nods and we go through the rest of our transaction in silence. I can't blame him.

By the looks of it, he's already sold hundreds of the things. I can see those shiny hot pink covers all over the place. I'd be sick of talking too.

No time to inspect the programme properly though. I need to get out of the scrum before I get trampled.

"Too many fucking people," growls a middle-aged man as he barges past me.

I stagger, clinging onto my hot pink programme as I regain my balance.I think I should probably go find my seat now.

I'm in the circle tonight. I follow the signs and go up the stairs, immediately feeling better as the crowds thin out. Crystal wall lights send simmering shadows skittering around the stairwell, soothing my battered nerves. I let my elbows drop out of their protective stance.

I've been to a lot of West End theatres at this point. Very almost nearly all of them. Only three more to go. So I think I've said everything there is to say about them. There are boxes and pillars and mouldings and velvet seats. And yeah, I like the Shaftesbury. It's a very nice theatre. Got all those Edwardian accessories that really do it for me. Just plush enough that you feel a bit fancy as you take your seat, but no so plush that you stress about the hole in your tights.

Excitement is high.

Now that everyone has made it out of the caning factory downstairs, the chatter is buzzing. Everyone gets out their phone to take a picture of the huge & Juliet sign on stage.

A performer appears on stage and serves up some quality b-boying action.

He's soon joined by a few other cast members and they get their groove on while the house fills up. I get up to let a couple past. The bloke steps right on my foot and I cry out in pain. He immediately leaps up and apologises. Which is a first. And much appreciated.

Still, doesn't no much for my poor crushed toes, which are currently throbbing away into my boot.

The cast is getting the stage ready. One of them dangles her legs off the edge of the stage and chats with the front row. Another is attempting to finish that sign. They get the first ‘o’ of Romeo rigged up, but there's no time to finish it off. We're starting.

Oliver Tompsett's Shakespeare appears. He's just finished another play and he's rather pleased with it. But as he takes his players through the plot points, he soon finds out that they're not overly keen on the ending. Even his wife is having trouble getting behind such a tragedy.

Something needs to be done. And Cassidy Janson's Anne Hathaway is the one to fix it.

Romeo and Juliet is getting a reboot.

With some quality pop songs to help matters along. The audience laughs with shocked delight as we're launched into Larger than Life. And I am fucking loving it. Yes. This is what I want. I too dislike Romeo and Juliet as a story. Not for the same reasons as Ms Hathaway, I must admit. But whatever, I can see no problem with tearing that damned story to shreds and packing it wall to wall with absolute bangers.

Plus, the having Romeo as a total fuckboy... let's be real. That's pretty much canon, isn't it? Finally, someone just had the guts to say it. So, when we get Jordan Luke Gage's version of him, dressed like an emo Ken doll, dancing on his own coffin, while wearing a pink rucksack and singing Bon Jovi... I am done. Spent. In love. 

And that's before we even get to Miriam Teak-Lee who is... I mean... that voice. That hair. She's just fucking everything. 

This is literally the greatest show I've ever seen in my life.

Yes, it is also the most stupid show I've ever seen in my life. But why does everything have to be clever? This is silly. And fun.

And... it's the interval.

Thank goodness, because my heart is pounding and I need a few minutes to cool off.

"I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," muses the girl sitting in front of me. "It's very entertaining," she adds hurriedly. 

I get out the programme to have a look. That's lots going on it here. No boring biogs with a few cursory production photos to justify the price, oh no. There are notes from the director and the designers, and the book writer.

There's also a synopsis of the original play, just in case anyone in the world has managed to get to this stage in their life without absorbing the plot through cultural osmosis.

And an entire double-page spread about Max Martin. Slightly at odds with the more humble title of 'Who is Max Martin?'. But considering he's the man who pretty much soundtracked my formative years with all those Britney classics, I'll allow it.

The safety curtain is down. Reversed so it looks like we are the ones on stage.

A few people are happy to play along, singing not untunefully to the music still blasting out into the auditorium.

I use the opportunity to inspect the place.

These seats really are comfortable. And my view is top-notch. That's because the seating is offset. I have a clear view between the shoulders of the two people sitting in front of me. I don't know why all theatres don't have this. It's great.

And when the second act starts, I don't miss a thing.

And, I mean, I'm going to be real here. I'm not sure how I feel about the non-binary character. No shade against Arun Blair-Mangat or anything. Nothing to do with the performance. But something about the way this character is being treated is bothering me. And, you know, as a cis, very gender-conforming, person, perhaps I'm not the one to have an opinion on this, so I'd be real interested if a sensitivity reader was brought in to look at the script. Does theatre even have sensitivity readers? I'm sure it does. They're just probably not called that. Well, whatever. I hope there was one.

Because I really want to love this show. Like, I really want to love this show. I'm enjoying it so fucking much.

Over on the far side, an usher leans right out over the railing in his best Juliet impression to get a good look of the stage. He doesn't want to miss and minute, and nor do I.

And when the bows are happening, and the audience starts standing up to applause, I don't even hesitate.

You know I don't give standing ovations lightly, but here I am, on a chilly Tuesday night, ovating the heck out of this show along with everyone else.

"That was so good," says a bloke as we all make our way down the stairs.

"I don't usually like jukebox musicals, but..." replies his date.

"So good. So good."

"And so unexpected!"

Well, I for one knew it would be great.

But still, I kinda get what he means.

That shocked laughter I mentioned earlier. That wasn't a one-off. Pretty much every song got it's own giggle opener as we collectively, as an audience, recognised the song and worked out how it was going to be used.

Sometimes it was a bit... yeah, I'm still uncomfortable about May singing I'm not a girl, not yet a woman. But Anne ordering Shakey to do rewrites to the tune of I Want It That Way... well, that was fucking genius.

And now I have to hobble away on my injured toes, and make it all the way home without embarrassing myself by humming on the tube.

We both know I'm not even going to make it till Camden.

Nuestra casa es mi casa

"Can I check your bag?" asks the bag checker as I struggle with my umbrella outside the doors to The Other Palace.

I shove the wet umbrella under my arm and open the bag for him.

For once, it's not bursting to the brim with spare shoes and the results of various shopping trips. I'm almost not embarrased to have someone looking inside. Until I spot the constellation of cough sweet wrappers floating on wave of the general mess going on in there.

Oh well.

The cough sweet wrappers don't seem to bother him, and he waves me inside.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for Reputation," says a disembodied voice.

Gosh. That was good timing. No hanging around here tonight.

I make my way over to the small podium that serves as the box office.

Yup. I actually invested my coin in getting a proper paper ticket this time around. I may have baulked at the fee for receiving such an honour when I was here for the main house, but as it's my final trip to this place, I figured I should see what one pound fifty actually buys me.

A queue forms for the stairwell down to the studio, and the box officer steps back from her podium in order to check tickets.

I wait, ready to launch myself into any gap in the line, but if anything, it keeps growing.

I stand there, awkwardly, wondering what I should do.

"No rush!" calls out a front of houser. "Plenty of seats for everyone."

That immediately sends me into a fit of anxiety. I can see full well that it's not going to be an empty house down there. And while I don't mind sitting at the back for my marathon trips, I don't like be slotted into random empty spaces at the last moment.

"They'll scan your tickets downstairs, so don't put them away!" continues the front of houser.

That's all very well, but I still haven't got mine.

As a group arrives, with a ream of tickets so long it reaches the floor, I take my chance and step in.

"I'm collecting?" I say.

The box officer turns to me for the first time. "For Reputation?"

"Yes. The surname's Smiles."

"Yeah! I saw that!"

A give a humble shrug, playing the celebrity that just got recognised while doing her weekly shop.

"Do you know the postcode?" she goes on.

I do.

"Lovely. There you go," she says handing me the ticket.

It's nice enough, I guess. White with a black border, like Victorian mourning stationery. There's The Other Palace logo in the corner and on the tab. And a stern warning that patrons with standing tickets will be required to be on their feet for the duration.

I do not have a standing ticket, so I'm not required to do shit.

I turn around and join the back of the queue, flashing my ticket to the box officer when I pass her. She nods, without the tiniest hint of recognition in her features to demonstrate that we talked all of ten seconds ago. I get it. You got to play it cool and let celebs get on with their daily lives.

Down the stairs I go. There are a lot of them. Every time we turn a corner more of them appear. The walls are lined with black and white photos of glamorous looking people.

But we finally make it to the bottom, and there's the promised ticket checker, waiting on the door.

"Head to the left, please," she intructs.

Inside there's a smart bar. And right in front of it, rows of seating.

Ah. I see what they're going for here. A kind of cabaret space.

I keep heading left, not sure how far left I'm supposed to go.

I pass a corner settee, all set up with tables and reserved signs.

"Mummmm," cries a small child crawling over the sofa. "I can't believe you got the worst view in here.... I can't believe.... Mummmmm. You got the worst seats. I can't believe! Mum!"

I don't know what he's on about. They look pretty darn cosy to me. Much better than the tight-packed rows of chairs.

Past the comfy corner there's another set of chairs. And an empty aisle seat. I hurry over to it.

"Is this free?" I ask the next person in the row.

"Yes, there's one left," she says. I pause. What a strange way to word it. As if she has claimed the row, and now has a spare chair she doesn't mind getting rid of.

An old man sitting in the row behind grabs the back of the chair and starts inching it away from its neighbours.

"I don't know why they put them so close. There's plenty of space," he grumbles as he, quite literally, rearranges the furniture.

I sit down before he can shift me any further along, but that doesn't stop him faffing.

"I'm just going to pull my chair back," he announces. "No one's behind me yet."

What may happen when someone does arrive does not appear to bother him.

A bloke comes along and starts closing up the vents in the ceiling above us. Halfway through he stops and spots the moved chairs.

"Sorry," he says. "I have a minimum area I have to keep clear." He starts to move the chairs back to where they were, to an accompaniment of grumbling from those sitting in them.

One old lady insists she cannot see. He tells her she's free to move. But the chair needs to stay where it is.

She grumbles a bit more.

More people arrive. It's really full now. They look at the reserved signs sitting on a couple of chairs. They pick them up and move them, before turning around in their seats to greet the people sitting behind them.

Oh yes. I'm at one of those shows. Where everyone knows everyone, and they are all connected with someone in the show.

No wonder they feel they have the right to treat this place like their living room.

A man with a silk scarf looped around his neck steps forward, holding a mobile phone aloft. He turns in a slow circle before going back to his seat.

I'm not quite sure what to make of that. Did he, like, find a mobile in the toilets or something? Is this how they do lost and found at The Other Palace? I'm baffled.

A few minutes later he's back, doing the rounds, chatting to all the old dears who are "very excited, so very excited," about the show.

Something tells me he's the composer.

Eventually he gets his fill of attention and we can get on with the show.

We're in some sort of girls' finishing school, and all the students are super excited because one of their number has just finished writing their novel. Which, if you ask me, shows a distinct lack of understanding about girls' schools, or writers' friends, but there you go. She's written a book about a mafia boss, and yet we are still asked to believe that she is naive enough to send in her novel, with a twenty-dollar fee I might add, to some rando guy who advertised in Variety.

Obviously he steals her story, because that's a thing that totally happens in real life, and cross-continental hijinks ensue.

It's the interval.

"I love it," coos an old lady as the suspected-composer returns on his rounds. "I love it. I love it."

"It needs to be in a bigger venue," she goes on after he's left. "It needs a big stage."

That's not a criticism that would ever have occurred to me. I mean... Wicked needs a big stage. Les Mis needs a big stage. A story about a bunch of boarding school girls does not strike me as needing a big stage. Unless she means it needs more room for the pillow fights.

The moving-chair man is back. This time he wants to finish closing those vents. He bashes against my knees as he squeezes himself into my row, and leans right over me as he thwacks at the vents with his rolled-up programme.

I cringe at the way he's treating that poor booklet. No programme has ever deserved such punishment.

By the sounds of it, the back row has been having a very good time at the bar. They're giggling and laughing and chatting, and have no intention of stopping even when the lights go down for act two. They whisper and snort their way through each song, only stopping when one of their phones goes off.

"Sorry!" the owner of the misbehaving phone announces loudly to the room in general.

A few numbers later, when another phone goes off, it's allowed to ring and ring and ring.

We all twist around in our chairs, trying to find the source, but no-one’s owning up.

Up on stage, the girl wins an Oscar and everyone congratulates her for winning her case and no one rolls their eyes at her being such a damn fool. Not even once. Which is nice. I guess.

Anyway, it's over now.

I make a break for it, racing up those stairs before someone tries to move them.

Severed fingers and vacuum loos

"I'll be five minutes!" I text Allison. "Grab a table?"

Allison texts back in the affirmative. She's on it.

I run up Kingsway on my own mission.

I stop at the corner of Portugal Street and pull my phone out of my pocket, taking a picture of the theatre as I catch my breath. Right, that’s done. It's time to pick up the tickets.

I have to hang back as young people pour of the long line of doors. Very young people. Children. The matinee must have just got out. I have timed this spectacularly badly.

They look happy though. The young people. Must be a good show.

Eventually the flow stills and I manage to get inside.

The Peacock is a funny old theatre. It spends most of it's time as a lecture hall for LSE. I've even been to a lecture here. Back when I thought doing a PhD might be a viable way of escaping my career crisis. Turns out it wasn't, and instead I chose the route of quitting my job and taking an unpaid interneship in the arts instead. Not quite sure that worked out either...

Anyway, I'm here. At The Peacock. A venue I technically work for, so I need to be on my best behaviour.

Up the steps and over to the box office, lurking in the shadows at the back of the foyer. I head over to the box officer I recognise.

"Can I pick up tickets for Smiles?" I ask. "Staff tickets," I add, just in case I look different outside of fierce yellow light of the office kitchen.

She grabs the pile of staff ticket forms and pulls mine out before going back to her seat to start tapping away at her computer.

"At least it's warm in here," I say, doing my best to fill in the awkward silence. "It's freezing out there."

"The weather has changed," she agrees. "There you go. Two pounds."

Bloody bargain.

I look at the tickets. Two of them. Central stalls.

Epic bargain more like.

All that friendly kitchen banter has clearly done the trick. Moral of the story, always be nice to box officers. They have the power, and should be respected.

A message comes through from Allison. She has a table.

Fuck. Okay. Better run.

Tickets stuffed in pocket, I pull my jacket tight around me, brace myself for the cold, and hurry back the way I came, hopping from foot to foot as I wait for the traffic lights to change on Kingsway, rounding the Aldwych and slipping through the doors of the Delauney Counter.

I love the Delauney Counter, with its old fashioned gentility, and attentive staff, and schnitzel sandwiches.

I think it might be my favourite place in London. Instant calm as soon as I walk through the door.

Even with the counter covered in white chocolate ghost masks for Halloween.

Allison has a table, as promised. And we both spend far too long pouring over the menu before deciding that the perfect accompaniment to schnitzel sandwiches is a salted caramel hot chocolate.

Bless the waiter. He didn't even wince the teeniest bit as he takes our horror-show order. He has truly got into the Halloween spirit.

"I'm going to take a photo of you," says Allison, getting out her phone.

Turns out, the fact that I'm wearing my Greggs t-shirt in a fancy-arse Austro-Hungarian cafe is pretty darn amusing. I do my best to pose, but you know I'm not good with photos.

At least the salted caramel hot chocolates are good. So thick you have to eat them with a spoon. And surprisingly, alternating sips with mouthfuls of pickles doesn't make you want to boak.

Which is a bonus.

A waiter comes over and very sweetly tells us that they are closing in five minutes, and would it be alright if we pay our bill and leave please.

It would. But could they add one of those darling bags of Halloween biscuits to it, please very much and thank you?

"Look!" says Allison, as the waiter brings it over and sets it reverently on the table. "It has a witches hat! And a black cat!"

It does have a witch’s hat. And a black cat. But more importantly: "It has a severed finger in it!" I squeak, way too excited by the idea of a bloody finger sitting among my snacks.

Bill paid and scarves on, we venture back outside.

"It's. So. Cold," I complain as we make our way to The Peacock, regretting with every step that I didn't order another hot chocolate to go.

The foyer is now buzzing with slightly older children. The under-tens shifted off for an early night, while their teen brothers and sisters take over for the 6pm show.

At the top of the stairs, a front of houser stands, holding up a handful of programmes, spread out in a fan.

I stop.

I don't need to buy one. Someone will leave a pile on my desk at some point. But I can't help but look all the same.

I made those. Well, I mean. I wrote the brief and asked people more talented then me to make them. But still. I did that. I made that happen. And I won't be doing it again. I'm leaving my job next week, and that programme was the last one I sent to print. My last ever programme, quite possibly.

As we head down the stairs I stop to take a photo of the merch desk, with its long line of programmes just waiting to be bought.

I hope people do.

"Where are we sitting?" asks Allison.

"Stalls," I say proudly. It's not often that I get to take people to the good seats.

"Stalls is one level down," says a programme seller as we pass. "Or the circle is just through here."

"Thank you!" we say as we pass, breezing down another level to the fancy seats.

The bar down here is busy. But I have to say, it's not very nice. Even the long mirror, with it's row of globe-lights can't help lift the grey walled basement we're in right now.

"I might go to the loo?" I say. This show isn't short. And we did just drink a small vat of chocolate.

Turns out, that's not such an easy thing at The Peacock. Oh, sure. They have them. There isn't even a queue. But when you get yourself in one of those cubicles, those loos are...

"That was a really weird toilet," I say to Allison when we find each other back in the bar.

"That was a really weird toilet," she agrees. "It's like... are we on an aeroplane?"

It was like being on an aeroplane. There was a lid that needed to be unclicked. And then reclipped. And buttons. And vacuum suction.

It was really fucking weird. I can't believe I haven't been to the loos here before. All these years, and they've been there. With their lids. And their vacuum. And I didn't even know.

I get out my phone to make a note of that.

Allison laughs. "Are you making notes about the really weird toilet?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. Sorry."

"It's like: what on earth?!"

Yeah. What on fucking earth?!

I get out my compact to powder my nose. Those loos were so baffling I hadn't wanted to stick around in there to use the mirror.

"You're such a lady," says Allison, laughing as she imitates my actions.

Yeah, well. Some of us have shiny noses that we have to contend with.

"Shall we go in?" I suggest.

We both look at the nearest door into the auditorium.

"Is it this one?" I ask. "What does it say on the sign?"

At this point, I should probably put on my glasses. But you know how bad I am at wearing them. And besides, I've got Allison with me.

We decide that this is, actually, the correct entrance and I show our tickets to the front of houser on the door.

"Yup," she says. "Turn right at row J."

So we do, walking past all those rows of red velvety seats until we reach row J, and then turn right.

There's a family sitting behind us. They look very excited.

And even better. They have a programme.

I like them immediately.

"Please try not to crease the pages," says the mum, handing it down the line.

It's nice to see paper products being properly handled. It's what they deserve. Trees died to make them, after all.

I look around.

There's quite a lot of programmes being flicked through and read in here. It's very pleasing. I find myself watching a couple read the biographies section together. One of them looks up, and I have to turn away very quickly before he realises I was creeping on his reading habits.

Thankfully, the lights are dimming and we're off.

Some Like it Hip Hop.

It's fun, but I'm not a big fan of dance shows having a narrator. Like, either your choreography has the power to tell a story, or it doesn't. And if it's that latter, then maybe it's not the right medium for the narrative. Ya know?

In the interval, the girls sitting next to us try to get out.

"Sorry, darling," one says to the other. "I don't know where to stand!"

The first one struggles over the second's knees, stumbling as she does so. "Sorry, I'm sitting in your lap!"

The safety curtain comes down, and I stare at it.

"There's projections," I say, as a rotating carousel of show trailers plays up on the beige curtain. "I swear they didn't do that the last time I was here."

I mean, I know I've been neglecting my own venues this year. What with having to go to every other fucking venue in London. But my lack of knowledge about this theatre is starting to get embarrassing.

"Ooo!" I say, as the trailer for Galactik Ensemble comes up. "We should go see that one! It looks amazing. The set is trying to kill them!"

"Like The Play That Goes Wrong?"

"I guess..." I mean, sure. More circusy and French. But sure.

As the interval draws to a close, Allison and I stand up to let them pass.

"Don't sit down, we're leaving again," they say, grabbing their coats before slipping back the way they came.

A pile-up forms in our row, as they round on those trying to get back in.

"What's happening?" asks Allison.

"I have no fucking idea. Are they going-going or just moving?"

Whereever they are, the lights are going down again and they're going to be missing the second act.

Time slips by quickly in a torrent of song and dance, with way more story than my stupified brain can cope with. But the loud music and mega moves are keeping me awake.

And when the audience jumps to their feet for a standing ovation, I'm more than happy to join in with them.

That is, until the cast wants to get us moving.

I back against my seat.

Allison looks over at me and laughs. "You're not joining in?" she asks as everyone around us waves their arms over their head.

I shake my head. "I am not joining in."

The cast busy themselves teaching everyone a few moves and I hold myself very tightly until it's all over. I can't be having with that sort of thing. It's too much to ask of someone who can't even clap a beat.

"That was great!" says Allison.

"It was fun," I agree. "Bit heteronormative, but fun."

Allison nods. "Yeah. That scene with the daughter..."

"They could have been such a cute lesbian couple!"

"Yeah, she could find out that the other one is actually a woman..."

"And then still be super into it!"

And we're off. Dramaturging our own version of the show all the way to the tube station and deciding that we would be really good at it.

"How do you become a dramaturge?" asks Allison.

I have no fucking idea... How do you become a dramaturge?

On the tube journey back to Hammersmith, I pull the ribbons free from my Delauney bag and nibble on the witch's hat.

Turns out that biscuits covered in black icing are really not suitable for consuming in public.

As I wash my face before bed, I find my lips have been stained completely black.

Which, I've got to admit, is a look. But not sure one I'll be rocking again any time soon.

Fred attends a Fancy First Night

Another week, another new London theatre. It would almost be hilarious if it wasn’t literally killing me.

Oh well. Off I go. To the West End this time. Which makes a nice change.

Turn off Shaftesbury Avenue into Wardour Street, slip into Peter Street and, gosh. There it is. There’s no missing it. The place has been decked out in balloons.

It’s opening night and the Boulevard Theatre is here to party.

I stand on the opposite pavement to get a good look at it.

Two buildings, rising either side of a walkway, and linked by a glass bridge. Lots of glass. The whole thing seems to be mainly glass. The huge windows reveal the first audiences scurrying about, exploring the space, getting drinks, staring at the massive staircase the dominates the second building. Usually I hate those glassy walls. Too vulnerable-making. I like spaces I can hide in. But somehow, this place manages to exude warmth. Even on a chilly October evening.

Must be the balloons.

There are two security guards on the door. I slow down as I approach, just in case they want to check my bag. But they make no effort to stop me, and I walk on through uninterrupted, finding myself in a small lobby that makes me feel I’m about to check into a small, but very smart, hotel.

I give my surname to the box officer.

“And what’s the first name?” he asks.

I give it.

“Can you confirm the postcode?”

I hesitate. Two step authentications. That’s a first.

Well, I suppose there’s no telling how many Maxine Smileses there are in the house tonight.

Well… there is. Because I’m the only one. I mean that literally. There was another, but she got married and double barrelled up her surname. So now there’s just me. And I’m here. Having to remember my postcode.

I manage to dredge it up from the depths of my memory.

Satisfied, he hands over the ticket. “That’s up the stairs and across the bridge,” he says with the type of grin box officers are only able to summon up on their first day.

I follow his instructions. Up the curling stair that lurks just off to one side, and over the bridge.

I find myself in a restaurant. A very swanky restaurant. With pink walls covered in pictures. A very swanky restaurant that is also a very busy restaurant.

Too busy for me.

You know I’m not a fan of crowds.

I retreat back across the bridge and towards the stairs. There’s a little enclave here. With windows overlooking Peter Street. And a counter to lean on. And potted plants. It’s very soothing.

“Yeah, she worked as a stripper,” a very loud-voiced bloke says as he plods up the stairs.

“Who?” comes the equally loud-voiced reply.

“Vicky.”

“Who’s Vicky?”

I never get to find out who Vicky is because the pair of them disappear off across the bridge, and their loud voices are swallowed up by the even louder hubbub of the restaurant.

No matter, the vacuum of their presence is soon filled by a couple of front of housers.

“Everyone’s happy,” says one. “Everyone’s got a drink.”

“It’s going really well.”

“It’s really exciting.”

“People will be sat in their chairs, with their drinks…”

Something tells me that a key component of the Boulevard’s business plan is based on bar sales.

Another front of houser comes up the stairs.

He is immediately rounded on.

“Have you left your position?”

The newcomer admits that he has left his position.

“Stay in your position!”

He returns to his position.

More people are arriving. Audience members this time.

Despite the instructions to cross the bridge, each and every one of them turns the corner and walks into my enclave.

“Nothing here!” they say, before darting back the way they came, as if the joy of this enclave was not precisely that fact.

As yet another person rounds on me, tutting under their breath at the lack of facilities in this dead end, I realise I’m not going to get the hermit-cave I crave. It’s time to move on.

Now, the sign on the wall says that the stalls are upstairs. But my ticket says I’m sitting in the pit. There is no sign for the pit. I dither, debating with myself as to whether ‘pit’ is a synonym for ‘stalls’.

The front of housers have all moved all. Presumably back to their positions.

Fuck it, I’m going to the stalls. I’m sure someone will stop me if I’m not meant to be there.

Back into the restaurant, and I head to the massive staircase that I had seen from the street belong.

A front of houser stands sentinel at the base.

“Have you got your ticket?” he asks, eyeing me up with just the tiniest trace of suspicion. I must look like a right wrong’un.

I pull it out my pocket and show it to him.

“Great!” he says, suddenly all smiles and enthusiasm. “The house isn’t actually open yet, but there’s a bar.”

Super.

I head on up.

No pink walls up here. No pictures either.

There is a piano, and dark blue walls. But other than that, it is entirely plain. And I’ll admit, a little unfinished looking. Like they blew the budget on the massive staircase before they reached the upper levels.

No matter. At least it’s not too crowded up here.

There’s also a bridge.

I go and stand it in, marvelling at the neon lights advertising the tattoo parlour next door.

The floor is glass too, but frosted up like a lace doily to prevent under up-skirt surprises for the people passing underneath.

The space starts to fill up as we all wait for the house to open. As my empty bridge comes under attack, I look around for somewhere else to stand, and spot something.

A programme. Sitting on top of the bar.

I’d been wondering about those.

Front of housers running about all over the place and none of them holding programmes.

Somehow I’d managed to convince myself that there weren’t any. It’s surprising the amount of theatres that can’t get it together enough to have programmes delivered in time for first night. Not my theatre you understand. Three years on the job and I’ve never missed an opening night when it comes to programmes. But you know… other theatres. The ones without a publications officer in constant fear of her job.

But it looks like whoever is in charge of programmes at the Boulevard is totes on top of things too, because there they are. Or rather, there one is. Single and solitary, sitting on the bar, just waiting to be picked up by any fellow passing with a full wallet.

I head on over, ready to claim my papery darling.

“Can I get a programme?” I ask the guy behind the bar.

“Of course you can!” he says with a wide grin.

“And can I pay by card?” I ask. I have cash, but I never like using it if there’s a card machine going.

“You can only pay by card,” he tells me.

“Even better.”

From behind the counter he brings out a fresh programme, and balances it on the bar so it’s standing up straight and proud.

That’s a really nice touch. Next he’ll be offering to gift wrap it for me.

He doesn’t though. Instead he grabs the card machine.

“Contactless?”

“Sadly not,” I sigh.

“Old fashioned,” he says sympathetically.

“No, just broken.”

As I busy myself with my pin number, he glances over and spots my elephant purse, resting on the bar.

“I love your pencil case,” he says.

Now, my elephant is not a pencil case. He’s really not. He’s leather. Lined with satin. And hand made. But I can see where the confusion comes from. What with his flappy ears and swinging tail. I would have loved to have him as a pencil case when I was six years old.

“Does he have a name?” asks the bar guy.

“He does have a name. He’s Fred! I’ve had him for over ten years so he’s a bit old and sad now.”

“He doesn’t look old or sad,” says the bar guy as he takes back the card machine. “Enjoy the performance!”

Aww.

I know that was just great customer service bants, but still… I do love a bit of great customer service bants. Especially when they compliment my Fred.

“Hello everyone! The house is now open. Feel free to take your seats.”

As one, the occupants of the bar turn towards the auditorium doors.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker and she nods me through into a dark corridor.

Another ticket checker waits on the other side, poised to direct us around the space.

“Front row, just go around until you reach your seat.”

Looks like he means that literally, because the seats here are all in a circle.

I step down into the front row and pick my way through the slim space between the stage and the seating until I find my spot.

“I’m just here,” I say to my new neighbour as she makes to let me through.

She looks at me. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much did you pay for your ticket?” she asks.

I tell her. Twelve quid. I booked with the roulette option. The one where you don’t get to pick your seat in advance.

Turns out my neighbour did the same thing, and we are soon deep in discussion about the theatre.

“Is there a second row upstairs?” she asks.

I look up. “No, I don’t think so. It’s a spiral, they just have a little overlap over there,” I say, pointing to the spot in the balcony directly opposite us.

The seats around us begin to fill up.

“How much did he pay?” asks my neighbour, spotting a newcomer flapping around a large print-at-home ticket. “Can you see?”

I can see. He paid £28. And he’s only two seats away from us.

“Numpty,” I laugh. “Although, twenty-eight quid for front row in a central London venue isn’t bad. You’d pay more at the Donmar.”

“The Donmar also does ten-pound seats,” says my neighbour.

I shrug. I haven’t actually paid to go to the Donmar in years.

“Have you seen Dave Malloy’s work before?” she asks.

I admit that I haven’t.

“What sort of musicals do you like?”

I tell her that a current favourite is Come From Away. That seems like a safe bet right now. Mainstream enough that everyone has heard of it, but with just that level of quirkiness that I don’t get lumped in with the Lloyd Webber Phandom.

“Well, this is very different,” she says, knowingly. “Dave Malloy is very weird.”

“I’m okay with weird,” I tell her. “I’ve seen a lot of weird lately.”

“Not like this.”

I’m not sure what to make of that, but there’s no time to think about it because the lights are going down and the cast is out.

Zubin Varla takes his spot behind the piano and introduces the show.

Ghost Quartet, here we go. Give me your weird.

Within a few numbers, I’m completely lost. I have no idea what’s going on. At first I thought the songs completely disjointed, but recurring characters suggest there is some sort of narrative happening even if I can’t work out what it is.

Still, I’m not not enjoying it.

The space is so small, it’s hard not to get swept away by the intimacy of the whole thing. As Varla picks up a shawl to place around his shoulders, it brushes against my leg. When he turns his head to give a look of exasperation, his gaze hits our eyes.

I smile along, feeling my chair shake as the person sitting behind taps his foot along with the music.

Carly Bawden comes over, holding a small, circular basket. She offers it to me.

I grab something at random.

It’s a small, pink egg.

I look at it, utterly baffled by what it is, or what I’m supposed to do with it. But as my fellow front rowers dive in and select their own items, I see they are all shaking them in time with the music.

I give my pink egg an experimental shake. It rattles pleasingly. It’s a maraca. Of sorts.

I do my best, I really do. But asking someone how can’t even clap in time with a beat to offer percussive support is too much. I can’t handle that level of stress.

When the time comes to return my pink egg to the pot, I do it gratefully.

A song about whiskey starts with a crescendo of breaking glass, which I don’t think was intentional.

The cast run around, pulling out drawers of tumblers, and splashing the amber liquid into the glasses before handing them around the front row.

A few people refuse, but most clutch onto it gratefully, passing around an ice bucket to their fellow drinkers.

“Is that real whiskey?” asks my neighbour.

“It looks like it,” I whisper back, watching someone across the way give their glass a tentative sniff before downing it in one.

And then, with the greatest reverence in the world, a very small bottle is brought out. Sixteen-year-old whiskey. Only one glass. For one very special audience member.

No ice. Because that would be sacrilege.

The lucky audience member takes a sip and gives a thumbs up, before passing it to his friend to share.

In the background, the tech team rush around, trying to get to the stage. But there’s no easy way through.

Someone fetches a pan and brush, and as the song ends, he hands it to Maimuna Memon.

“First time you’ve seen an actor clean up real broken glass on stage,” says Memon as she bends down to sweep it up. “That’s all of it. I think.”

Stage now glass-free, probably, we’re onto the next song.

Keyed up on alcohol, the cast start handing out instruments. Simple ones first. Cymbals and triangles. The type you’d have a bash at in kindergarten.

But then they start handing over their own. Bawden teaches a girl a riff on the autoharp. Varla demonstrates a motif on the piano. A heavily pregnant lady is taught to bang a large drum. And then slowly, slowly, the cast leaves them too it.

Our laughter ends the play, replaced by a standing ovation as the lights come back up.

“Did you enjoy that then?” asks my neighbour as the cast finish their bows and disappear off stage.

I hesitate. “It was pretty. And interesting. But I had no idea what was going on.”

She nods. That’s the reaction she expected.

It’s time to go.

“If I can figure out how to get out of here,” I say.

“I was just going to say…” says my neighbour, examining the slim space between the stage and the seats, now packed with people putting on their coats and generally dawdling. “It comes across as rude to go over the stage.”

“Fuck it,” I announce. “I’m going for it.”

“I’ll follow you then.”

So we strike out, weaving through all the instruments on stage, trying not to trip over the trunks.

One of the musicians brought out onstage, the heavily pregnant lady who took up the drum, bends down to pick up a fallen rose petal. A memento of the show and her part in it.

On the way out, a front of houser hands me something. A business card sized flyer. Something about having a chance to win tickets if we tweet about the show.

I wonder if a blog counts…

Hello darkness my old friend

I appear to have dropped into the countryside again.

One minute I'm walking down a perfectly normal high street with a Jussaic Park themed cafe, and the next I'm crunching down a drive in almost pitch darkness, getting freaked out by the silhouettes of all the old manor house lurking in the distance.

Now like, this is a bit embarrassing for me to admit. Me, queen of the shadows. lurker in the darkness, the enemy of sunshine. But I don't like countryside darkness. It's a completely different beast to city darkness and it freaks me out. Because here's the thing, I grew up in the countryside. More than that, I grew up next door to a twelfth-century graveyard, in the frickin' middle of nowhere. And you know what, try as I might, I never met a ghost. So that means, if there's a rustle from the bushes, I know damn well it ain't Caspar lurking in there, and that scares the crap out of me.

Turns out, the rustle in the bushes of Ruislip is a couple of sweet terriers going on their bedtime stroll.

The fact that they almost gave this theatre marathoner a heart attack doesn't seem to be bothering them in the slightest. They leap around each other, yapping after their mistress as she circles behind some great barn.

Yup. Barn.

Because tonight's theatre has been built within the confines of the Manor Farm. A medieval farmstead that is now open to the public in what I can only assume is Ruislip's answer to Disneyland.

Up ahead, one of the few lamps fighting this darkness, goes off.

I get out my phone, and use it to guide myself down the path, through a gap in a hedge, around a loop in the road, and there it is. The Winston Churchill Theatre.

I clamber up onto a grassy bank, soaking my shoes in the process, and try to get a photo. But even with the lights blazing outside, I can only get the slightest glimmer shining off the sign, to show up.

Apparently I'm at the Winston Chu tonight.

It looks busy though, which is good. The people of Ruislip aren't afraid of the dark, and they are out in force for some quality Hello Dolly action.

Inside, the foyer is buzzing, and the queue for the box office stretches all the way across the entrance.

I join the end and try to ignore the squelching in my shoe as seat plans are pointed at, positions are negotiated, and tickets bought.

"By card?!" cries the box officer in horror as the person in front of me offers his Mastercard as payment.

The car owner points out the presence of a card machine behind the counter.

"It's their machine, not ours," says the box officer.

Duly chastised, the card owner puts the offending bit of plastic back in his wallet and finds the cash instead.

My turn.

"Hi!" I try, my voice croaking. Yeah, I'm still ill. Very ill. And I'm not hiding it well. "I'm collecting. The surname's Smiles?"

"I'm sorry?" says the box officer, blinking and leaning forward.

Oh dear. I try again.

"The surname's Smiles? S. M. I..." What was left of my voice gives out.

"Did you book online?"

I nod. I mean, obviously I did. I'm the one person in this room under the age of seventy. And I'm not well. I try to avoid the whole social thing as much as possible. This conversation is already way longer than I can cope with at the best of times.

"Ah!" he says. "You just need to show them that then," he says, with a glance at the front of housers.

Christ. I know 2019 is the year of the e-ticket. The year everything changes. The year paper tickets are swept away in the face of the mighty QR code. But I really wish someone, somewhere, would standardise how audiences are meant to deal with them. You never know whether an e-ticket means queueing to sign in, or blazing right through to the auditorium without stopping. And there's no way to find out before getting there.

It's exhausting.

And box officers always make you feel stupid for not knowing.

I'm so over it. I just want to sit on the floor and cry right now.

Bet the ushers will have loads of fun cleaning that mess up.

I manage to stay upright though, and stagger down the couple of steps that take me into the main body of the foyer.

A programme seller spots me.

"Would you like a programme?" she asks at the same time as I squeak out: "Can I get a programme?"

"One pound fifty?" she says, as I croak: "How much are they?"

Witch!

I quickly get the money out before she manages to reach the deeper levels of my subconscious. "There, exact change!" I say proudly as I hand her a pound and fifty pee coins.

She's not impressed. She clearly just found out my rant about e-tickets and that time, way back when, I got scared by two adorable small dogs all of ten minutes ago.

"I like your elephant!" she says, indicating my purse in what is definitely meant to be a distraction from her mind-reading abilities.

"Thanks! He makes having to pay for things that much easier."

She gives me an odd look. Unsurprising, as those syllables all came out as a garbled mess.

I slink away. I'm not fit for human company right now. Or ever. But very much not now.

The ticket checker is dressed very smartly. Black suit. Red accessories. Very swish.

He waits patiently as I struggle with the Ruislip 4G to download my e-ticket.

"Which seat number?" he asks.

I show him my screen. "Err, is that it?" I say, pointing at my screen. "K21? Does that sound right?" My brain is utter mush. I have no idea what a seat number should look like right now.

"You're in K21," says the very smart ticket checker. "On the far side."

I follow his pointing hand, down the corridor, towards the far side, and emerge in a large auditorium that looks like it's been stuffed into the local school hall.

The stage is very high, and an orchestra pit has been crafted with the use of black blankets slung over railings.

I find my seat, on the aisle, thank the theatre gods, and I slump down in relief.

A pre-show announcement comes over the soundsystem welcoming us to the theatre and begging us not to take photos. Until the curtain call. Which we should then feel welcome to put on the socials.

Excitement is high.

The mayor is in.

At least, I presume the man wearing a medal on a red ribbon around his neck is the mayor. I have serious questions if it isn't.

As the lights dim, my fellow audience members whoop.

And now, I haven't seen Hello Dolly before. No, not even the film. But even so, I'm pretty sure I'm having a fever dream right now because this is intense. There's a girl crying the whole time. And strangers engaging in highly choreographed routines. And grown men crawling around under tables. And songs about hat ribbons.

And then I remember that's just how musicals were back in the day, and once I realise that this is not the last firework display of my dying brain, I actually manage to enjoy it.

I stay in my seat during the interval. Not sure I can cope with the world outside, with its programme sellers, and e-tickets, and roving terriers.

My row is proving to be a bit of a causeway, and I stagger to my feet and lean myself against it until the interval is over.

I have a look at the programme.

I do love the biographies in amateur theatre productions. We have tales of a 'welcome retirement from the police force' squidged between instructions to sing along, and serious crimes against punctuation. It's so charming I want to boak.

Shit. Okay. Deep breath. Don't boak on the nice people of Ruislip. It's really not appropriate.

My row is all back now. I think I can sit down.

There. That's good. I feel a bit better.

Act two. And there's a bunch of waiters running around with their trays in what surely must be a direct contradiction of the EU directive for occupational safety and health. Not that any of that will matter in a couple of weeks’ time... I wonder if Ruislip is Remain or not. I decide it's best not to know.

Somewhere in the corridor behind us, a phone rings.

The audience giggles.

They giggle even more when the owner of the phone picks up.

"I'm at the show! Yeah, it's still on!" floats into the auditorium.

The front of houser leaning against the wall looks back, but doesn't move and we all giggle through through the rest of the conversation while the cast fight valiantly on with this tale of true love and gold-digging. At least, I presume it's true love. It's only been a day. Though there definitely is gold-digging, which I very much approve of. Being poor sucks. I need to find me a rich man to marry.

Or woman. But somehow I don't think I could convince a rich woman to put up with me. They've got smarts, those gals.

Either way, I should probably sort out this cold first.

I'm not exactly looking my best at the moment.

But first... I need to figure out how to get back to Hammersmith from here.

And not trip over my own feet in the dark.

Or get eaten by a small dog.

Or fall asleep on the train.

Or...

There is Nothin' Like a Dame

It's eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning and I am in King's Cross. Because that is my life now. By rights, I shouldn't even be awake yet. I should have a long day of shuffling around in my pyjamas ahead of me, tearing off chunks of bread direct from the loaf and applying heaps of butter without ever having to resort to such barbaric implements as knives. I should be catching up on my Netflix. I should be hunkering down under my duvet to watch the latest Bake Off episode, which I still haven't got to. Although, perhaps that's a blessing. Now that the Goth girl has gone. I suppose I could go back to The Curious Creations of Christine McConnell to satisfy my need for spider-shaped biscuits, but no: I can't. Because I'm here. In King's Cross. Fully clothed, I might add. As if this wasn't all nightmare enough. 

Anyway, I'm heading back to Kings Place. Which hasn't managed to acquire an apostrophe since my last visit. 

Through the rotating doors and past the box office. I don't need to stop there today. I somehow managed to pick up the ticket for this performance last time around, which I didn't notice until I was standing over the recycling bin, my old bag in hand, throwing out all the ticket-off cuts and receipts that have been cluttering up the bottom, before I transferred the contents over to my new bag. 

I really love my new bag. I especially love that owning it means that I didn't throw away my ticket for this morning. And I double love that all this means that I don't have to talk to any box officer, because while I'm sure they are absolutely lovely, it is only 11am, on a Sunday morning, and I am really not up to that whole interpersonal communication thing right now. 

The long table in the foyer is already filled with people sipping tea and delicately nibbling on cake. And the queue at the cafe extends all the way out, past the fancy restaurant. Turns out that the coping methods of my fellow audience members on a Sunday morning also involve baked goods. And I salute every single one of them. We will get this this together. Whether we like it or not. 

Unfortunately, there's no cake vending machine around here, and I decide to forgo any cake that would require me to talk to someone, and instead let the long escalator down to the lower ground level calm my delicate, sugar-spun, nerves instead. 

The dead woodlouse is still there, resting on the floor, his legs tucked up inside his shell and pumping out a serious mood, which I am greatly enjoying. 

I look around, trying to work out if there are any programmes for sale, and if so, where. 

There seems to be a merch desk. It’s selling CDs of the piece being performed. I tuck myself up against a wall and keep an eye on it, treating the desk as a case study into the type of people that still own the technology to play a CD. While I cannot pretend that my methodology in this experiment is entirely sound, it is interesting to note that no CDs were sold in the several minutes I stood there, and the only person approaching the desk seemed to be after a chat rather than a compact disc. 

I decide to go and have a look at the gallery. I missed it last time, but the small glimpse I got while riding on the escalator past it was enough to intrigue me.  

I go find a flight of stairs and hop up them towards the gallery level. A level entirely bypassed by the escalator, though there are lifts. 

It looks like it’s an exhibition of self-portraits up here. I don’t stop to read the explanatory note. I move straight on to the pictures. 

Some of them are really rather good. I quickly become enamoured with a crinkled face, sprouting a hairdo of flowers that curl on themselves like Medusa’s snakes. But the four-digit price tag soon has me scurrying away. 

As I walk around the near empty space, a woman barges in front of me, blocking my view.  

I get it. The lure of art. It takes me that way sometimes too. 

I move on, finding some more pieces I wouldn’t mind taking home with me if… well, if I didn’t actually work in the arts and could therefore afford to buy some. 

With a sharp blow to the back I find myself stumbling forward. 

It’s that woman again. 

Handbag out. Weaponised. 

I’m starting to get the impression that she doesn’t like me. 

I hurry away from her, looping around the mezzanine and back down the stairs. Where it’s safe. 

I might as well go in now. 

I check my ticket. It says to take the East Door. Looks like that’s the one closest to me, which is handy. 

The ticket checker on the door glances down at my proffered ticket and smiles. “Would you like a programme?” he asks. 

Fuck yeah. “I would love a programme!” I say, so enthusiastically manage to give myself a headache. 

He takes it well. “There you go!” he says, way too cheerfully for a pre-noon Sunday, and hands me the slim booklet. 

Well, look at that. A free programme. Covering the entire festival that I didn’t even know this show was part of. 

I tuck it away and concentrate on the business of finding my seat. 

It doesn’t take long. I’m at the back. I work in the arts, remember.

Not that it matters though. Not in this place. Hall One of Kings Place is smaller than I had expected, but that doesn’t stop it from being a bit lush. Colonnades of wood panelling surround the room, lit up by blue and red lights. The floor slopes down towards the small stage, where there’s a glossy black piano lying in wait. 

The seats are comfy. The leg room excellent. The sightlines… acceptable. Given that this is a music venue, I really couldn’t have expected more. 

“Are you together?” asks a woman, standing a few rows ahead of me. 

The man she’s asking nods his head. They are together. 

“You’re together. And we’re together,” she says, pointing to her companion. 

“Ah,” says the man. “Well, we had four and six so…” 

“And I have five, so if you…” 

They sort themselves out, reassigning their seats so that they can each sit next to their preferred person without the need of usher-intervention. 

How civilised. 

Two women sitting right in front of me are discussing the upcoming show of a choreographer I work with. Obviously, I’m now all ears. 

“We’re not in London,” sighs one. “Why are we paying London prices?” 

“How much are they?” 

“Sixty or seventy pounds!” she exclaims in horror. 

“They’re a hundred at Sadler’s.” 

The first woman draws in a deep breath. “That explains it then.” 

Personally, I’m always more outraged by the bottom end of the pricing spectrum than the top. That’s where you really find out how committed a venue is to accessibility. My attention drifts to the people sitting behind me.  

“You know, I’d often rather be sitting up there,” says one, meaning the upstairs seating. 

All around the room is a slim balcony with a single row of seats. It’s starting to fill up. 

I wonder why I didn’t buy up there. They must have kept it off sale until the stalls filled up. That or I was feeling flush. 

My neighbour arrives and sits down. 

She’s wearing perfume. At 11.30 in the morning. 

It hits the back of my throat and I dive into my bag to retrieve a cough sweet. Somehow I don’t think my hacking away is going to be appreciated at a show that is effectively a piano recital with a bit of talking. 

Turns out though, I’m not the only one with a touch of consumption. 

A loud, wet, chesty cough rings out in the row behind, but is quickly stifled behind a tissue. 

The red and blue lights turn to gold. 

Lucy Parham comes out, and starts playing the piano. I don’t know a lot about piano music, but it’s pretty, I guess. 

She’s joined by Harriet Walter. Dame Harriet Walter, I should say. She’ll be our narrator this evening. Telling the story of Clara Schumann in between piano pieces. 

Now, if that sounds familiar, it’s because I already saw a show about Clara Schumann, interspersed with piano pieces, over at RamJam Records. But that was called Clara, and this one is I, Clara. So they are clearly totally different production. 

I’m enjoying it though. If I have to be awake in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, I might as well have some gentle piano music to ease me along. 

The woman sitting in the row behind me might not agree. She’s struggling. Really struggling. As each piece finishes she coughs and splutters into her hankie. 

I grab another cough sweet, ready to turn around and hand it to her the next time she’s overcome with an attack. 

But then I hear something. Something less coughy and more, well, papery. 

She’s reading the programme. 

Not just the couple of pages dedicated to this performance. She’s not checking how many pieces of music are still to go. No. She’s reading the whole damn thing. 

Now, obviously I approve of programme reading. You should be digesting those things cover to cover. A lot of work goes into them, and you better appreciate it. 

But here’s the thing: not during a performance. 

Especially not during a quiet and gentle music performance. 

It’s rude. 

I unwrap the cough sweet and pop it in my own mouth. 

She don’t deserve my Jakeman’s. 

Just as Dame Walter is describing Schumann’s London fans waving her off with their handkerchiefs, a man gets out of his seat and walks towards the back. 

I think he’s making an escape, but no. He stops by the ushers. 

“There’s a strange noise,” he says in a whisper that carries loudly in this acoustically designed room. “Over by the doors. The doors at the back, over there.” 

The usher disappears. Presumably to investigate the source of the noise. That or sneak a cheeky cigarette outside.  

Either way, the man returns to his seat an remains there for the rest of the performance.  

Applause rings out. 

One man gets out his handkerchief to wave at the performers, which is a nice touch. 

Three times they are recalled to the stage. 

Parham steps forward, and the clapping stills long enough for her to talk. 

If we liked the music, an extended version is available to purchase out in the foyer, she tells us.

For those who still live in 2005 presumably. 

Personally, I’ll be waiting for it to hit Spotify. 

Getting Your Hot Chocolate Rations

“We need to get as many people in as possible,” shouts the TFLer on the Metropolitan line platform at Farringdon. 

Those still outside the doors make a push to get in, but nothing’s moving.

We’re tightly packed and there isn’t any more room. Not that this stops the TFLer at Great Portland Street from having a go.

“Move right down!” he orders. “There’s no need to be shy.” 

We’ve long moved past shyness inside this train. If we get any closer, Mettie is going to be the surprise popular baby name of 2020. 

As we leave central London far behind us, the carriage begins to empty. I even get a seat. 

Eventually, we roll into Ickenham. A little frazzled, but still in one piece. Just about. 

It’s dark out here. And freezing. I feel like I’ve spent at least a year underground, so I’m just glad to be outside and breathing in fresh air. 

According to Citymapper I need to take the Car Park exit out and loop around to get to my theatre for the evening. 

There’s a sign on the wall in the station. “Pedestrians using this route as a short cut do so at their own risk.” With that soothing thought in mind, I make my way out to the empty car park, clutching my bag and eyeing up all the shadows with a suspicious glare.

It’s only when I’m slipping past the barriers that I realise that the risk they were referring to was probably getting run over, and not scary murders, as I had, of course, presumed.  

Oh well. Either way, I’ve got out alive. 

Only problem, I’m now being sent down a lane. And it’s even darker than the car park, if that’s possible. There are definitely murderers lurking down here. 

I hurry along, peering through the gloom, trying to make sense of where I am. Is this even London anymore? It doesn’t look like London. London isn’t as empty as this. 

Just as I manage to convince myself that I’m being led to some abandoned farmhouse full of dead bodies, I see a sign. 

“Compass Theatre,” it says. As if that was a perfectly normal thing to state in the absolute middle of nowhere. 

Beyond the sign is another car park. I look around. At the far end is a low building. It’s full of light and warmth.  

Just as I’m wondering where the box office is, I spot a sign saying “Box Office,” above the door. 

The Compass Theatre is coming in strong on the signage angle. I like it. 

In I go. And follow even more signs until I reach the box office desk at the far side. 

“Hello!” says the box officer on duty as I approach. I give him my surname and he has a look at the ticket pile. “On the top!” he says, picking up the first one. “All waiting for you.” 

Nice. 

Ticket acquired, I wander off to see what else the Compass has on offer. 

Lots of lots of poster space, by the looks of it. The walls are covered with a mosaic of frames, advertising all the upcoming shows, bar prices, volunteering opportunities, panto auditions, and… a notice stating that due to staff sickness, wardrobe is not on offer that evening. 

Oh dear.

I hope the cast took their costumes home with them last night. 

Around the corner, there’s a cafe. People sit around flicking through programmes. I realise I need to get me one of those. I look around. There’s a table nearby, covered with an odd arrangement of items which suggest there's a raffle going on, and, more importantly, a small pile of red booklets. 

“Are you selling programmes?” I ask one of the young women standing nearby. 

“Yup! I am.” 

“How much are they?” 

“Three pounds!” she answers cheerfully. 

“Oh, I have a fiver for once,” I say as I wrestle with the zip on my purse. Thanks to the good programme seller at the Duchess Theatre for that. “Do you have change?” 

She does. 

Transaction done, I find an empty table to sit at and watch as people investigate the prize-items and decide if they want to invest in a raffle ticket. 

An announcement comes over the sound system. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Compass Theatre. This evening’s performance will begin in ten minutes. This house is now open if you’d like to take your seats.” 

My fingers are already behind trying to transcribe the voice, but he keeps on going, taking about phones and whatnot, ending with a dark warning about not taking photos in the auditorium. I freeze. Ah. That’s going to be tricky. I hate it when theatres don’t allow photography inside the actual theatre. Got my back right up when The Old Vic banned me from doing it when I was there in August. Seriously irritating. Let’s just hope that the Compass doesn’t have as many ushers inside the auditorium so I can grab a sneaky shot. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes the voice again. “The performance will begin in five minutes. Please take your seats.” 

Well, looks like it’s time to analyse the staffing situation. 

Back round towards the box office, and then off through a door on the side. Two ushers wait within a small vestibule, ready to check tickets. 

“C12?” I ask, showing my ticket to the nearest one. “Yup, just through there and…” she motions with her hand, first one way then the other. “Left? Right? … left? Sorry, I don’t know which way the seats go.” 

I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.” 

If I can’t work out seat numbers by now, my 235th theatre of the year, well, there really is no hope for me now, is there? 

I round the seating block, go through the nearest aisle and climb the steps to row C, then squint at the seat numbers. 

Fifteen… fourteen… thirteen… twelve. There. That was easy enough. 

The gentleman in seat eleven grabs the armrests and starts to heave himself up. 

“Don’t worry,” I say, lifting my hand to stop him. “I’m right next to you.” 

Jacket off. Glasses on. Phone out.  

I look around. There are no ushers in here. 

Right, a few quick photos of the space. 

Stage. Seats. Side-angle. Done. 

I can relax now. 

The band are already in place, in a makeshift pit, cordoned off behind a low black wall. 

Over on the far side, some bits of paper have been stuck on it. 

“Toilets,” “Bar,” “Exit,” they say in turn, with arrows pointing the way. 

That is some commitment to signage you got there, Compass Theatre. No space is exempt from direction-duty, not even the temporary orchestra pit. 

Okay, one more photo. Just for the signage. 

Now I’m done. 

The man sitting next to me twists around in his seat to look behind him. "I was so worried they wouldn't have enough people in tonight," he says. "It's such a shame that people don't support the community."

I slink down in my own seat. Not only am I very much not a member of this community, I'm barely a member of my own. I don't think I've ever seen an amdram performance in Finchley. And by 'think,' I mean: 'know.' Because I have definitely never seen an amdram performance in Finchley.

More people come on. A lady stops to touch the pianist on the shoulder as she passes. He jumps and looks round. A second later they're hugging and chatting and it's all rather adorable. 

A voice comes over the sound system.

We're about to begin and we need to switch our phones off. After all, this musical we're seeing tonight, is set in the second world war. "When they didn't have mobile phones. So switch them to silent so they don't think bombs are going off."

A woman in my row stabs wildly at her phone screen. "I don't know what I'm doing!" she hisses to her companion.

As the curtain rises, the frantic woman manages to disarm the phone and stow it safely away in her bag.  

We begin. Radio Times. A musical set in the Criterion Theatre, where I was, only last week. Except, instead of a slick comedy about a bank robbery (called, if I remember correctly: A Comedy About a Bank Robbery), we have the recording of a radio show, being broadcast live by the BBC as air raid sirens rage all around.

I certainly feel like I'm stuck in a bomb shelter, because it's freezing in here.

My shivering only stops long enough to half-jump out of my seat as my neighbour calls out: "More!" with the final notes of I took My Harp to a Party. "Go on, Marty!”

I manage to make it through to the interval without catching hypothermia, and rush out towards the cafe in search of warmth.

The usher on the door is holding an air raid hat.

"Seemed a good idea at the time," she says, looking at it bleakly.

"There are real ones upstairs you know," says someone else.

I don't hear her reply, but I imagine they are strong words referring him to the signs stating, quite clearly, that wardrobe is closed today.

I reclaim my seat by the window. It's no good. It's just as cold in here.

A young woman goes over to the vending machine to get herself a hot drink.

"Ergh," she growls, loud enough for people to look round. "I want a hot chocolate but it's out and there's no change!"

"What's the problem?" asks a bloke standing nearby, and she explains the situation again.

"Just ask for your money back," he says.

"There's no change!" She's sounding really quite stressed now. I can't blame her. To let yourself believe that you were seconds away from a hot chocolate on a cold night, and then to have that dream snatched away from you... I'd be raging.

"You have to speak to the cafe staff."

"That's really bad, isn't it?" steps in another bloke. He gives the machine a sneak-attack with his fist. It doesn't help.

A staff member appears. "What did you want?" he asks.

"A hot chocolate," she tells him.

"Yeah, there's none," he says, preparing to walk away.

"Yeah," says the girl. "But it's got my money."

"Nothing I can do about that." He pauses. "Oh... Hang on. I'll get someone."

He goes.

An announcement calling us back to our seats plays over the sound system but there's no way I'm moving when there's a whole three-act production playing out in the cafe.

As the audience makes it's way back to the auditorium, I am glued to my seat.

A key has been found. The machine is open.

"Right, how do I do this now?" says the machine opener, staring at the innards within.

"Is there any hot chocolate?" asks the girl, still intent on living her dream. "Like, at the back?"

"Nah," he says, cracking open the money bit. "Can you identify your fifty pee?"

"It's alright," says the girl, realising the dream is over. "I'll take that one."

And so I am released back the auditorium for the second act.

The usher is now wearing her air raid helmet, standing to attention by the wall and looking hella cute with it.

I snuggle back into my jacket, looking slightly less cute, but at least I'm warm.

The BBC gang are now on air. With spangly costumes and off-colour jokes flying all over the place. But the script hasn't been signed off and the only thing that will keep the plug from being pulled is a heartfelt speech aimed at the audience across the pond.

With the assurance that this speech as very definitely got the Americans on side and in the war, we are sent out into the night.

Pulling my jacket close around me I run across the road, through the car park, back into the station, and onto the platform... where I have to wait a full half-hour for a train. I huddle in the waiting room, close to a radiator that isn't even trying.

I get back to Hammersmith past midnight. And immediately make myself a hot chocolate.

I hope that girl got one too.

Playing the Fairfield

Four o'clock and I get a notification on my phone.

An email.

"Dear Valued Customer," it starts. My heart sinks. Being valued as a customer is never a good sign. "We regret to inform you that, due to an unexpected emergency, the theatre company have had to cancel the event 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' for this evening."

Blah blah blah. "Apologies." Blah blah blah. "Refund." Blah blah blah. "Don't hesitate to call."

This is so not what I need right now.

It's taken me nine months to find a theatre show in the Elliot Hall of Harrow Arts Centre. Nine months. And they don't have any other ones listed on their website. That's... a big problem. A big big problem.

A problem so big I can't even think about it right now.

I have to deal with the smaller issue right now. Smaller, but more urgent.

Which is, what the hell am I going to do with myself tonight?

I could give myself the evening off. Go back to Hammersmith. Wash my hair. Get myself some quality cat cuddles. But did I just mention that we're nine months into this marathon? Yeah. Now, I don't know what your maths skills are. But I, having a friggin' GCSE in it, so I can tell you that there are only three months left of this challenge. And I still have around 70 theatres to get to. I can't afford to be spending my Wednesday nights on self-care.

With an outpouring of more swearwords than my poor coworkers should ever have to listen to, I bring up my spreadsheet and start rearranging. Moving Saturday's theatre trip to Friday, I free up Saturday for a theatre I wasn't meant to hit until November. Which means, if I've worked this all out right, if I go to Sunday tonight, I can actually give myself a day off. A real one. During the weekend.

Whoa. It's been a while since I had one of those.

Right. Looks like I'm going to Fairfields Halls tonight. I better get that booked in.

I go onto their website, find the show, curse at the popup, scroll around desperatly trying to find the book button, select my ticket (front row for fifteen quid? Yes please) and then go to check out, get rid of another popup (pre-show dining? Fuck offfff).

I'm feeling more than a little pleased with myself, right up until the website decides to give me the spinning circle of death as I attempt to lookup my address.

I leave it a few minutes. Get on with some work. And then go back.

It's still spinning.

Huh.

Okay then. Close the window and start again.

Select ticket (front row, fifteen quid), put it in my basket, type in address... nope. It's not having it.

I scroll down the page and click the Continue button.

Right, now it's looking for an address.

I select it.

And then there's nothing to click.

It's just me, staring at a broken website, asking it to sell me a ticket.

I think I now know why they still have fifteen quid, front row seats, available less than four hours before curtain up.

I can't give up though. There's a free Sunday at stake here.

I try again.

Nope. Not happening.

Fuck's sake.

Two-hundred-and-thirty theatres in and I think I can safely say I've found the absolute worst theatre website.

Okay. Don't panic.

Worst comes to worst, I can call them. Box office people are lovely. That is totally a thing I can do.

If it were not for my crippling social anxiety.

I try again. But this time I'm sneaky. I make an account first, then double back to pick up the contents of my basket. Ha! It works. Success. You won't get one over me, you stupid website. I'm going to see your show and you can't stop me.

Two hours later, and I'm off to Croydon.

At least I know where I'm going now.

And, now that trams aren't a surprise to me anymore, I'm not even a little bit scared of them.

Well, maybe a little bit.

Okay, I pelt it across the road even when there isn't a mechanical monster in sight.

But I'm here now. At Fairfield Halls.

It's a lot bigger than I expected, looming over the road. Towering over building works.

Long windows running along the front give the place the air of a car showroom. We are on Park Lane after all. Just, you know, the other one.

I find myself in a narrow lobby. There's more doors up ahead, through which I can see the main foyer. All high ceilings and bright lights. There's a queue going on through there, for what looks like the press desk.

That's not me.

Over on the other side there's a reception desk. That looks more my speed. I head over.

A man stops me.

"Are you here for the Ashcroft?" he asks, and I wonder if that's the new Bentley model.

"Yes?" I reply, having absoletly no idea what he's talking about but feeling that is probably the right answer all the same.

"You can pick up your tickets just through there," he says, pointing through the next set of doors to the press desk.

I mean... okay.

I thank him and make my way over to the doors.

"Are you here for the play?" asks the woman standing on duty there.

I am.

"Can I see your ticket?" she asks.

"I'm collecting." Or at least, I'm trying to.

"Are you a guest?"

Honestly, people like to talk about gatekeeping in the arts, but I never knew they meant it so literally.

"Ah, well, you'll need to go over there," she says, pointing back the way I had come. To the reception.

"That's the box office?" I ask, just to double-check.

Yup. That's the box office.

Right then. Back I go. To the fucking reception desk.

Honestly, I'm about two seconds away from declaring Croydon part of Yorkshire so I can get the hell out of here.

"You're picking up from over here?" asks the guy from before as he sees me coming back.

"Yeah, I'm not swish enough for the press desk," I tell him.

"Ah! Well, you never know," he says, sounding embarrassed. "You can never be sure."

"Hi," I say to one of the ladies on reception, trying very hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "The surname's Smiles?"

She looks at me blankely.

"I'm collecting a ticket?" I press on, really not wanting to be sent somewhere else again.

"Is it a guest ticket?" she asks, sounding confused.

No, it's not a fucking guest ticket. Oh my gawwwd…

"No," I say, doing my best to keep the growing annoyance from my voice. "I bought it. With money."

"Excellent!" she says. "Do you have your confirmation email?”

I almost laugh. I'm literally the only person in this building who is a legitimate paying customer, and yet I still need to dredge out the confirmation email. I bring it up on my phone and hand it to her.

"Can you fetch it?" she asks the other lady on the desk.

I watch as the other box officer goes through the doors... and towards the press desk.

I am not a violent person, but seriously, I am about to slap everyone within a twenty-metre radius soon if... holy shit. I recognise that person. Over there. By the press desk. Picking up their tickets. Someone who used to work at my work. I now works here. At Fairfied.

As soon as I get my ticket, I rush over.

"I spied you!" I say as our eyes meet.

I shouldn't be so surprised to see her. But somehow it's always weird bumping into old coworkers.

We stand around, getting in everyone's way as I give all the gossip from the office.

"Are you here for your blog?" she asks.

Ummm.

"Yeah," I admit. "I wasn't supposed to be, but the show I was supposed to be seeing was cancelled and..." Yeah, I did it. I vented. All about the gawd-awful website.

"Oh dear," she says sympathetically. "Do you want to get a drink?"

I don't, but I keep her company as she gets one and waits for her friend to arrive and tells me all about the refurbishment.

And then it's time to go in.

Two ushers stand by the doors to the theatre wearing matching green polo necks. They smile at everyone passing through. It's opening night and everyone looks super excited about it.

I slip through and go up to the programme seller.

"Do you have change for ten pounds?" I ask.

"I'll have to give you coins though," he said, bringing out a plastic bag stuffed full of pound coins.

"That's fine," I say, trying not to show my excitement.

I'm not going to go on again about how much I love pound coins, but, you know I love pound coins.

The programme he hands me is massive. Almost as big as the ones at BIG.

Oversized programmes must be a thing at show-adaptations that no one asked for, because tonight we're seeing Angela's Ashes. The musical. Which, I don't mind admitting to you, I'm a little concerned about.

But I've got my programme, there's no turning back now. Not after everything I've been through to get here. Oh wait, wrong door. I turn back and hurry further down the corridor until I find door two. There we go. I'm in.

Front row here I come.

Except, it's not quite the front row. There are two rows ahead, but there's no one sitting in them, so they don't count.

The auditorium is large. The stage big. But it's not nearly as shiny and grand as the foyer spaces.

There's a sort of dinginess and worn-in feeling which I think is better suited to a theatre than glossy newness.

There's an announcement welcoming us all to the performance. "Please identify your nearest exit," it advises us, which is not the most comforting thing to be told to do before a show.

The stage lights go up.

The cast starts to sing.

I don't know what the first song is called, but I'm willing to bet that it’s ‘Angela's Ashes.’

I'm wincing so hard I think I might dislocate something.

But it doesn't last long, because after the initial cringe-fest, it's actually rather good.

I'm enjoying myself.

Well, 'enjoying' is probably the wrong word to talk about a misery memoir, but you get what I mean.

In the interval, I head back out. The usher on the door grins. "See you in twenty minutes!" he says.

I find a convenient pillar to lean against and edit my Red Hedgehog blogpost. I am like, stupidly behind at the moment. Four show weekends are not my friend.

"Ice cream, madam?" asks the usher on the door as I go back in.

"No, thanks." It's not really an ice cream kind of show. It wouldn't feel appropriate to be digging into a mint choc chip while there are babies howling for a bottle of milk.

But it's okay. I know our Frank is going to make it out okay. After all, he wrote the memoir. And the sequel (which is excellent by the way, although I'd bet you already know that because literally everyone in the world has read it).

But then we have to end with that Angela's Ashes song, so, when it time came for the standing ovation, I could not participate.

As I leave, everyone peels off to one side.

Looks like there's some sort of afterparty going on.

I leave them too it and head out into the tram-filled streets, thanking the theatre gods that that's me done with Croydon for the year.

Ghost Conversion

If ever there was a time for Leicester Square to just... not, you'd think it would be a Monday night at the arse end of summer. It's damp. It's dark. And yet, here we all are. Wandering around looking bleakly at the street performers and trying to convince ourselves that being robbed by primary coloured monsters in the M&M store counts as a good night out. Well, not me. Obviously. And not you, either. I'm talking about them. The tourists. But, you know, as our era of globalisation comes to a close, I'm feeling very inclusive. Because, after all, aren't we all travellers in this journey we call life? I mean, whatever. I'm outside the Prince of Wales theatre, and it looks like the TKTS desk has been doing a roaring Book of Mormon trade this morning because the HOUSE FULL sign is out front and the queue is stretching all the way down Oxendon Street. There's even a couple of people lining up for returns, which is sweet. Thankfully I don't have to join them. I've got my ticket all sorted.

I follow the queue down the pavement until I reach the end, where there is a black-coated front of houser on duty.

“Collecting?” she asks.

I confirm that I am indeed collecting.

“Lovely,” she says. “On the left.”

I join the line she’s pointing at, and begin the long shuffle forward. The queue over on the right peels away into a side door for people who already have their tickets on hand.

Me, I drudge my way around the corner and towards the front door.

Ushers monitor us from beneath the shadow of their huge black umbrellas.

“If you already have your tickets, head on inside!” they call. “If you’re collecting, join the end of this queue.”

“I need to collect my tickets…?” someone asks.

“Yup, join this queue on the left please.”

There’s a musician in front of me. At least, I’m guessing that’s the reason he’s holding a trumpet case.

The security guard on the door looks at it.

“What’s in there?” she asks as he holds it up.

He tells her.

“Nothing else?”

Nope. Nothing else.

She waves him past.

She’s clearly never been a fan of old mobster movies.

My turn. I open my bag for her and she pokes around, stirring up my scarf with her finger. I too get waved in.

“How many?” the man on the door asks me.

“One,” I tell him.

Yup. All on my lonesome on a Monday night.

“This way,” he says, moving the barrier to let me through.

Well now… I could get used to this. Preferential treatment for the loners. I like it.

Now in the foyer, I go over to the counter and find a free box officer. “Smiles?” I tell him. “S. M. I-“

“What was that?”

It is rather loud in here with three box officers all trying to get tickets out at the same time.

“Smiles?” I try again. “S. M. I. L. E. S.”

He nods. He’s got it this time.

A short riffle through the ticket box later and he’s got it.

I don’t even have time to tear off the receipt bit before I need to hand it over to the ticket checker. I’ll give the Prince of Wales this, they see a full house and they throw the entire staff rota at it. I haven’t managed a single step yet without being within bleeting distance of a front of houser.

“You’re going through door D for Delta,” says the ticket checker, unfolding the ream and looking it over. “All the way upstairs.”

That’s good. I need the exercise.

I follow his directions, aiming myself for the staircase.

The walls are covered with shiny silver paper. The carpet is burnt umber.

One floor up and I’m in a bar. Is it a bar? No. There’s no one selling drinks.

Just tables and chairs and banquettes. Sitting for the sake of sitting. With no one trying to get money out of you.

Now this is luxury.

I consider taking one of the seats next to the window. It looks like there’s a pretty impressive view down Coventry Street. But my investigation must continue.

I keep climbing.

And find a programme seller.

That’s good. I was worried I'd walk out of here with cash still in my wallet.

“Do you have change for a tenner?” I ask her.

“I do!” She sounds genuinely excited about this. “Let’s do a swap,” she says as I offer her my note.

I take the fiver and fifty pee from her hands. They wobble dangerously on my palm as I grapple with the ten-pound note.

“Ooo!” she says as I nearly lose the coin to the umber carpet.

“Don’t worry. I got it,” I tell her, recovering, and we manage to finish the exchange without loss of change.

I follow the signs for door D, up past more metallic wallpaper, through another seating area, past old show posters from the thirties, and here I am. Right at the top.

I emerge into the auditorium at the back of the circle.

It’s a dramatic space, with a huge stage and the seating drawn out in long lines. No horseshoe shaping or slip action going on here. Apart from a few boxes we are all going to be sitting front on.

“Row K?” says the usher on the door as he looks at my ticket. “Just over here,” he says, leading me to my row and waving me into it.

The seats are nice. Comfy. No armrests though, as I soon realise when the young man sitting next to me sticks his elbow right into my ribs.

I fear I may have similar troubles on the other side as the girl sat there wrestles her way out of a glossy leather jacket. But once her escape has been secured, and the jacket carefully arranged over her lap, her elbows are tucked in closely, only moving when a box of Maltesers is passed over from a friend. Which I’m sure we can forgive. I would never deny someone a Malteser.

The lights dim, and the tiny statuette topping the extravagantly decorated proscenium arch twists and turns, playing a trumpet.

That’s cool.

The rest of the audience clearly thinks so too. Even after all these years, Book of Mormon still manages to elicit a “Wooo!” of excitement as it kicks off.

Across the way, down by the boxes, I spot someone dressed in a smart white shirt and black tie. He may even have been wearing a name badge.

Is that an elder?

As the curtain rises, and the Latter Day Saints get their hellos on, I keep an eye on him.

If the Price of Wales theatre is getting their ushers dressed to theme then I am so here for it.

But when the latecomers are led in, I can see full well that the ushers are not wearing white shirts and black ties. They are wearing striped shirts and no ties. More prison chain-gang then clean-cut missionaries.

When I look back, the white shirt is gone.

Perhaps he was my first sighting of a theatre ghost.

A Mormon theatre ghost.

I sure hope so. You never hear about Mormon ghosts. It sure feels like the Catholics have a monopoly on the supernatural, and frankly, it’s 2019 and we all need to move on and update the ectoplasm.

I don’t get much of a chance to think about this, because Book of Mormon is packed full of absolute bangers and I can’t concentrate on anything as measly as potential theatre ghosts. It’d take a confirmed sighting to get me out of this seat.

No surprises there though. The Latter Day Saints know how to party. Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've been to a totally sober ceilidh in the back room of a temple with a bunch of eighteen-year-old Mormons. Seriously. It's quite the experience.

And before you get all weirded out, I was also eighteen at the time. And I was totally in love with the sweetest Mormon boy ever. He was... so tall. And had all these stories about his mission in Africa. None of them involved frogs though. I just want to clarify that.

Funnily enough, it didn't go anywhere. He's married now. Lives in Utah.

Anyway, where was I? 

Shit. Yes. The Prince of Wales theatre.

It's the interval now.

We mostly stay in our seats. Presumably, all dreaming about the Mormon boys we used to know.

The elbowy dude next to me goes to get an icecream and makes full use of his angles when he returns to eat it.

Feeling a bit bruised, both emotionally and in the more literal sense, we make it to act two.

This show opened eight years ago. Which makes me feel hella old because I got myself into the final dress rehearsal for this production. Anyway, it's interesting to see how long-running shows keep themselves relevant. There's usually a dance move lifted straight from a TikTok video so everyone can pretend they're down with the kids, and yup - there it is. Dabbing. Literally the only place you see that move anymore is in West End theatres. Kinda adorable.

The No Deal Brexit joke gets a roar of laughter, but whether it's from approval or sheer terror, I can't tell.

A fullsome round of applause later, it's time to leave.

"No Deal Brexit!" says someone to his friend as we make our way back down the silver stairs. "He called her No Deal Brexit? Did you catch that?"

"He called her lots of silly things.”

"Yeah, but No Deal Brexit!"

"That was funny."

"It was funny."

It was funny.

And now I get to go home and sup on some sweet sweet caffeine, sure in the knowledge that no Scary Mormon Hell dreams await me tonight.

Wish: Granted

Thank the theatre gods for BIG The Musical. 

I was beginning to get a bit worried here. 

The Dominion Theatre has been dark for a very long time. Since the first week of January. I’d meant to get myself to Bat out of Hell before it closed, but as the final performances loomed the prices shot up and there was no way I was paying 80 quid to see… whatever that musical was.  

The months rolled on. 

I’d walk past the shuttered venue, peering into the glooming looking foyer every time I walked down Tottenham Court Road, until I began to regret my cheapness. 

Eighty pounds wasn’t that bad. Not when the fate of an entire marathon rested on it. 

Prince of Egypt announced it wood be moving in. But not until 2020. 

I don’t mind admitting that I was getting a bit panicky. 

But then, blessed relief. BIG The Musical was coming to London for a limited season. I held out. Not buying a ticket. Cheapness gnawing at my heart once again. 

I needn’t have worried. TodayTix had my back. A 24-hour ticket offer. Fifteen quid to sit in the stalls. Not bad at all. 

So, yes, thank the theatre gods for BIG The Musical. But all hail TodayTix and their ticket offers. 

This is my first visit to the Dominion. Not only did I miss Batty, I also missed every other previous show. And by missed, I mean: actively avoided.  

So, it’ll be nice to get a good look at the place. 

As I approach the entrance, a bag checker mimes opening a bag and I take the hint. He doesn’t find anything of interest inside, so I’m allowed through. 

The foyer of the Dominion is huge. Double height. With a staircase either side leading over to a balcony overlooking the massive space below. It’s all red and cream and brass and really looks like that hotel in American Horror Story. I look up, fully expecting to see Lady Gaga selecting her victims from the cattle below. 

No such luck. 

In the centre of the lobby there are two podiums staffed by programme sellers. Or perhaps the more accurate description would be lecterns, so tall there’s a built in box at the back of the for the programme sellers to stand on. 

I still need to get my tickets, so I pass them and follow the sign to the box office. 

“Collecting?” asks a man in a suit who seems to be in charge of the queue. 

I tell him I am. 

“There’s a window free just past those people there,” he says, pointing the way, past the main box office, and into a tiny dark corridor with box office windows all down one wall. I’m not sure on the capacity of this place, but it’s built for scale, that’s for sure. 

I find the next free window, and give the box officer behind it my surname. 

“Do you have a confirmation email?” he asks. 

I mean, I do. But it’s from TodayTix, so there ain’t no reference numbers or anything. I bring it up all the same and hold it up to the glass for him to see. 

He squints at it. 

I wonder if I’m showing him the right bit. I have a look and scroll down to see if there’s more pertinent information going at the bottom of the email. 

“No, that’s fine,” he says. “I’ve got it.” 

And off he disappears to recover my ticket. 

Ticket in hand, it’s time to get me a programme. 

I go back to the lecterns. 

And stop. 

Because I have just spotted the price. 

Ten pounds. 

Ten actual British pounds. 

I know I shouldn’t be surprised by now. I’ve been lobbed with higher bills before. But still. Ten pounds. That’s a lot of money for a programme. 

“Do you take cards?” I ask one of the programme sellers, because of course your girl has not got a tenner on her. 

“Yes, but over at the other desk,” she says, pointing over to the other lectern. 

Okay then. 

I go over to the other side and get myself a programme, paying ten (ten!) pounds for it. 

There isn’t much else of interest going on out here, so I head back, down the steps, towards the stalls. 

There’s a merch shop down here. An actual, proper, shop. Not a desk tucked away in some corner. It’s full of BIG-branded stuff. T-shirts and sweatshirts and teddy bears and lanyards and mugs that might rival Sports Direct in their proportions. But I don’t pay attention to any of that, because I’ve just spotted something far more interesting. Over there. On the far side. It’s a Zoltar machine. And by the looks of it, it’s not just there for decoration.  

I go over. The sign stuck on the front says it’s two pounds for a go. Well, I just spent a tenner on a programme, I’m not about to wimp out on two quid on this. 

I get out my purse, find the coins, and then stare at the machine. Not sure how I’m meant to do this. I put them on the little slot and try to shove it in, but the slot ain’t having it. 

“Oh my god, someone’s having a go!” a young man standing nearby exclaims. 

“Trying to!” I exclaim right back. 

A woman comes over to have a look. “Here, I think they go in those slots,” she says. 

She’s right. They do go in those slots. 

A second later, Zoltar starts waving his hand and chattering on about it being better not to reveal too much and other mystic sayings. The pair of us stand there, watching him, until a full minute or so later, a fortune pops out. 

I have a look. 

Apparently, my lucky month is August, which is just great now that it’s September. Got a long way to go before my luck comes in. Hopefully I can hold out until then. 

Shoving the fortune into my pocket, I make for the entrance to the auditorium. 

“XX?” says the ticket checker. “Down this aisle and you’re on the left.” 

Turns out, row XX is really far back. The Dominion is one hell of a big theatre. I almost consider using those binoculars stuck to the bottom of the seat in order to see the stage. 

The rake isn’t great, with nothing but the most gentle slope happening between the rows, but the seats are at least offset, and I find myself with a great little view in between the heads of the people in front. 

My neighbour isn’t quite so content. 

Leaving her partner behind, she chivvies me out of the way to go and sit in one of the empty seats further into the row. 

A plan soon thwarted by the row in front starting to fill up. 

She moves further in. 

But the people sitting in front have the same idea, and a game of musical chairs starts up between them, as they all try and get an unobstructed view. 

The house lights buzz and flicker dramatically, and then go out. 

The show begins. 

These people clearly spent a lot of money here. The set is huge, with screens and multi-storey buildings and set changes between every song. 

A big set for a big theatre. Pity there isn’t the audience to match. 

Even with the £15 offer, it’s looking a bit thin back here. And judging from the very localised applause patterns, I’d say a good chunk sitting over on the far side work for the show. 

This is my cue to say something like: no matter, I’m having a good time. But the truth is: I’m not. I do like the film. It’s a great story. What it doesn’t need though, is songs. And they aren’t even very good songs. Not a banger in the mix. And seemingly written with the premise that everyone on stage needs to have a go. 

When that scene comes around, the one with the piano, the one that has made it into the show artwork, it is done via projection. And the notes that emerge have no relation to the movements of the performers. The big whoop from the contingent on the far side is taken up by the rest of the audience, but the enthusiasm isn’t there. It’s hard to get excited about a faked-up set piece. Half the joy of live theatre is the potential to go wrong. Knowing that the keys would light up, and the notes play, even if both key-hoppers sat down and shared a sandwich half-way through, doesn’t do much to get the old heart racing. 

Interval time. 

I get out my programme to see what ten pounds has bought me. 

Not a lot. 

I mean, sure, it’s massive. But content wise, there’s nothing there. Biogs. Production shots. That's it. Not even an article to read. 

For that price, I’d at least expect some fan service, like what Only Fools and Horses managed to do in there’s. But the closest this one has is asking the cast what their Zoltar wish would be. Not particularly inciteful, and honestly, best suited to a blog post. 

As people return from the interval, there’s a lot of seat hopping as everyone tries to upgrade themselves. 

I spot the separated couple six or seven rows ahead of me, now reunited. 

And I find myself in the happy position of having no one sitting in front of me.  

Sadly, it doesn’t do much for the show. 

But plod on we do, and the end eventually rolls around. 

During the curtain call, I lone woman stands. She waves at the cast. I think she must know one of them. 

But as we are launched into a truly unnecessary finale, more people stagger to their feet. Some to leave, others to ovate. 

I hold out until the cast members wave us goodbye, disappearing behind the rotating set. But as the band strikes up once more, I cannot stick it any longer. And make my escape. 

S.O.S.

I seem to be spending a lot of time in the West End at the moment. Mostly because all the super-fringey theatres haven’t got anything happening over the summer months, but also because there just aren’t enough tourists around to fill up all those long-running shows and there are offers going all over the place. 

As I make my way down the Strand, I spot a large queue outside Waitress, aiming itself at a tiny podium with the TodayTix logo on it. Now, I love me a bargain on TodayTix, I really do. This blog is testament to that. But when a theatre needs a whole queue just to accommodate buyers coming through a single, solitary, app, you do have to wonder if they overshot on the pricing. 

Oh well. No time to worry about that. 

I’m back in the Aldwych tonight, which I’ve come to think of the road that houses all the shows that I would never, ever, visit outside of the marathon.  

We’ve already had the Tina: The Tina Turner Musical chat. 

Now it’s the turn of its neighbour, the Novello. 

Yup, I’m off to Mamma Mia. 

May the theatre gods preserve us all. 

“Yeah, sorry, there’s loads of people taking photos of some theatre,” says a young woman, striding past on her mobile. 

I lower my phone. 

Yeah, she got me. 

But I’m not the only one. 

I seem to have found myself within a small gathering of amateur photographers, all aiming our phone cameras upwards at the Novello façade. 

It’s a nice façade. Paned glass and lots of swaged foliage carved into the stonework. The window-frames are lit up with a pale-blue glow that would be more fit for Frozen when that opens next year. It all looks very glamorous, somewhat at odds with the show that lives inside. 

“Here, stand here,” orders a woman to her two daughters. “Let me get a picture of you to post on Facebook.” The pair of them make matching expressions of disgust. “Don’t worry,” she assures them, “I’ll edit it first.” 

This appeases them enough to stand and pose in the small island in the middle of Catherine Street, as lines of black cabs rattle by on either side. 

I dart in between them, past the sisters who are still in model-mode, and over to the opposite pavement. 

There’s a large queue stretching out of the curved doors and working it’s way back down the pavement, sealed off by a Mamma Mia branded barrier. 

I join the end of the line. 

It moves fast enough. There’s two bag checkers and they are peering at our stuff as if we were all on the conveyor belt of The Price is Right, and coming up behind us is the cuddly toy. 

Inside the foyer is a mass of movement as people try to figure out where they’re going. 

There’s the merch desk on one side. A concessions stand on the other. And something else a bit further back, which I can’t quite make out but has one hell of a queue. 

“Box office?” I ask the young woman on the door as I gaze in horror at this heaving crowd. 

“Are you buying or collecting?” 

“Collecting.” 

“Just here,” she says, pointing to the big queue at the back. I inch myself through. There seems to be two counters, set behind windows in the wall. My favourite kind of West End box office, but all these people are setting off my anxiety, and I can’t tell where the queue even ends. It try to follow it back but somewhere along the way it appears to have looped back on itself. 

“Who’s waiting?” comes a voice from the middle of the crowd. It’s a front of houser, and she’s doing her best to impose some form of crowd control, but there’s nowhere for them to go. 

No one answers her. They’re all too busy shoving in opposite directions. 

I squeeze myself towards her. 

“Just here,” she says, pointing to one of the windows. And just like that, I’m giving my name to the box officer, and skipping the entire line. 

“Maxine?” says the box officer, checking the ticket. “That’s one in the balcony.” 

It’s a nice ticket. Got the show artwork on it and everything, which is something I appreciate. Love a bespoke ticket. 

That done, I double back for the merch desk and ask for a programme. 

“Would you like a small one for 4.50?” she asks, indicating the display on the counter. “Or both for ten pounds.” 

Did I hear that right? A small one and a big one for ten pounds? I’ve always disapproved of this trend of selling souvenir brochures on top of the programmes. Yes, you can justify them as appealing to different audiences – those that want to read about the cast, and those that want big shiny production photos. But let’s be real here. Theatres want to empty your wallet, and will use any trick they’ve got to pour your coins into their till. But both for a tenner sounds like a fucking good deal. Those brochures can go for fifteen quid on their own. 

Not that I want a brochure. I’m an old school programme gurl. I like my cast list, and my creative biographies. I like articles. And words. And yes, the odd pretty picture. But not enough to spend an extra fiver and change. 

I settle for a small one. 

That done, it’s time to go upstairs. 

A not unfancy staircase, which makes a change from the usual route to the cheap seats. There’s carpet. And portraits. And even a bar. 

A nice bar! 

It’s large. With seating, and windows overlooking both the Aldwych and Catherine Street. The very windows I had admired from down on the pavement. 

I’m a bit early so I plonk myself down at a window seat, a not unpleasant place to sit after the crush downstairs. 

Two bar staffers serve the few audience members who have made it up here, taking care to explain everything with gentleness and patience to the touristy clientele. 

“The programme is this one,” says one, pulling a copy of the shelf to show woman at the bar. “We don’t have the brochure here, but if you’d like it I can give you a receipt and they have the brochures inside. So they can give you one. The small one has the cast. The brochure is the bigger one, and has the pictures in it.” 

“Yes, pictures…” 

“You’ll want the brochure then.” 

“Okay...” 

“Separately the big one is eight, but you can get them together for ten pounds.” 

“And I have to go inside?” 

“You can buy them both here. I’ll give you a receipt and you can just show it to them, and they’ll give you a brochure.” 

I use the opportunity to look at my own programme. 

There’s a cast change slip already placed inside. Looks like we’ve got a few people out tonight, not that it makes much difference to me. I couldn’t tell you who anyone was in this show. 

Apart from the biogs, and an interview with Judy Craymer (who apparently is the creator, but isn’t credited anywhere else in this thing), it’s pretty much the same programme I’ve bought at every Delfont Mackintosh theatre this year. I put it away in my bag and look around. 

There’s a rather handsome wallpaper lining the walls, with golden Ws resting amongst equally golden laurel leaves. 

That’s strange. I wonder if they had a couple of rolls left over from the Wyndham’s refurb… 

I should probably go to my seat. 

Up some more stairs, and there’s a ticket checker up here. 

“Lovely,” he says, far too enthusiastically when he notices that I’ve already torn away the receipt and address portions of the ream. Honestly, theatre-goers really need to start doing this. Save your ticket checker some papercuts. He folds over the stub and tears that off. “Straight up the stairs here,” he says, nodding towards the closed door behind his shoulder.  

And up I go. 

There’s another ticket checker on the door to the auditorium. This one looks rather flustered. She’s talking to an equally flustered-looking audience member. 

“You’ll need to go to the box office and speak to them,” says the ticket checker.  

“Downstairs?” 

“Yup, you’ll need to go all the way downstairs, and make your way up again before the start of the show…” 

“But should I go down...?” she asks, sounding a wee bit stressed. 

“Well, you’ll need to speak to them…” 

“Right.” And off the audience member goes. 

I offer the ticket checker my torn ticket and a sympathetic smile. 

“Front row,” she says, waving me in. 

As I make my way down the steep steps, I spot the stressed audience member. “Let’s go,” she says, touching her partner’s shoulder. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

“You need to be able to sit!” she insists. 

That’s true. You do need to be able to sit. 

Limited legroom has taken another victim tonight. 

That’s not so much of a problem for me. Yes, my knees are bashing against the boards in the front row, but they’ve suffered through worse over the past eight months. I’ll survive. 

I distract myself by looking around. 

It’s a shame I’ve never been in here before. It’s a nice auditorium. Very Edwardian in its excess. All marble and cherubs and even gargoyle faces, leering at us from their nests.

There’s even a chandelier that looks like a dropped trifle. It’s magnificently ugly.

And Ws. Again. Large ones. Set in golden wreaths. 

That’s strange. 

I get out my phone and search for the Novello’s Wikipedia page. 

Turns out this place used to be the Waldorf Theatre, which explains it, I guess. Thing is, it hasn’t been the Waldorf for over a century, and only had that name for four years anyway. You’d think they’d have updated the wallpaper already. 

The Novello name is because old Ivo had a flat here back in the day. A legacy that Cameron Mackintosh seems keen to continue as he’s having a penthouse set up somewhere in here. I do like the idea of living in a theatre. Not sure I’d pick this one though. While I appreciate a good ABBA singalong as much as the next person (as long as I’m not actually expected to singalong), I’m not sure I could cope with Supertrooper blasting out every night while I’m trying to eat my dinner.  

Over the tannoy, there’s a proper old Big Bong. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Please take your seats. This evening’s performance will begin in five minutes. 

“... three minutes. 

“... two minutes.” 

The house lights dim. There’s an announcement. Turn off your phones and whatnot. Plus a warning for those with a “nervous disposition,” that this show contains “platforms and white lyrca.” 

With that terrifying thought, we begin. 

Not that most of the audience seems to have noticed. 

Chats continue. 

Phones stay out. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been in an audience which gives less of a shit as to what is going on onstage. 

My neighbour jerks in her seat, getting out her phone, the need to check her messages too great to sit still. 

She leans over to her friend and whispers something. 

The friend grabs her bag and retrieves something. A tiny squeeze bottle. She hands it to my neighbour. 

My neighbour pours the contents into her hand. Finds her phone again. Switches it to selfie mode and then... proceeds to reinsert her contact, picking and proding at her eye, the phone on her lap.

I have never seen the like in a theatre, and in truth, I’m a little impressed. 

Exhausted by these antics, she spends the interval slumped down in her seat, curled up under her coat. 

Again, I’m impressed. 

These seats are narrow and highbacked, extending well above our heads. 

I now have a new appreciation for the Queen. Turns out thrones aren’t all that comfy. 

I stay where I am. I’m not all that convinced that on leaving this row, I’ll ever be able to get back in. 

The five-minute warning goes. Then three. Then two. Then one. 

We’re back. 

My neighbour hauls herself out of her slumber, but within a couple of songs her head is sinking gently down, nodding out of time with the music. By the wedding, we’re in real danger of her falling asleep on my shoulder. 

I will the cast to sing in double time and rap this story up. 

We make it. My shoulder free of sleep-induced slobber. Thank the theatre gods. 

The keyboard players in the pit wave at the cast, and the cast, in turn, reach down to shake the keyboard players' hands.

As we traipse down the stairs, I can hear Mamma Mia blaring, and I wonder if I’m missing an encore, but no. It’s coming from outside. A rickshaw, parked on the pavement, and with his soundsystem full blast.  

That’s one way to do marketing, I suppose. 

I really hope Mr Mackintosh likes listening to ABBA in bed... 

Close Every Door to Me

Oh good lord. What the fuck is going on here? What the actual fuck...?

There are people on the pavement. People in the road. People standing in the way of cars, and people who are going to get run over if they are not careful.

I've never seen any thing like this.

No, wait. That's not true. I have seen something like this.

Not outside of protests though.

It's like a friggin' anti-Trump rally out here.

What the hell is going on?

"This is the Royal Circle and boxes queue only," hollers a man walking down the line on the opposite pavement. "Stalls are one queue along, and Grand Circle is two along."

Oh. Okay. So apparently getting into the London Palladium now involves queueing down the street. Which is strange. Because I've been to the Palladium before, and I've never encountered scenes that look as if they've been lifted straight out of a textbook on hyperinflation.

I join the queue for the stalls. I have an e-ticket for some reason, and I'm not happy about it, but I'm not about to go trotting off to the box office when there's this going on. Ten minutes arguing for a paper ticket might see the queues stretching all the way down the street, across the road, and into the Liberty habadashery department.

I tell myself it's good practice for post-Brexit Britain.

We shuffle forward inch by inch, the woman behind me muttering with every step.

It hasn't escaped my notice, that my queue, the one for the stalls, is on the opposite side of the road to the theatre. It hasn't escaped the notice of the people standing in the queue, while also, at the same time, standing in the middle of the road. Nor the notice of the taxis, trying very hard to drive through said road.

"Stupid people thinking they can get through here," says the woman behind me. I don't know whether she's referring to the taxi drivers or the queuers here. Or possibly: both.

As it's our turn to cross no-man's land, a pretty girl in a multicoloured shaggy jacket runs out to pose in front of the theatre signage. You got to respect a gal who not only dresses to theme, but also puts her life on the line for a photo. Instagram models are the heros we have, but don't necessarily want.

I make it across the road without getting run over, thank the theatre gods. The woman behind me also makes it across unscathed. I'm unclear about the gods' motivation on that one, but I suppose they have their reasons.

"Have your bags ready. There's checks both in and out the door," booms the queue-controller as I reach the doors.

"Can I just...?" asks the bag checker. She pokes around inside a little, prodding at the top layer with a single finger. "My colleague will check your ticket."

I get waved through the door and I pull my phone out. E-ticket it is then. I pinch my fingers and zoom in, instantly losing the barcode. Technology is not my friend. "Where is it...!?" I mutter as I search around the pdf for the damn thing. The ticket checker laughs, then beeps me in as the barcode sneaks into view.

I wind myself down the cream-coloured corridors, past the surprisingly subdued merch desk and into the bar. It's a very fancy bar. There's a twisting staircase, lots of old posters on the walls, and a display case with a model of the Palladium inside, topped by showgirls.

And a queue. Another massive queue. Stretching from the doors to the auditorium, round the corner and all the way back.

A front of houser comes round, via a shortcut. "Entrance to the stalls this way," she says, beckoning us forward. I'm immediately rammed in the back as the person behind me rushes up the steps.

I let him go ahead. He must be gagging to sit down.

Eventually, I get to the doors. There are two sets, with a tiny lobby in the middle. Like those porch areas people tack onto the front of their semis. Somewhere to keep the pram and the bikes and wellies and whatnot. Except here they're keeping a bottleneck of audience members, trying to squeeze through too many ushers.

I show the nearest one my phone. "Standing?" I ask.

"Head to the left," she says, pointing left. "And stand behind the gold bar."

Well, alrighty then.

I head left, walking down the back of the stalls, past the tech desk, past an endlessly long row of seats until, yes, there it is, a short gold bar right at the end.

There are a few people standing already. I dump my bag down next to them, as close to the middle as I can get.

It's very high. Too high for my five foot three inches to lean on. I could just about rest my chin on it if I had a mind to.

And then I realise something. I haven't seen anyone selling programmes.

I look around at the people sitting in the stalls. Prime programme-buying audience members. But none of them have one.

I scan the room for an usher, but there aren't any in here. They're all in the bottleneck.

Oh well. That's what intervals are for, I guess. Gives me an excuse to check out the merch desk.

Looks like the girl sitting in front of me has already hit it up. She's wearing a Joseph t-shirt with technicoloured text all over it.

I never know how I feel about wearing show merch to the actual show.

It demonstrates dedication though, and I respect that.

Unlike the man sitting in the row ahead of her. He's wearing a Thriller Live t-shirt. I turn away. I can't even look at him.

There's an usher standing behind me. He's not holding any programmes. "Are you with the five?" he asks, indicating the group next to me.

I shake my head. So does my neighbour. We don't know these people.

"Would you mind moving over to the other side? There's supposed to be ten on each side be we have eleven over here."

My neighbour picks up his bag and goes off to the other side.

Turns out, his sacrifice is not enough, because the usher is back. "Are you on your own too?" he asks me.

I almost laugh at the thought of me managing to convince someone to come stand with me at a weekday matinee performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. I'm sure this musical has a hella lot of fans. I'm just not friends with any of them.

"Do you want me to go over?" I ask, maintaining my composure like the theatre-going pro I am.

"If you don't mind," says the usher, very apologetically. "You'll have more space."

Turns out, that was a lie. The standing area down at the other end is full. I walk all the way to the end, where the golden bar turns into a solid wood panel and ask the woman on the end to squidge up a bit.

She stares at me blankly.

"Sorry," I apologise. "I just got moved here from the other side. Can we all move down a bit?"

Her stare continues. I wonder if there is something wrong with her eyes. She's not blinking.

The usher comes over.

"Can we make room for the lady?" he says in the polite tones of a front of houser who ain't taking no shit today.

One bloke shifts over and a squeeze into the gap.

"Did you not pay the money?" says the guy on the other side, his hand buried in a pot of Pringles.

"Sorry?"

"I thought you didn't pay the fee."

"Sadly, I did buy my ticket," I tell him. "They just had too many people standing over the other side."

Satisfied, he goes back to eating his crisps.

As the lights dim, there's a big cheer from the audience. They're so excited the air is almost crackling. Oh, no. Wait. That's my neighbour finishing off his Pringles.

Nevermind.

Still, Sheridan Smith gets a round of applause all to herself when she comes out. I join in. I do like Sheridan Smith. She was everything in that Hedda Gabler at The Old Vic. And yes, I did need to pick out her one significant non-musical theatre role to mention here. Because I am a pretentious twat. We long ago established that.

And I have to respect that she's the one cast member all in black, standing proud amongst a cast dressed in colours so bright it's making my retinas bleed just to look at them.

I'll admit, Joseph isn't my favourite Lloyd Webber. It's too... just too. Too bright. Too twee. Too school-playish with all those kids wearing fake-beards. It doesn't work for me.

Plus all that thing about dreams... I only have sympathy for the brothers. I'd sell my little pipsqueak sibling too if he insisted on telling me his boring-arse dreams every morning.

I do like the song where he's in prison though. I can fully support Joseph having an abandonment crisis in a dark cell while wearing only a loincloth. That's my jam. Right there.

As soon as the interval hits, I race back through the bar, down the cream-coloured corridor, and towards the merch desk.

There isn't a queue, and the woman behind the counter gives me a big grin as I approach.

"Hello, love!" she say.

I ask if I can get a programme.

"Of course, you can, my love. Would you like a standard programme or a brochure?” She points at the two options on the counter. The brochure is very large. Twice the size of the standard programme, and no doubt, twice the price.

"Ooo," I say, pretending to be making a decision. “Standard please."

"That's five pounds."

I fish around in my bag for my purse, which no matter how I pack it, always manages to sink to the bottom. "Sorry," I say, as I realise I'm taking far too long. "So much stuff!"

"Here, shall I move this so you can out your bag down?" she says, shifting over the programmes so that there's a free space on the counter.

It helps. I find my purse, and pay the monies.

She laughs, suddenly noticing what i’m wearing now my bag isn't in the way. "I love your t-shirt!" she says.

It is a good t-shirt. And worthy of a giggle.

At first glance, you may think it's one of those ubiquitous Joy Division t-shirts. But, oh, you would be wrong. The unknown pleasures of the pulse waves are interrupted by... cats. Lots of cats. And it says "Meow Division" across the top, because of course it does.

I take my music very seriously.

I go back to the bar.

"Yes, she's a big star over here," says a woman, trying to explain who Smith is to her friend. "She's a big TV celebrity."

Sheridan Smith? A big TV celebrity? I mean... yeah, but like... didn't you see her at The Old Vic?

I get out my programme, just to check the facts. And huh... Smith's biog doesn't mention Hedda Gabler. I begin to wonder if I imagined her Ibsen-phase.

"Ladies and gentlemen will you please take your seats. The show will resume in five minutes."

I quell the desire to reply: "Thank you, five."

I go back to my standing place.

The unblinking woman hasn't returned. But crisp-man has. With a packet of popcorn.

An usher makes his way down the aisle carrying a big white plastic bag. He dips down so people can chuck their rubbish in, giving an half cursey at every row.

The band start up, playing a medley of the act one songs.

A huge chunk of the audience clap along.

The conductor turns around to grin at us. He's having fun.

Everyone is having fun.

Spontaneous applause breaks out at seemingly inconsequential parts of the plot. Laughter rolls over the stalls with every campy move of the cast. As Smith encourages us to clap along in one number, and everyone enthusiastically joins in, it occurs to me that this might now be a standard weekday matinee. The fan-presence is high, and the end of the run is nigh. I might have found myself at a muck-up matinee.

At the final notes, everyone gets to their feet to applaud.

I'm already on my feet, so I let them get on with it.

It's time for the megamix, and people sit down to enjoy this blast through all the bangers of the show.

The stander who came with me from the other side sticks his fingers in his mouth and let's out a blasting whistle. "Well done, kids!" he shouts as the smaller members of the cast come forward.

"Do you want some more?" shouts Smith over the roar of whoops and hollers.

The roar grows even louder. Turns out they do.

"Come on! Do. You. Want. Some. More?!" repeats Smith, pumping her arm to indicate that we should be louder.

Yes, Sheridan. I think these people want more.

"Your turn now," she says. "Come on. Do whatever you want."

A woman in the front row gets to her feet and starts dancing. "Yes!" shouts Smith, pointing at her. "Go girl!"

A few more people join in and Smith gives them approving comments too. Soon everyone is back up and dancing. Or at least clapping.

Lights flicker around the audience.

Streamers descend on the stalls.

Dancing. Clapping. Singing. Music.

And then it's over. The cast wave as they disappear off stage. The three leads, Smith and Jac Yarrow and Jason Donovan, hang back to fling there arms around each other. And then they're gone too.

I decide to take their lead and slip out when the band are still blasting our their finale.

My mad existence

I'm on my way to the next venue and I just saw a duck! Two of them! Waddling around next to the water, being all duck-like.

I didn't have any bread to give them, but they let me take a photo of them all the same and didn't seem to mind that I used went all baby-talk on them.

So, I'm happy now. For some reason, knowing intellectually that my theatre for the evening was in the middle of Regent's Park, didn't connect with the part of my brain that knows that ducks live in parks, and the whole duck thing totally surprised me.

In a good way.

I'm very happy.

I also just spotted a sign, stuck in a hedge, pointing the way to the Open Air Theatre, so on top of being duck-happy, I'm also not lost.

This trip literally cannot get any better.

I follow the signs, leading down paths and past flowerbeds and across roads, until I spot it. The theatre. Or at least, the entrance to the theatre. Kinda getting fairground vibes looking at it, if I'm being honest.

The box office is in a sort of wooden cabin-like structure on one side, with the entrance on the other, with the name lined up along the roof.

The grass is full of smug-looking people having smug-looking picnics and drinking smug-looking glasses of wine. Near me a woman throws her head back to laugh. Smugly.

Just need to take my photo of the outside then it's off to try and blag a paper ticket off the box office. There wasn't an option to get one from the website. I think I left it too late or something. I have a crumby e-ticket sitting in my inbox and I am not happy about it.

"Lot of people here?" says a bloke standing near me.

I glance up.

"Yeah? I guess. It's very popular."

I go back to my phone, bringing up the camera app.

"Are you Mediterranean?" he asks.

I'm so confused by this question, I look up again. "... no?"

"You look a bit Italian. Are you Italian?"

Now, I'm sure you will agree with me that I do not look Italian. I very much do not look Italian. Literally no one in the world has ever, up until this point, thought that I looked anything approaching Italian.

I've gone through my whole life being British-passing, and I'm not about to take this nonsense. "Not even slightly," I say, in my coldest, bitchiest, tones, that I only bring out on very special occasions.

Turns out, however, that this bloke is immune to my lack of charm. "No?"

"No. I'm Scottish."

I mean... I'm not Scottish. Okay, I'm slightly Scottish. My surname is Scottish. But there's a good hundred years between the last Scottish Smiles in my ancestry coming down to live in Liverpool or somewhere, and me being born. Usually, when people ask I'll say German, or Austrian, or something, but those answers are all way too Holocausty for a summer evening. And I don't like pulling out the Israeli-angle with weirdo-strangers who are way too intent on making conversation.

"The Scottish are very friendly people. Very friendly," he continues.

"Errr..."

Now, Scotland is fucking great. And Scottish people are even greaterer. I would totes vote for Nicola Sturgeon to be prime minister if that was ever an option. All hail the Scots. But like, I lived there for three years, and "friendly" would not be my go-to descriptor. Like... there were pubs I was actively told not to go to because my English-accent would be considered a "provocation."

"Very friendly."

"... sometimes?"

"Very friendly people."

Okay. Enough of this. Apologies to the Scottish people but I need to disabuse this man of your friendliness before he starts telling me his whole backsto-

"I'm from Iran."

Shit. Too late.

"Sorry," I say, putting away my phone. "I have to go in now."

And without another word, I scuttle over to the entrance and join the queue.

"Can I check your bag?" asks the bag checker.

Of course she can. I grab it and open it for her. Or at least, I try to open it for her. The damn zip is stick.

Shit. "Shit." Double shit. "Sorry."

She laughs. "Don't worry. As long as we can look inside."

I've made a tiny gap. I can see the soft black material of my scarf pocking through, caught in the metal. "It's my stupid scarf," I tell her, still trying to unjam the zip.

"Don't worry," she says again. "It happens all the time."

She peers through the inch-wide gap I've created and then feels her way down the outside, giving my bag a good massage.

With a wave of her hand, I'm sent over to the ticket checker.

With all the excitement, I'd forgotten to go to box office.

I look over my shoulder. I can't go back now. Not after making the bag checker go through all that. She'll think I'm a right old idiot.

I get my phone out, and allow my e-ticket to be beeped.

Dammit.

Still feeling mad at myself, I pass through the entrance, and stop.

Well. This sure is something, A bar sits beneath by an ivy covered canopy on one side. Lawns are littered with picnicing couples on the other.

And in the middle, a merch stand.

I join the queue.

It isn't much of a queue. There's only one lady in front of me. But she is making the most of it, asking questions about every single aspect of the theatre and the performance. Start times and entrances and intervals and... Ooof. I can't listen anymore.

I turn my attention to the stand.

I love theatre merch. But so much of it is crap.

I'll throw down a tenner on a programme if I have to, but see-through t-shirts and mugs emblazoned with some tedious quote from the show ain't getting my coin any time soon.

This stuff, well... someone at this theatre sat down and thought: What does a person watching a play out in the open air need? And then set about selling it to us.

Alongside the programmes, there are branded baseball caps and water bottles, and plastic ponchos. Standard. But then there's also recycled wool blankets for cold knees, and straw panamas to cover bald heads and cuddly hedgehogs to...

Wait, what?

"The Regent's Park Hedgehog," reads a sign, posted on the side of the cart as if to answer my exact question. Turns out the park has hedgehogs in it. Real ones. 40 of them. Which doesn't sound a lot.

I love hedgehogs. Everyone loves hedgehogs.

I really want a cuddly one.

Can I justify it?

"Can I get a programme please?" I ask the merch desker as the old lady finishes her ream of questions and moves on.

My eyes slide over to the hedgehogs.

They are so frickin' cute.

"Of course!" says the merch desker. "Five pounds please."

I pull my bag forward and suddenly remember the zip. Shit. "Sorry," I apologise as I struggle with it.

"Don't worry," she says.

I give the zip a good tug. It slides a half-inch. Ha. We're getting somewhere.

"Stupid scarf," I mutter as I fight the zip.

"No rush," she says sweetly. "It happens all the time. Especially after the bag checks. Is that cash or card?"

"Err, cash?" I say.

"Okay."

"Or card? If that's easier?"

"No, don't worry. I just thought I could set up the card machine."

With one more violent yank, I hear the sound of my scarf ripping, and the zip gives way.

I pull out my purse and hand her a fiver. "There," I say, triumphantly. "Exact change. My punishment for being annoying."

She laughs politely. "Thanks. I can always do with more fivers."

With one final glance towards the hedgehogs, I scuttle off with my programme to see how bad a hit my scarf took tonight.

There's a huge banked flowerbed running along the path, with a low bench around it.

I find an empty spot and examine the damage.

The scarf is still caught in the zipper. I try to wriggle it out, but it's no good. It's stuck right in there.

Gritting my teeth, I wrap the fabric around my hand and yank it free, wincing as it tears away.

Gawd dammit. This is why I cannot have nice things. It was a present too. Fuck's sake.

I stuff it down to the bottom of my bag, where it can't get into any mischief, and look around in the hopes of distracting myself from what I've done.

This place looks like a faerie bower after an all night rave.

Long streamers hang limply off tree branches, looking more than a little like this place was bog-roll-bombed by trick-or-treaters.

Dirty confetti is trodden into the ground.

I don't envy the cleanup crew at the end of the summer.

The group sitting next to me on the bench suddenly leap to their feet and rush over to the now-open doors.

I watch them go, wondering vaguely if I should be rushing too.

I decide to take a more leisurely approach, double-checking my e-ticket to make sure I'm using the right entrance.

“Enter by: Gangway 1,” it says. There's a huge number 1 stuck on the wall next to the doors right on the end. That must be it.

I go in.

Down on one side is a small patch of grass, and the runners are all crowding together trying to find the best spots. As close to the stage as possible.

I turn the other way, heading for the huge bank of seating. I start climbing, and climbing, and climbing. Right to the top. Because I'm cheap.

Not that it's a bad view from up here. The stage is massive. With a fuck-off huge letters at the back spelling out: EVITA. Behind them, I can just about make out the band.

Two ladies sitting in the row in front are taking a selfie. Or at least, they're trying to take a selfie.

"I can't get the sign in," says one.

As if driven to prove that I am, on occasion, a nice person, I offer to help.

They hand me the phone and I try to line up the shot, with the sign behind them, politely neglecting to mention that I am a terrible photographer.

"How shall we do this?" asks one.

"Shall we go down this way?" I say, moving down the row to a more central location. "If you could stand here..." I point to where I want them, and yes. That works. Two landscape. Two portrait. Boom. Done.

"Ooo, a professional..." says one as she takes the phone back.

She's clearly never seen my blog.

That done, she gets on with the really important matter at hand. Coating herself with bug spray.

Not something the merch desk has thought to sell. They should really consider it.

"Apologies," she says, turning around to explain herself to our row. "I just sprayed bug repellent."

Her friend laughs at her and she gets flustered.

"In case I smell!" she says, making her friend laugh even more. "I swell! I have to be hospitalised."

"Don't worry," I assure her. "We're all on your side."

A bell rings outside. Well, I say outside. It's all outside here.

Let's try that again.

Beyond the walls, a bell tolls, calling in the followers of musical theatre.

They pour in, heavy from their picnics, heaving themselves up the steps to their seats.

High above us, black coated figures snuggle down in covered crow's nests with their spotlights.

I shudder as a drop of rain lands on my cheek. I look up. The sky looks dangerously cloudy. I send up a quick prayer to the theatre gods that we won't have a downpour. They seem to listen. The rain stops.

The show starts, and you know, it's Evita. So it's all big and dramatic and...

There are smoke guns going off and I have to hold my breathe as the white curls pour over me, and then there's confetti blasting all over the place. And holy shit this is epic. You know a show's going to be good when they start it with the confetti shower. That's a hell of a promise to live up to and: Bang! Fuck yeah. There are streamers. I repeat: there are streamers. Flying through the air like gentle doves bringing messages of destruction.

And miracle of miracles, one is floating towards me, sailing on a breeze, sent by the theatre gods.

It drifts down, drapping itself over my shoulder and then my lap, like I've just been awarded the sash for Miss Open Air Theatre 2019.

Then it moves.

Sliding across my body.

I look up.

A woman in the row in front has the end in her hand and she's winding it around her arm, pulling it off me.

I consider grabbing the other end and tugging it away from her (it's my streamer, dammit!), but I'm too shocked to move. I watch as she crunches the paper streamer into a ball, and hands it to the man she's with, who crushes it in his big, fat, hands.

And then it's the interval.

He turns around in his seat, reaching over to grab his bag, he stuffs the crumbled streamer inside.

I hope it gets stuck in the zip.

Bastards.

The audience stumbles off to finish their bottles of wine, but my row doesn't seem up for moving. So we stay in our seats.

Down at the bottom I spot an usher picking up streamers off the path, and I look at them longingly.

I don't know why I love this crap as much as I do. It just makes my little hoarder heart so happy.

Or it would have done, anyway.

As the bell rings once more, people come back clutching rolled up blankets and hot drinks.

It's chilly now. I roll down the sleeves of my jacket and retrieve my scarf from the bottom of my bag.

My neighbour is trying to explain the history of Evita to his friend.

"Didn't she get murdered?" asks the friend.

"No..." He tells her what really happened.

"Oh," she says, sounding disappointed. "That's anticlimactic."

But as the second act canters on, I hear a sniff coming from my right. It's the friend. She is full out crying. Big, choking sobs.

The wind picks up, and spent confetti swirls around above our heads.

The crying girl makes a grab for a piece, but it is whisked away from her hand.

The cast get a standing ovation at the end. I don't join in. They were excellent, but you know how mean I am with my ovations. Five a year. That's the limit.

It takes a long time to get out. I cross my arms and shiver in my jacket as the lower rows file out, painfully slow.

The park is black when we do manage to escape. Signs are set out giving instructions on how to get out of here. I just follow everyone else. A long march on the way to Baker Street.

Ahead of me, I spot the streamer-stealer.

She laughs at something her partner says.

I have never hated anyone so much in my entire life.

I can only hope that she at least gives the streamer a good home.

I trudge on, feeling a weight of sadness pressing down on my shoulders.

I knew I should have bought a hedgehog.

In Cadogan Hall, programmes buy you

Did you know that Cadogan Hall was right around the corner from The Royal Court? I didn't know that Cadogan Hall was right around the corner from The Royal Court.

But there it is. Right around the corner from The Royal Court. All gleaming and shiny. It's tall white walls glowing in the evening sun.

It looks quite impressive. Like a medieval French monastery or something. It even has a tower on one end.

Not sure your average medieval monastery has queues to get in though.

Looks like I've booked myself in for quite the event.

I'm here to see a concert performance of Doctor Zhivago. Which is apparently a musical now.

It has Ramin Karimloo in it, who I hear is quite the thing, and has a wee bit of a following.

Which may go some way to explaining all the women queueing to get in.

I side-step them, and head towards the door with a Box Office sign over it.

I'm technically not meant to be here. I got an email from the TodayTix people saying I could go straight in. All I had to do was show the confirmation email with my seat number and that will get me through the door.

But you know me. I never turn down the opportunity to get hold of a paper ticket.

"Collect?" asks the security guy on the door.

"Err, yes...?"

He opens the door for me.

As I go through I can here him talking to the next person: "Collect?"

Inside there's some steps leading down, and there, at the bottom, is the box office.

"Hi!" calls one of the box officers from behind the counter. "Are you collecting."

I am.

"The surname's Smiles," I say at the same time as he asks: "What's the surname?"

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

He flicks through the ticket box put doesn't find anything.

I'm about to explain the whole TodayTix situation, but before I get the chance, he says: "Miles, was it?"

"No. Smiles. With an S."

He laughs. "Sorry. I thought you said Miles, and S was your initial."

Gawd forbid.

He goes back to the ticket box, and this times goes for the Ses.

"Maxine?"

"Yes! Thank you!" I say, acting way too happy for someone picking up a ticket.

Oh well, he probably thinks I'm a Ramin fan-girl. Better than being found out as a paper-ticket fan-girl.

The queue for the box office is now stretching back up the stairs towards the door. A front of houser comes out. "Can just one member of each party collect tickets, please!" he shouts above the hubbub. The hubbub ignores him. The queue continues.

I fight my way back out to the street, finding sanctuary against those white walls.

"We need step-free access!" says a woman to the security guy.

She paces back and forth with her cane, jabbing at the ground and muttering venomous words. "Nope. It isn't happening," she says, clacking her way back to the security guy,

"He's coming!" he insists. "He's just opening the door for you."

And sure enough, the door opens. And the woman with the cane is all smiles and simpering.

Time for me to go in too.

I head over to the main entrance. There's a queue. Not a large one. But it's very slow. Each bag check taking an absolute age.

When it's my turn I show the bag checker my ticket and he waves me in. I thought I had escaped, but no. He spots the backpack slung over my shoulder and he stops me. Turns out though, it was the Cadogan audiences that are to blame. And not our bag checker. Because he processes me within a few seconds, and I'm inside.

The monstary-vibes continue into the foyer, with stained glass windows overlapping in Celtic motifs.

Opposite the door, there's a rather less decorative desk with a sign on it.

"Programmes £15."

Fifteen British pounds.

Fifteen.

A standard five pound programme. Then another ten on top.

I pause. Staring at the sign.

I've paid a lot for programmes on this marathon of mine. I've even spent fifteen pounds. But what I haven't done, is pay more for the programme than my actual ticket. This is a frontier I'm not all that sure I want to cross.

I dither, trying to convince myself that I need to buy the programme so that I can review whether it is actually worth fifteen (fif-fucking-teen!) pounds, while the voice at the back of my head is screaming not to be such a fucking idiot.

I decide to compromise, and have a flick through of a copy. If it's a good programme, I'll buy one.

But there are none on display.

There's only a pile of what looks like flyers.

The programmes, it seems, are being kept under the counter. Like the dirty dirty magazines they are.

I pass and decide it's probably time to go find out where I'm sitting.

I follow the signs to the gallery, and show my ticket to the lady on the door. "Gallery," she says, looking at it. "Right to the top, madam."

I let the madam thing slide. I'm too busy looking at the stairs. They don't look all that scary. Until you see the sign informing you about the number of steps to each floor, as if TFL have stormed the building and taken over.

62 steps up to the Gallery. Is that a lot? I feel like that's a lot.

I know it's 75 steps up to the Pentonville Road exit in King's Cross when the escalator is broken, and that sure gets the heart pumping.

Oh well. Here we go.

I start climbing.

It's not so bad.

There's a lot of people making the ascent, so it's slow going. And there are pretty stained glass windows that make me pause on each level to take a photo of.

A few minutes later, I'm at the summit, showing my ticket to the usher, and only slightly out of breath.

"You're in Block N," she says, as if that's supposed to mean something to me. I stare at her blankly. She blinks back. May the theatre gods preserve us from nonsensical seating systems. "Round towards the double doors," she says, pointing towards the far end of the horseshoe-shaped gallery.

Right then. There we go. No need for all that block-bullshit.

I make my way around the back of the gallery.

I'll give Cadogan Hall this, it looks well impressive from up here.

Those tall white walls are doing the mostest. With thick padded curtains covering unseen windows.

One thing that had always confused me about this place is that, while it's mainly concerts and music things happening here, they do, on occasion, also programme dance. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how dance would fit on a stage built for music, but there it is. Not particularly wide, but with enough depth to allow the odd jete.

Overhanging the stage is a small balcony, that you just know even the most concert-like of concert performances, is going to want to use to dramatic effect at some point.

In the corner, there's another usher, and I show her my ticket.

"You're round by the double doors," she says, getting straight to the point. She pauses and makes an umming sound, looking over at the doors as if calculating the best route.

"So, round the back?" I ask,

"Yes," she says slowly. "Yes. Round the back."

"Lovely."

So round the back of all the benches I go. Right down to the final block, by the double doors. Block N as it turns out.

Each row as a sign stuck to it, with the block letter, row letter, and the range of seats. Making a pretty simple layout of rows vastly overcomplicated. This ain't the Royal Albert Hall here. We don't be needing blocks to find out which end of the horseshoe we're sitting in.

But anyway, the benches are like church pews. Long and wooden. Hardbacked. With a cushion that slips and slides as you try to sit down.

I'm a few rows back and it's a pretty restricted view from up here, but eh... the tickets were cheap and it's a concert. I'm not fussed about seeing anything.

The audience applauds as the orchestra come out and start tuning up. The percussionist takes a selfie of himself sitting at his drumkit and everyone looks super happy, grinning at each other.

The house lights dim. There's more applause as the cast come out.

There's an announcement. "Welcome to the UK concert premiere performance of Doctor Zhivago. Make sure to purchase your commemorative programme in the interval."

A commemorative programme? Wow. I've never had one of those before. I'm deffo going back to get me one of those in the interval. Price be damned.

I'm so weak.

They start. And it turns out that the programme hawker is actually the narrator for the evening, reading out the stage directions so the cast doesn't have to act them out.

I can't see Karimloo from where I'm seated, he's too close to the my side of the stage, but I can tell when he's about to sing because a woman in the front row grins every time he approaches his music stand, her entire face lighting up with joy until he finishes his song and returns to his seat.

It's beautiful.

My neighbour is sitting on the edge of her seat. Literally perching on the brink, so she can lean forward and get a good look at what's going on down there.

I don't bother. I figure whoever is sitting behind me has better reasons for being here that checking off a venue, so they deserve to see more than the back of my head.

No shame to my neighbour though.

A fan-girl's gotta do what a fan-girl's gotta do.

I can't tell you anything about the rest of the cast, but I am very much enjoying how much the guy playing Pasha looks like a certain famous Ukrainian (or is it Russian now?) ballet dancer.

As soon as the applause has died out and the house lights are up for the interval I am out of my seat, rushing around the back of the gallery, and diving down the stairs.

The queue for the loo slows things down, but I manage to squeeze my way through and back down into the bar.

There's a huge gathering around the programme table, everyone standing around, very much not buying programme s.

I creep my way in.

Someone picks up the final flyer and takes it away with them, leaving nothing but a plastic film behind.

"There are no programmes at all now," says the guy standing behind the desk.

"None?" someone asks, incredulous. "Are there any more...?" she points towards the plastic film.

"You'll have to find the information online," says the guy behind the desk. And that's it.

I want to tell him that most venues, when faced with a castshhet crisis, will go and photocopy some more, but something about his stance tells me the matter is closed and he has no interest in talking about it any further.

Which makes me wonder why on earth he is even bothering to stand behind the programme desk. Take the sign and go! Be free! Live your life, far away from the tyranny of paper-products!

He doesn't though. He stands stoic, amongst a flurry of disappointed programme buyers.

Well, there's nothing left for me down here.

Back up those 62 steps again fighting against the flow of people still coming the other way.

I make my way back to my seat and find my neighbour deep in conversation with the guy sitting next to her.

Turns out she flew in all the way from the states to see this. Or rather, to see Karimloo.

She saw him perform in New York, and he made quite the impression on her.

The guy asks if she's enjoying the performance, and she hesitates. "I wasn't expecting it to be quite so... experimental," she says.

Yeah, the reading of the stage directions doesn't really allow for losing yourself in the story.

But, you know, it's okay. I'm enjoying it. If one can actually enjoy Doctor Zhivago. I mean... it's fucking depressing. And everyone in it is dreadful. The only character I have any respect for is Pasha. At least he was loyal to his two great loves: Lara and communism.

As Karimloo appears on the balcony for the final tableau, there's a standing ovation. A full house standing ovation.

Well, almost full house.

I refuse to stand just because everyone else is. I try to limit my ovations to around five a year. And with four months to go... well, I don't want to be running through my stock too soon.

Karimloo gives a quick speech.

The audience gasps in amazement as he tells us the orchestra was only given the score yesterday.

The composer and lyricist and invited on stage and they speak too. There are hugs. Lots of them.

It's all very charming and appreciative.

It takes an absolute age to get out of here. The stairs so clogged it takes me a full three minutes just to leave the auditorium.

By the time I make it to Sloane Square tube, I'm exhausted. But the couple on the platform opposite are still living it. They play the cast recording on their phone, cuddling up on the cold bench.

Living in revolting times

It is incredibly hard to get a photo of the Cambridge Theatre.

I don't claim to be a great photographer. I'm very much a point-and-clicker when it comes to this kind of thing, so when I say it's difficult, I don't mean it's hard to get a good photo of the Cambridge Theatre, I mean it's hard to get any photo.

This is not an issue of light (although I wouldn't exactly call Seven Dials a sun-trap) or finding somewhere to get a good angle from. No, it's people.

Here I am, standing in the small cake-slice corner between Monmouth Street and Mercer Street, lining up a great shot, and people keep on getting in the bloody way. If it's not tourists attempting to squeeze themselves between me and the lampost, it's bikes riding up on the pavement. And when those people have cleared, it's the Instagram girls, posing in the middle of the street, while their friends risk their lives to crouch down with their DLRs to get the perfect shot of Insta-babe's outfit against the background of Matilda the Musical.

As I wait for the photo shoot to finish, someone rams their suitcase into the back of my legs.

I think we can make a good guess as to who chose looks and who chose books in this scenario. And looks are winning.

Time to go in.

The doors are flanked either side.

Experience has told me that one of them is a ticket checker and the other a bag checker. But which is which? I cannot tell. This is like that logical deduction riddle. If one man in a suit checks only tickets, and the other only bags, what one question do you ask to gain safe entry to the theatre?

"Box office?" I try with the one on the right.

"Yup," he replies. "Just through here, but I need to check your bag first."

Well, that worked, I guess.

I open up my backpack for him and he prods around at the top layer before waving me in.

The Cambridge is very thirties. All Poirot fonts and... well, that's it really.

The box office is on the left, hidden behind a glass window, with holes at face level. Put there, presumably, so the box officers can breathe. The counter is fronted by mirrors etched with a vaguely art decoish pattern.

There are three men standing behind the glass, but a big family has just come in and they are spreading themselves out.

The box officer on the end leans out to one side and beckons me over.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say as I approach the bench.

He grabs the box of tickets.

"Maxine?" he asks, picking one out. "Here you go," he says, sliding it under the glass without waiting for an answer. I must be the only Smiles in tonight. Makes a change.

My next stop is the merch desk. Which, very pleasingly, is actually a desk. Or rather, a row of desks. The old fashioned wooden ones where the lid lifts up, and there's a small hole to fit your ink well in. The type of desk that I had at my school, despite my education happening long after the advent of biros. I think they thought it added to the aesthetic. Theyust have left them there to impress the parents. All those foreign dignitaries who wanted a classic English prep school education for their little darlings. And yes, I went to a fancy school. Keep up. It was certainly an education. The headmaster had to step down in my final year because of rumours that he was a bit too friendly with the boys, if you get my meaning.

Hmm. Probably not the best place to be remembering these things.

I buy myself a programme. It's six pounds. Not really much more to say on the matter. There's some other merch stuff on offer, but nothing is really speaking to me. I like the look of the Trunch hoodie, because you know I'm always into the villains, but it has the Matilda title treatment on the front which kinda negates the entire point of the thing. If you're the Trunch, you're the Trunch, you don't be wanting the name of that little maggot on your chest. Honestly, who dreamt that one up?

I'm also handed a voucher for cut-price sweets, which is actually a pretty sweet (... sorry) deal and one I might steal for my work.

Anyway, enough of this. I've got a lot of stairs to climb because I'm in the grand circle tonight, which is the one right at the tippy top of the theatre here and, because this is the West End and we don't like poor people around here, there's no entrance from the foyer. I have to go back out into the sunshine, and get in via another entrance, leading to the povvo stairs.

I'll give it to the Cambridge though, they actually thought about this. From the foyer doors, there's a roped-off corridor leading to the grand circle entrance, meaning that I don't have to be subjected to a second bag check. Well done to whoever came up with that.

Up all the stairs, passing ads for shows currently cluttering up the other LW theatres in town ("What will you see next?" they ask. All of them, Andrew. All of them.)

As I reach the summit, the posters give way to tilted frames advertising platinum blonde hair dye and national green hair day. Looks like we've gone a bit immersive up here, and I am appreciating the effort.

A front of houser catches my eye and I show him my ticket. "Through this door, on the left and one row up," he says, pointing to the door right next to us.

I go in. Passing the little merch stand. They have programmes and CDs on display, as well as those sweets, and what looks like cups of toxic fluid. I've never seen anything so bright claiming to be edible before. Red and yellow and green. They look like they belong in the opening scene of The Secret World of Alex Mack (yes, I'm old. Leave me alone).

I'm tempted to buy one. Prove myself as the true investigative journalist that I'm definitely not. But people who remember Alex Mack are too old to drink that many e-numbers in public.

Instead, I go find my seat.

There's a break in the rows up here, forming two sections with a corridor parting the rows like the red sea down the middle.

I'm in the top half, because I'm poor. But right at the front of the top half, because I'm a master ticket buyer.

Families come in toting arm-fulls of shopping bags, which they struggle to fit under their seats. Small children perch precariously on top, like baby dragons guarding their golden hoard.

Ushers run around handing out booster seats. A must all the way up here, as even with the benefit of the corridor in front of me, and a somewhat grown-up height, the front of the stage is still hidden from view to my adult-eyes.

But, you know, I've seen it before. So it's fine. I'm guessing you have too. As have the simply astonishing number of latecomers who don't seem even slightly bothered that they've missed the first fifteen minutes. So I'm not going to go into detail about the show, but I still think the interval is in a really weird place. Bruce Bogtrotter eating a cake is not a natural finishing point, nor is it a cliff-hanger. It has to be the most awkwardly placed interval since The Royal Ballet shoved an extra one into the already existing Alice in Wonderland when they realised that getting a ballerina to dance flat out for 90 mins was a touch mean.

Anyway, I go off to explore.

Up in the third-class tier, there are two front of house spaces to hang out in. The bar. Which is packed. And a room with nothing it it but a merch desk and a mirror. Which is also packed.

I have to dive out the way as a mum lobs an empty Sprite bottle at me, presumably aiming for the bin a whole two feet away from my two feet.

"Sorry," she says, already walking away.

Honestly, I've long come to accept that I'm invisible. I don't draw the eye. And I'm fine with that. I walk alone. I am as one with the shadows. But I draw the line at someone seeing me after acting like I ain't there. Commit to my imperceptibility, you cowards.

I go back inside. My row has a railing in front. I prop my feet up on the bar. This is quality seating action. More rows should have footrests.

Mr Wormwood and the son, Michael come out. I mean, Rob Compton and Glen Facey, as Mr Wormwood and son Wormwood, come out. There's a bit of banter with the audience. Don't try this at home, and all that. "We don't want any kids is the audience tonight going home and trying these things out," says Compton, meaning the disgusting business of reading books. I can't agree more. I read hundreds of books as a kid. Thousands. And look where it got me. Visiting over 200 theatres in eight months and getting bottles chucked at me. I’m a tragedy of wasted potential. If things had been different, I would have made a great bottle-thrower.

"Veruccas of the mind," he goes on.

He's not wrong.

"Who here's read a book?" Hands pop up all over the place. "You should be ashamed," he sneers. "You, madam, what's your name?"

She gives it.

He jabs his finger in her direction, chanting that she's a nasty bookworm, a worm, and books are stupid.

"She won't stop reading," he says, calling down after his onslaught of insults. "But she won't put up her hand in a theatre again."

And that's something we can all be grateful for.

And then we're off again.

Swings descend from the ceiling, and I get all teary-eyed over the When I grow up song, like I always fucking do.

Francesca McKeown's Matilda fights the good fight, brings down the baddies, and gets her happy ending.

Confetti shower for the people in the stalls, and then it's time to go home.

I trudge my way back down the stairs, feeling exhausted.

Matilda always makes me feel really sad. Helpless. Defeated.

If even this bright and brave little girl needs magical powers to overcome her oppressors what hope is there for the rest of us?

That's probably not the takeaway I'm supposed to get from this show, and no doubt I'm projecting, but... man, I think we could all do with some laservision right now.

Wash Out

Eight months into the marathon, and I think you know me well enough to sense that I'm a bit of a daredevil. A thrill-seeker. A speed junky. Always chasing that next high.

So on a Friday night, as the clouds darken and the rain begins to pour, there's only one place I could be heading.

Yup. I'm off to catch for some free outdoor theatre.

Yeah, it's risky. I know. But don't worry. I've checked their Twitter feed and there's no mention of it being called off. And with a six o'clock start, there's still time to run over to a different theatre and catch another show if it does get rained out.

There is the tricky matter of what to wear, but as I'm currently living out of a suitcase, and don't own any waterproofs anyway, I just make sure I've got my scarf in my bag and head off to London Bridge.

On the short walk from the station, umbrellas pop open all around me, but I refuse to give in. I march on, striding between the raindrops and resolutely deciding not to put up my own umbrella.

It's just rain. It's fine. The only thing I have to lose is my eyeliner.

Still, it's not without trepidation that I approach The Scoop.

And not just because everyone seems to be scurrying away in the other direction.

A low stone wall is quarantined behind crowd-control railings. Their only purpose seemingly to stop people from peering down into the stage from above. All I can see is a lighting rig, peeking up from inside the well like a submarine's periscope.

As I walk around, following the path that leads to the bulbous glass shape of City Hall, I finally manage to catch a glimpse of what's happening.

Which is to say: nothing.

Rows and rows of empty seats. Wet and empty seats.

Wide stone steps, circling the floor-level stage, are filled with nothing but the slick sheen of rain.

I press on, walking round towards the entrance.

Two security guards stand around wearing hi-vis jackets. They don't pay me any mind as I walk past.

A woman in a waterproof does. She smiles as I approach, looking damp but resolute.

"Is the performance still going ahead?" I ask, a touch sceptically.

It's a couple of minutes to six. If it's happening, it's has to be soon.

"It is," she says, sounding very stoic about the whole thing.

I am filled with admiration. You have to applaud theatre people. They are the ancestors of those epic posties of old. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these stage managers from putting on a fucking play.

"Oh, you brave souls," I say, really meaning it.

"There's a marquee that you can sit under if you do decide to see it. It's not strictly for the audience, but there are only five people here so..." She lets the sentence trail away.

"I'm going to go for the marquee then," I say, and I do.

I walk around the back of the seating, past a small wooden shed, and find the promised marquee. Underneath there's a tech desk, being kept nice and dry, a small group of people huddling around it, and a dog.

I duck my head under the marquee and find an empty spot.

A gust of wind sneaks in, picking up my skirt just as I'm trying to sit down, and wafting it over the sleeping dog. They lift their head and look at me through half-closed eyes.

"Sorry," I apologise to the dog's owner. "I'll try and keep a hold of my skirt away from him... her? Him? ... her?"

The owner looks at me from under her umbrella. "It doesn't matter," she says before turning away.

Well, alright then.

The dog isn't bothered by either my skirt or my misgendering and they promptly go back to sleep.

A second later, someone arrives with a rolled-up blanket, and the owner carefully tucks the dog in.

The dog sighs contentedly.

They look super comfy.

The rest of us shiver as we wait for the show to start.

A young woman races down the steps towards the stage. We're off! The Sea Queen, a very appropriate title for the weather, as the pirates slop their way across the wet stage.

It's pretty cute. There are songs. And swords. And a girl pirate who don't take no nonsense from any boys.

They're all miced up, but even so, it's hard to hear over the patter of the rain on the roof of the marquee. I strain to make out the lyrics and then, as a cast member darts off to the left, I realise I don't have to. Because there's a captioning screen right there. It's got all the words, and I hadn't even noticed it. So, I can read along the bits I miss.

I'm very happy right now. Even if it's freezing.

As the pirates' shirts grow sodden I scramble about in my bag for a scarf.

More people arrive. A cool looking girl stands on the steps to watch from beneath the shadow of a huge umbrella. People walking past stop to look over the wall. A family appear and the two small girls squirrel themselves under the marquee, sitting close to the dog - but not too close.

But the rain doesn't stop. Puddles begin to form on the stage.

As the actors race about, swashbuckling about with swords, the stage manager comes out. She raises her hand and the battle stops, mid-swash.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she calls out. "Apologies to those that have just arrived, and those in the audience sheltering," she says, indicating our group under the marquee. "We’re just going to pause-"

"-the pivotal moment!" says the girl pirate, earning herself a giggle.

"Pause for health and safety reasons," continues the stage manager. "We're just going to check in with one another."

"We won't tell who wins!" says pirate girl.

"Shame!" calls back one of the marqueers.

The cast all creep their way damply off stage and go to hide behind the set.

The rain continues to pour down onto the marquee, weighing down the roof until a huge flood splashes off and makes us all jump.

Underneath, a gentle camaraderie forms between the marqueers.

A couple gets chatting with the lady at the tech desk. She's the captioner. She was supposed to be doing the show on Wednesday, but it got rescheduled. Because of the rain.

They ask if she's a student and are surprised to learn that no, it's her actual job. Then they ask about the actors, and are again shocked to find out that they've all graduated and are now bona fide working actors.

We wait. This rain really isn't letting up.

I blearily stare at all the office blocks rising above the edge of The Scoop. Odd view. Considering we have the river right behind us. You'd think they'd want Tower Bridge as a backdrop.

Perhaps I should go. Not because I'm damp and cold. I am damp and cold, but the actors must be damper and colder, and I do wonder whether they would feel more comfortable leaving if, well, we weren't here.

"Looks like they're stopping," says someone nodding towards the stage. A couple of actors scuttle out from behind it. They're in costume. But not the pirate costumes from before. They're in doublets. Fancy doublets. With frogging. Not really suitable wear for the high seas. These look altogether more Shakespearian fare.

The family decide to call it quits.

"Thank you for coming," says the captioner. "Sorry we couldn't do anything about the weather."

"Oh, are you in control?" asks the dad.

"Yeah," says the captioner with a sigh. "Sorry."

They say goodbye to everyone and make their way out into the rain.

The rest of us cross our arms and wait for news.

The stage manager reappears.

It isn't looking good.

"Ladies and gents," she starts. "Thank you so much for your patience. That took a little longer than expected. We're going to have to cancel this show, just because the floor is a bit slippy. But the forecast is looking good for later and we're still going ahead with Twelfth Night and we'd love for you to stay and see our beautiful production on the same set. It starts at eight, so don't go too far, go get a drink something warm to eat, and well see you later."

And she's off. Presumably to find a drink and something warm to eat for herself.

More cast members appear. One of them is wearing a massive dress. So massive she needs help keeping the skirts up away from the ground. It's pale cream. Can't be having that dragging only on the damp concrete.

They wave at us as they make their way around the seats, stopping to clap in our direction as they draw near.

We applaud right back.

Not all heroes wear capes. But they frequently wear big arse-dresses and ruffs.

Time to go.

I pull my jacket tight around me and emerge from the marquee.

It's not so bad now that I'm not sitting on a cold stone step.

As I clamber back up the steps, the rain stops. The sky clears.

People start to emerge from the cafes and pubs they'd been hiding in.

I decide to walk to Embankment. Take in the river.

I won't be coming back for the second show. I've already seen two Twelfth Nights this year. I'm sure the cast with cope with my absence. They're made of strong stuff.