thank u, next

I'm at the Riverside Studios and I'm not happy about it.

Not a great start to an evening, but I have my reasons, and you get to hear all about it.

Well, some of it. Because, here's the thing: it involves something that hasn’t been announced yet. A super cool theatre thing. Which kicks off tonight.

Problem is, by the time I found out about my inclusion in this super cool thing, I'd already bought my ticket to see Persona at the newly reopened Riverside Studios.

So obviously, first thing I did was to go to the Riverside website to see what their returns policy is.

Scroll-scroll-scroll to the bottom of the page. Click on the Ticketing Policy link. And... nothing. Just a note that content will be coming soon.

Fine. Okay then.

I just needed to send a nice email to the box office and they'd sort me out. It's a new venue. They'll all be on high alert for customer service.

I found my confirmation email, and yup - there was a handy dandy link to a customer service email address. Perfect.

I sent my email, asking for an exchange.

Less than a minute later, I got a reply.

Score!

Except no. It was not a reply. It was a bounceback.

The email address did not exist.

Okay, well. Fine. No matter. Because I was pretty sure I also spotted a link to a box office email.

I clicked on that, copied and pasted the resulting email address. Dug out my request, and forwarded it to the new address.

A few seconds later, up poppped another bounceback.

Well... shit.

Trying not to panic, I went back to the Riverside's website, and clicked through to their contact us page. There were a few options, but the most relevant looked like the generic 'contact' email. So I pinged my email over to that one and held my breath.

And held.

And held.

No bounceback.

Hu-bloody-rah.

The next day, that is, this morning, I realised I hadn't had a reply. Not even an automatic one saying that my email had been received.

I double-checked my inbox just to be sure.

Nope. Nothing.

So obviously I did the sensible thing and took my pleas over to Twitter.

Polite. Charming almost.

When the reply came, it hit straight into my DMs.

When I saw the notification pop up on my phone, I wasn't unduly surprised. I've had a fair number of theatres on this marathon sorting my problems via the old DM. Doing me favours that they wouldn't want getting about. Even an artistic director giving the go-ahead to book me in under a young person offer despite me, well, not being a young person.

But there was nothing like that waiting for me.

"Hi there," it read. "Box office hours are Monday - Friday 12:00 - 20:00."

Followed up by a phone number.

I stared at the messages, unsure what to do.

Eventually I decided to respond. "Okay, but can I contact you *not* on the phone?"

I mean, surely there must be a way? This is 2020. Just having a phone number is like... I don't know... only offering fax as a method of communication. Who even phones people anymore? I certainly don't. And not just because of my crippling social anxiety. It's just so inconvenient. I can't call people from work. What am I going to do? Sit around at my desk waiting and waiting for someone to pick up my call, and then spelling out my surname ten times to the person on the end, and then waiting and waiting for them to sort out my problem.

Excuse my language when I say: fuck that Boomer nonsense.

In all my travels, I have not come across a single theatre that can't handle this sort of thing via email. Even the smallest fringe venues manage to figure out my issues via written missive, accompanied by an instruction to sort any extra finances when I go in to pick up my tickets.

To say I'm shook is an understatement.

A few minutes later, I got my reply.

Again, I was asked to call. But, as a concession, another email address was offered.

With a groan of annoyance, I sent my fourth email to the Riverside Studios.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By mid-afternoon I was beginning to panic.

I could not afford to not use a £12.50 ticket.

Because, no, I didn't put in a press request. I should have done. Maybe then they would have replied to my emails.

The minutes ticked on. I refreshed my emails, just in case I'd missed it.

The clock wound its way towards the time I would need to leave in order to get to my thing on time.

Nothing.

So that was it. I had to go to the Riverside Studios.

And here I bloody am.

Feeling fucking annoyed about the whole thing, if I'm perfectly honest.

And I don't want to be all "don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre," but like: don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre? I link to my damn blog from my Twitter handle.

I told them in my email I was… involved in some theatre… stuff.

I mean, there is something to be said for a venue that treats everyone the same, regardless of whether that person is going to write it up afterwards or no. But like... that only works when everyone is getting the same nice treatment. Not being ignored.

Egalitarianism sucks when everyone is in the same shitty boat.

But anyway, the studios are lined with huge glass windows. presumably looking over the river, but it's 7pm in January, so it's too dark to actually see anything.

Inside the door there's a chalkboard sign saying that dogs are welcome.

"Yeah, but bloggers aren't," I huff to myself as I take a photo.

I go in.

It's massive in here.

The space spreads out into a vast cavern of emptiness. White walls. Concrete floor. Industrial pipes running across the ceiling. Not an aesthetic I'm super into, if I'm honest. I find it hard to get into factory-chic. I spent a good chunk of my childhood in one.

Not in a bad way, you understand. I wasn't forced to sew trainers in some grim sweatshop. I just mean, my parents were very busy, you know. And most nights I was doing my homework in the office, waiting for one of them to finish up and take me home. Sometimes this involved sleeping on the sofa until the early hours of the morning. Most of the time it meant having free rein to practice my rollerblading on the fantastically flat floors after the machines were shut down for the night.

Anyway, what I'm saying is: it's a bit bleak. Even if the walls down the other end have pictures on them.

I make my way across the empty floor towards the box office, a great curving desk.

The staff are all huddled around a single computer, brows furrowed as they try to make sense of a customer's order.

"It says the ticket has been printed, but it hasn't..." one says.

Down the other end, a free box officer smiles at me and I go over to her.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?"

Now it's the turn of this box officer's brow to furrow.

"I have the order number?" I say, turning around my phone screen to show her. I have it all prepared.

"You don't need a ticket..." says the box officer.

"Oh," I say, deflating.

More fool me. I should know better then to trust confirmation emails by now.

Double fool even, as I even read the instructions twice over to make sure I got them right. "Please print out this email and bring it with you," it said. "The QR codes below will be scanned at the venue door and you will be given access."

I'll admit, this did give me pause as the QR code is actually at the top of the email. And I also had no intention of printing it out. But thankfully, there was more: "If you are unable to print this email, please proceed to the Box Office on your arrival, give our staff member your booking reference number and your tickets will be printed for you."

Now, you know how much I love a properly printed ticket.

I'm not taking the lack of one very well.

I'm just a marathoner. Standing in front of a box office. Asking it to print a ticket for her.

"It said to come to box office?" I try, putting on my best pleading eyes.

A sweet young-faced front of houser steps forward. "No, if you have this, they'll just scan you on the door."

"Oh," I say again. "Okay. Thanks."

I have been defeated.

I take myself and my confirmation email away, crossing the great straights towards the bar. There's lots of seating down this end. Long banquettes and trendy-looking orange chairs.

I find myself an empty table and sit down.

A minute later, I'm blocked in.

A cage full of rubbish has been wheeled out and left in front of me as its carer goes off to open the door.

Twenty minutes before a show opens, with bar-service in full swing, seems like an odd time to be taking out the bins, but clearly people at the Riverside are working on a completely different plain of reality to the rest of us.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Studio Three is now open for this evening's performance of Persona, if you'd like to like your seats."

I'm quite comfy where I am now that the rubbish has been removed, so I give it another five minutes.

As the empty cages are wheeled back inside I realise something. I have no idea where Studio Three is.

I look around.

No signs of any... well... signs.

There is a line of people heading towards the door next to the box office though.

I should probably join it.

I wander over and get in line. All around me people flap around handfuls of slim tickets. Real ones. From the box office. I stare at them.

How on earth did they get those?

The front of houser on the door doesn't even look at them. "As I said, it's ninety minutes," she hollers as we file past. "No reentry. And no coming out. If you need to go to the loo, go now. You won't be able to come back in. There's no reentry. Ninety minutes."

Probably now is not a good time to ask about the existence of programmes...

Her rapped-out words follow me down the corridor and through the door into the auditorium.

Inside, the sweet face of youth is checking tickets.

Without a scanner. Or programmes.

I get out my phone again.

"K4? Back row." They pause, as a thought occurs. "K4... That's on the left. Be careful with your head, some parts are lower."

With my eyes keeping a careful watch on the ceiling, I climb the stairs and head to the back of the auditorium.

It's a simple black box space. The stage a mere slither across the front.

But above our heads, wires have been cast out like fishing lines, radiating out from a heavy object in the corner.

I squint at it.

It's no good. I need to get out my glasses.

Earth Harp. That's what it says across the front.

I look between this golden trunk and the strings above our heads.

They've turned this theatre into a musical instrument. That's pretty cool.

More people come in.

Not quite enough to fill the theatre.

As the lights dim, the row in front of me is still completely empty.

Sadly this isn't enough to compensate for the terrible rake.

The cast takes their place on set. One actor lays down on a bed and immediately disappears below the horizon of heads.

Oh well.

I let my attention drift over to the earth harp.

The musician stands before it, the wires cast out either side of him, his gloved hands resting on them as he waits for his cue.

As the deep vibrating noise drawn straight from a horror film fills the auditorium, I look up and watch the wires shiver over our heads.

The sound fades and is taken over by text.

I try to concentrate on the story, but I'm having trouble keeping up.

My eye is drawn back again to the earth harp.

The words become nothing more than a gentle background hum. Like a radio left playing in the next room.

I'm mesmerised.

Is it ninety minutes yet? We must be near the end. Surely.

Someone sitting near the front gets up. I stare at him. There's no way out. The door is on the side of the stage. We're all trapped in here together.

But he has no intention of leaving.

With a pint glass in each hand, he turns around and walks back, up the stairs, towards the empty row.

He crosses in front of me, and takes a seat right in the corner.

Okay then.

Again I try to focus on the play, but again, the man gets up, crossing over to the other side of the row, where he once again plonks himself down in the last seat.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. If it weren't for those two drinks I might think he works on the production. Checking out the sightlines from the back and all that. A worthy purpose.

If only he had a hand free to take notes.

At last, we reach the end.

Bows.

Applause.

The cast disappear and it's time for us to go.

The central aisle clogs as audience members tip back their heads to examine the harp strings.

Someone reaches up to touch them.

No sound is made.

Disappointed, they move on.

And so do I.

Back down the corridor and out into the foyer.

I look over at the box office, hoping for a sniff of a chance if getting a programme. There's no one there, but perhaps they left some freesheets lying around.

I go over.

On the counter there are stacks of illustrated squares, all pile-up.

I pick one up off the nearest stack.

It's a beer mat. With a drawing of a face.

I turn it over.

According to the info on the back, it's Vanessa Redgrave. And part of a series of twelve.

I look at the others. Meera Syal, David Bowie, Yoko Ono, and Benjamin Zephaniah.

These are rather nifty. I like them.

Are they free?

I look around. There's no front of houser to ask.

Oh well.

I take one of each and slip them into my pocket as I make a break for the exit.

Safely outside, I pause to check my emails.

Still nothing.

I wonder if I'll ever get a response...

Not that it matters anymore. I doubt I'll be back. There are over three hundred theatres in this city. I don't need this one in my life.

Next!

I need me a Scarecrow

Can you believe that this is my first visit to the Kiln Theatre? And I'm not talking since the rebrand either. I ain't never been to the Tricycle neither. Shocking. I know. Even I'm surprised. Or I was until I got on the train to get here. Honestly, people who battle the overground in the pursuit of theatre are gawddamned heroes, they really are. Like, I know I complain a lot about trains. But seriously, they are awful and I want no part of them. Once this marathon is over, I'm never going anywhere that isn't within a ten-minute walking distance of a tube station.

Anyway, I'm here. And there it is, the Kiln. Sitting right there, right on the high street. All cosy and tucked in between a cafe offering wood oven pizzas and the Daniel Day Lewis family's pharmacy, giving off some serious Tara Arts vibes.

Inside there's some sort of cafe or bar or something like that. I don't hang around to find out. My attention is entirely taken uo by the neon sign glowing at the end of a long corridor. A red neon sign glowing at the end of a very long, dark, corridor. A red neon sign saying "Kiln" glowing at the end of a very long, dark, brick corridor.

It's hella creepy.

I don't want to get all, you know, but walking along a very long, dark, brick corridor, towards a red light advertising itself as an oven... I mean, it feels a bit holocausty. Just saying.

Dark, red-lit corridors are already hitting those horror movie tropes. We don't need to be adding kilns to the mix.

I make it down the corridor though, and emerge into a buzzing... again, cafe or bar or possibly restaurant, I can't tell.

A sign points the way towards the box office and I follow it into a brightly lit space. All white walls and tiled floors, and relief on my part.

I stand around, marvelling at the TARDIS-like architecture going on around me.

This place is unexpectedly massive.

It's not like Tara Arts at all. That whole high street frontage is a total scam. This isn't some diddy local fringe venue. This place is glossy as shiz. This is a venue that has done some serious deals with the devil. Which explains the horror hallway.

I suppose I better pick up my tickets.

It's a great big box office. Long counter. With bollards to keep the queue in check. Not that there is one right now.

Terrified that I would be late, I'm in fact here far too early. Damn those trains for running on time.

"The surname's Smiles?" I tell the first box officer I reach. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

"Great!" he says, making a grab for the ticket box. "Can I take your first name too please?"

He absolutely can.

"That's one," he says, handing it over.

Right. Now what?

The cafe or bar or quite possibly restaurant, looks to be more on the restaurant side of the spectrum. No plopping oneself down at a table and taking up space without ordering. Over by the box office there are great big booths, large enough for ten to squeeze around the tables. Each of them seating a single person.

I don't really fancy sharing right now.

Over on the opposite side, there's a counter with high chairs. That looks pretty popular too. I'm not feeling it though. My short legs don't love sitting in high chairs. I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground.

But over there looks like a quite corner for me to stand in.

I hang back, waiting for someone to pass in front of me.

He stops, and glances over. "Box office is just that way," he says.

"Oh, I've got that sorted," I say with a wave of my hand which I hope suggests a casual appreciation for his concern.

Over by the bar, there's a clicking of switches and the lights go down.

We are clearly now in evening mode. Mood-lighting is a-go.

I check the time. Still a bit early to go in.

I should go buy a programme or something.

I look around. While there are waiters buzzing around everywhere, I can't see staff of the front of house-variety.

I go back to the neon sign, and find the entrance to the theatre.

Ah. There's a front of houser. She doesn't have programmes though. Huh. Maybe they just don't do them. Bit at odds with the schmancy vibe they've got going on here, but perhaps it's a statement about kilns, and paper burning, and I don't know... I don't pretend to understand what is going on anymore.

I show her my ticket.

As she sets about ripping it to shreds, I look down and notice something.

Down on the floor, propped up and balanced against the wall, are booklets with the When the Crows Visit artwork on their covers.

"Do you have programmes?" I ask doubtfully.

"I do!" she says, reaching down to grab one, "That's four pounds."

As we settle the business of me handing over a fiver and her finding my change, she goes over the rules. "Just to let you know, there's no readmission once the performance has started, but there is a twenty-minute interal." She pauses. "And no photography is allowed," she says, clearly clocking my sort.

Duly warned, I go inside.

Turns out I'm sitting in the back row, which is no bad thing, because it's a neat little theatre in here. One block of lightly raked seats, lined either side by narrow slips, and a balcony running around the top.

The stage is wide, and the set massive. Huge doors are separated by wide pillars.

All very nice. I make use of the near-empty auditorium to take some forbidden photos. A bell rings outside, and the rows begin to fill up.

An usher walks down the aisle holding a "please turn off your mobile phones," sign on a flappy bit of paper. He reaches the end, walks back up, and puts the sign away. Job done.

The house lights go down. The play begins.

I shift around in my seat.

This is.... well, there's a lot of shouting going on. And I am super not into shouting.

But also, I feel like the playwright is trying really hard to be Ibsen right now. Like, all the component parts are there. And yet, somehow, they don't seem to blend at all. There's this whole crow motif going on, but it feels tacked on. And extra. If this is Ibsen, it's Ibsen-by-numbers.

Next to me, my neighbour's phone lights up as she checks the time.

I glance over, wanting the answer to that question too, but I'm too late. She puts the phone away.

Guess I'll just have to wait then.

And wait I do. As the house lights go back up again, I make a dive for my phone. And... oh my gawd, only an hour has passed. Holy...

I get out my programme in an attempt to distract myself. Let's see what my four pounds has bought me.

There's a piece by the puppet-maker who made the crow. That's cool. It doesn't really say anything. Not about puppets or making them. All bollocks about the beauty of shadows. But, I know how hard it is to get artists to write anything real. So, whatever.

There's an article about the patriarchy in India. That's depressing.

A memorial piece from the playwright about a producer. Which is nice. Not sure the relevance to this play. It makes me think the playwright made a special request for this to go in for her own reasons, rather than anything that would interest or educate the audience. But again... artists.

There's also an intro from the artistic director. And it mentions Ibsen.

I fucking knew it.

I have to hard not to air-punch in satisfaction.

I. Fucking. Knew. It.

Ibsen-by-fucking-numbers.

Two girls sitting in the row ahead of me return, balancing pastry squares on paper napkins.

Those look good. I wouldn't mind me one of those.

No time to think about that though, the lights are going down and my neighbour hasn't come back.

Half the back row is empty.

Looks like I'm going to have to sit through this ersatz Ibsen all by myself.

Oh, oh lordy... okay. Now it's hitting. I was not prepared for all these details.

Gasps of horror float back through the audience and hit me right in the chest, but I'm too far gone to make my own. This is gross and I don't want these mental pictures that I'm getting here.

My stomach is churning and I am so not into this. But I can't move.

As the applause fades, I make my escape. I want to get out of here as fast as possible.

I race towards the station, half driven by the memories of those words clipping at my heels, and half by Citymapper saying I have three minutes to catch my train or I'll be stuck in Kilburn for another twenty.

I have no intention of hanging around.

I speed up, overtaking a couple walking ahead of me.

They're talking about the play.

"I was not expecting that," says one of them, with a shudder of disgust.

You and me both.

You. And. Me. Both.

Come to the dark side. We have cushions.

I’m still ill.

But no longer dying. Which is nice.

Which means that I can make the long journey towards Walthamstow without worrying that I might collapse on the way, only to be found six years later, half-eaten by tube mice.

Feeling slightly sniffy and very sorry for myself, I make my way to the Mirth, Marvel and Maud. On Hoe Street.

No need to look at me like that. It’s not my fault that Walthamstow was doing a roaring trade in farm implements back in the day.

Anyway, if we’re talking names, then the alliterative triptych of Mirth, Marvel and Maud is much more worthy of contemplation.

One thing that’s been on my mind a lot, usually when I’m walking in circles in an unfamiliar area, trying to find one of these blasted theatres, is what the locals call a place.

Do the residents of Stockwell call the Stockwell Playhouse the Stockwell Playhouse? Or is it just the Playhouse?

Is the Bromley Little Theatre the Bromley Little Theatre to the people of Brommers? Or merely the Little Theatre? Or perhaps the BLT? Or maybe the Sandwich? These are the questions I want answers to, but am too embarrassed to actually ask.

And it’s no different tonight. I don’t believe for a second anyone around here calls the Mirth, Marvel and Maud the Mirth, Marvel and Maud. For one, it’s ridiculous. And for two, it’s way too long. So, what do they call it? Is it the Mirth, as the towering letters on the outside of the building suggest? Or maybe it’s the Triple M. Or…

“It’s the old cinema,” says a man as he holds the door open for his companion.

Well, okay then.

I follow them in.

The box office is just inside the door, with a fat letter M resting on the counter, glowing in the ambient (dark) lighting scheme they’ve got going on.

“Sorry,” says the box officer. “I also need to stamp her.”

The lady in front of me goes off in search of her friend and brings her back for a good stamping.

That done, it’s my turn.

“Hi,” I tell the box officer. “I have an e-ticket? Do I also need to sign in?”

Ah yes. The e-ticket.

Now, that had been a bit of work to acquire.

The Marvellous Mrs Maud have left their ticket providing services to Dice. Which is not theatre ticketing software. It’s an app. For gigs. An app that I did not have, and did not want, but was forced to download anyway.

Now, you know, I get it. Some theatres run music events. Some theatres are predominantly music venues. So, like, fine. But also, it doesn’t work and I hate it.

Case in bloody point. Door time. We all know what that means in gig-world. But in theatre? Is that when the house opens, or the show starts? Who knows? Dice certainly ain’t telling me.

And this e-ticket? Is someone going to scan it, or do I have to report into the box office, like I am now. There’s no way to know until I ask. And I hate asking.

Then there’s the whole having-reception thing. Dice won’t let you see the QR codes more than two hours before door time. Nor will they let you screenshot the page once you do have the code.

“Yeah,” says the box officer. “What’s the name?”

With a sigh, I realise the whole app thing was pointless. I drop my phone back into my pocket and give my name.

“Just you?” asks the box officer.

“Just me,” I say, now resigned to my fate of always having to admit my lonesome state at box offices across this city of ours.

She stamps me up high on the wrist, which is apparently a thing now. Backs of hands are no longer in vogue when it comes to stamping.

“Can I get a programme?” I ask, spotting the display on the counter.

“That’s two pounds.”

“In the cup?” I ask. There’s a plastic cup with a scrappy bit of paper stuffed in it. “Programmes,” it says.

I drop my pound coins in it.

One question still remains.

“Where am I going?” I ask her.

She blinks at me. This is clearly not a question she gets often.

“Err, down the stairs?”

Okay then.

It’s ten minutes until door time. Whatever that means. So I go for a look around.

It’s a beautiful building this. Impossibly high ceilings. Panels. Chandeliers. The works.

There seems to be a trend at the moment with theatres. About making the foyer spaces accessible to non-theatre goers. They want people coming in off the street to have a drink and then not see a show.

Mostly I think that’s a nonsense. Not because of the ambition. You do you, theatres. It’s just that there aren’t many theatre bars I’d willingly spend time in without having to be there for theatre purposes. Too big. Too loud. Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to hide.

But this place? This place is nice. A wooden carnival stall of a cocktail bar in the middle breaks up the space. Huddles of chairs and tables hug the walls. There are sofas.

It’s quiet, but not echoey.

Ornate, but not intimidating.

Large, but not overwhelming.

I could see myself coming here for a drink.

I mean, if it wasn’t in Walthamstow.

Bit of a trek for a G&T.

I lean against the back of the cocktail stall and have a look at my newly-acquired stamp. It says Marvel.

So, we’ve got Mirth. And Marvel. Where on earth is Maud?

This place may be nice to look at, but it seems to have picked looks over books.

There is a horrendous lack of signage.

Apart from the solitary chalkboard proclaiming the existence of toilets, I can’t see a single notice to direct me anywhere. Let alone the theatre. Which, I would have thought, would be an important element of the M&M&M experience.

I put my glasses on, just in case I’m missing on signs in the general blur, but nope. Nothing. Not unless I’m in serious need of a new prescription, my poor eyesight is not the problem here.

But the box office lady said to go downstairs. So I go downstairs. To the bar. And what do you know. There it is, a sign pointing towards the Maud. Between the water station and the loos.

I follow where it's pointing, into a corrdior that smells like a lavatory, and right opposite the door to the ladies', is a bloke. He's standing next to a posing table covered with plastic cups. I think he must be the ticket checker. Or he would be the ticket checker, if this place had tickets.

"Got a stamp?" he asks as I approach.

I pull at my sleeve to show him the back of my wrist. "Yup," I say, and he nods me through.

Inside it's red.

Very red.

I mean, last night I was in a red theatre, so it shouldn't be that shocking. But if anything, the Hilariously Amazing Maud is even redder than the BLT.

The walls are red. The ceiling is red. The decorative mouldings are red. Even the chairs are of a reddish hue.

I stand and stare at the chairs.

They are weird. And it's not the reddness that is bothering me. It's that they're evil.

And no, they're not evil because they're red.

I mean, they might be evil because they're red.

I don't know why they are evil. I just know that they are.

Because the powers that be at the Mirthiless Maud have banished them off to the sides of the room.

The rest of the space is given over to long wooden benches.

Clearly, the puritans are in charge in Walthamstow.

So as not to anger them, I take a pew.

Everyone else in here has decided to face the forces of evil arse-on, and sit on the sides.

The same conversation is played out over and over as people file in.

"Where do you want to sit?" a newcomer asks. "Shall we sit in the middle?"

"I might go for a softer seat..." comes the tentative reply.

Eventually, the chairs fill up and people are forced to turn to the benches.

A couple of women join me on mine.

A few minutes later, their friend arrives, and insists that I stand up to let her pass so that she doesn't have to go about the indignaty of walking around and entering via the other side.

Honestly. What is it with people? This is the second night in a row this has happened. Stop making strangers get up when you can ask your friends to get up instead. They presumably want you to sit with them. Me on the other hand, would rather not have to exert myself for that honour.

I'm beginning to think it's the curse of red theatres.

I knew those chairs were evil.

"It's warm in here," says the woman who can't walk round.

There's a pause, and I realise she's talking to me. I quickly hit the power button on my phone, sending the screen black. I hope she hasn't seen me typing all that shit about her.

"It is," I agree. Very warm. They have got the heating on blast.

"Why?" she asks, and I'm left stumped by this question.

"I do approve of heating in October," I say. "But this is a bit much."

She seems satisfied by that statement and she goes back to talking to her friends, and I go back to typing up smack about her in my notes.

Right, now that I have established myself as evil a character as those chairs, I check the time.

It's ten past eight.

Door time or start time, that question remains unanswered. Are we waiting for the clock to run down or has something gone wrong? Who can tell?

Across the way, I can hear the hand dryers rumbling away in the loos.

Sixteen minutes past.

I'm getting kind of bored now.

I twist round in my seat.

Someone is sitting themselves down at the tech desk. That's a good sign.

The stamp checkers closes the door.

The house lights dim.

We're off.

The cast emerge. Eleanor Bryne, Niamh Finlay, and Sara Hosford. They move around a stage cluttered with lamps, shifting things around and doing the sort of busywork that is probably supposed to set the mood but has me wiggling my foot and willing them all to get on with it.

But then we're on the line in a fish factory. Guts are flying everywhere and the talk is pouring out too. Life is hard in 1980's Dublin, even if the music is banging. Tainted Love is on the lips of all three girls, and although I'm a Manson Girl (Marilyn, obviously) I am not unappreciative of the Soft Cell version.

Our cast shimmy and sprint through the lives of an endless procession of characters. Less slipping into them and more running full tilt until they crash right in: bosses and boys and friends, so many friends, and babysitters, and first loves.

And I love them all.

The girls I mean.

The men in their life are terrible. The absolute worst of the worst.

And as we return to the fish factory, and see them on the line, dragging their knives against the firm flesh of those fishy bellies, I can't be the only one thinking those knives might have served a greater purpose.

Applause done. House lights up.

I try to stand but sharp pains run up and down the backs of my thighs.

I winch as I haul myself up to my feet and turn around to glare at the bench responsible.

I knew I should have embraced the dark side and taken one of the cursed chairs.

Being virtuous is a young person's game.

The Pajama Game

“This is the final station where a TFL validated rail card or Oyster card can be used,” comes a voice over the tannoy as we approach Watford Junction. 

And so I reach the very edge of the London Theatre Marathon. My Oyster card will take me here and no further.  

Thank fucking gawd. 

I’ve never been to Watford before. 

Not even when there was a James Graham play in the Watford Palace. Which is quite the statement as I love me some James Graham. 

But apparently even this love has limits. And that limit is Watford. 

The play actually ended up transferring to the Bush, and I saw it there, so it all worked out just fine. But there’s no escape this time around. It’s now or never. I’m going to fucking Watford. 

“Stay behind the yellow line,” shouts a station worker as we make our way down the platform. “Please! We all want to go home.” 

And with that, I head towards the exit. 

Outside, the pavements are empty. But the roads are clogged with cars. 

I end up having the pick my way through a traffic jam just to cross a junction. 

But there it is, up ahead. It’s sign blazing out red in the darkness. “PALACE.” The Watford part presumably not requiring the neon, as we are, as I have said, in Watford. 

I stand on the opposite side of the road, trying not to get run over by a reversing van, to take my exterior shots. 

No one goes in. No one comes out. And through the windows I can’t make out the tiniest shred of movement. 

I begin to worry that I perhaps got the wrong day. That they are completely dark on this chilly Tuesday evening. But no, there’s someone, coming down the road. I keep a close eye on her, standing in the shadows like the creepy lurker that I am. 

She pauses in front of the doors. 

I hold my breath. 

She carries on walking. 

Dammit. 

I hold back, scanning the pavement for any signs of life. 

Eventually a man arrives, walking with purpose if not exactly speed. 

I wait for him, glancing down at my phone in order to pretend that I’m not a weird stalker. I’m just reading a text. From a friend I definitely have. 

He’s approaching the doors.

He’s slowing down. 

He’s reaching out.

He’s grasping the handle. 

This is it. He’s going in! 

And so am I! 

I skitter across the road and slip my way through the doors before the man has even managed to get himself up the short flight of steps in the foyer. 

An usher spots me. “Hello!” he says, spotting me looking around, trying to get my bearings. 

“Err, box office?” 

“Just this way.” He points down the corridor towards the large desk tucked away right at the end.  

“Hello there!” says the box officer as I approach. 

Everyone is very friendly this evening. 

“Hi!” I say, attempting to equal his enthusiasm. I don’t think I’m quite pulling it off. “The surname’s Smiles?” 

He jumps into action, diving into the ticket box to pull out my ticket. 

“Is there a programme?” I ask, spotting something large and programmey-looking at the end of the counter. 

“Err,” he says, taken by surprise. This is clearly not a question he gets called upon to answer all that often. “No there isn’t a programme, errr…” He visablly pulls himself together. “Let me get my words out. Um. The people on the door should have a… crew sheet?” He pauses, puzzling over that term. 

I think he means a cast sheet, but I’m not correcting him. 

“I don’t think there is an actual programme,” he finishes. 

“Even better!” I say, meaning it. Cast sheets are better than programmes because cast sheets are free. I mean, yes, they lack the brilliantly commissioned programme notes, the glossy double page spreads showing off beautiful production photos, the scrupulously edited biographies, but, eh, it’s still a piece of paper to take home at the end of the night. And I repeat: it’s free. 

And by the looks of it, the front of housers are busy getting them all sorted. 

They’ve taken over a long bench, and are sorting through various papery elements. 

“There’s more coming out of the printer,” says one. 

“Are we giving everyone both?” is the reply. 

“Yup!” 

Excellent. It looks like I won’t be walking away with just one piece of paper tonight. I’ll have two! 

I begin to realise that the front of housers probably don’t appreciate me looming over them as they sort the handouts into different piles. 

I take a stroll to see what the other end of the corridor can offer me. Turns out, it’s the cafe. And everyone’s in here! 

I find an empty spot on one of the high chairs by the counter on the side, and try very hard not to think about how much of a berk I must look like with my legs swinging limply, two feet off the ground. 

Tables and chairs fill up rapidly, and by twenty past this corner of the building is pretty darn full. 

“She said everything is like the original,” says a woman, showing her group the freesheet. “Except for this bit.” She points to a paragraph. 

“But otherwise it’s like the play?” 

“That’s what she said. Just this is different.” 

“How does that work then?” 

“She didn’t say.” 

How frustrating. I guess we’ll all just have to watch it then. 

A voice comes over the sound system. “Please take your seats, the performance will begin in three minutes. The performance will begin in three minutes.” 

My ticket says to take the door on the left. So I head to the door on the left. Well, the door that says it’s on the left. We both know that I’m still figuring out the whole left-right thing.  

“Lovely,” says the ticket checker as she checks my ticket. “Let me-“ 

“Could I get one of those?” I ask, rudely interrupting her in my desperation to get my hands on the freesheet action. 

She hesitates. “Yeah, of course,” she says, regaining her flow. She plucks a card and a sheet of paper from her pile and hands it to me. 

With that accomplished, I head inside the auditorium. 

And will you look at that. It’s full of proper old-school twirly bits. There are boxes. And gilding. And mouldings.  

No chandelier though. 

Or rather, there is, but it isn’t a glittery crystal fountain, but a snake-like coil of neon pressed against the more traditionally Edwardian ceiling. 

I’m in the front row. Which is not my preferred seating choice, but the proscenium arch makes me feel safe. 

I dump my bag in my seat and snap a few pictures of the auditorium. 

It’s very sparse in the whole audience thing. 

Turns out, what can fill a cafe is not nearly enough to fill a theatre. 

By the looks of it, both the circle and the balcony have been shut off. 

It looks like a Gaslight revival on a freezing cold Tuesday evening in Watford is not that much of a draw.  

I’m surprised by that. 

No, seriously. I am. 

I am well excited for this production. And have been ever since it was announced. I’ve had this trip planned for months. Months! 

Although, to be fair, if I hadn't been prepared to make the journey for a new James Graham…  

Anyway, the play starts. We’re in a women’s refuge and the residents are putting on a play. Gaslight. 

They’re in their own clothes. Hannah Hutch’s Nancy seems to be in her duper comfy-looking jammies already, while Sandra James-Young's Elizabeth has opted for some sort of nightdress and house coat combo. And they are all working through some personal shit as they take on the roles of the residents of the Manningham household. With its disappearing paintings, and dimming lights. 

And it’s like, super intense. And a little bit distressing. I find myself wincing as Jasmine Jones’ Jack chews over a muffin, watching Sally Tatum’s Bella with calculating eyes as he plots his next move to torment and upend her. 

As Tricia Kelly, acting as both the master of ceremonies and Inspector Rough, calls time on the action, she sends both the actors and us off for a tea and tissue break. 

The curtain decends. We are left in darkness. The house lights aren’t coming up. I look around, wondering if this was part of the play. Was Jack wondering around above us, messing with the gaslight? But no, a few seconds later, the house lights come up and the auditorium is filled with music as Kesha tells us she don’t need a man to be holding her too tight and the members of Little Mix demand we listen up because they’re looking for recruits. 

I have a look at the freesheets. 

One is just a scrappy thing run off the photocopier, explaining how the cast have worked with the team from the Watford Women’s Centre Plus. The other is much fancier. All glossy and professional, with the cast list and headshots and whatnot. But both have a note at the bottom. 

“This show touches on potentially distressing themes around domestic abuse and specifically gaslighting. If you are affected by the themes in today’s production please talk to a member of our staff.” 

I’m almost tempted to go ask an usher what happens when someone comes to them, but I fear that might set off alarm bells, and I don’t want to be the cause of any of that.  

The second half starts. We’re back in the Manningham household and things are kicking the fuck off.  

Somewhere at the back a phone goes off, and is hastely silenced. 

Honestly, I’m glad of the distraction. My heart was beating at a thousand beats per second. 

That thot Nancy is playing games and I am not able to deal with it. 

At the end, the women of the refuge all gather for a group hug. And I kinda feel I want in on that action. I’m really in need of having someone pat my head and tell me it’ll all be okay. 

Instead I have to venture back out into the freezing cold and get myself out of Watford. 

Still, I did get something out of this. I found out I’m a lot stronger than I thought. If James Graham brings another play here... I might not even wait for the transfer. 

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. 

Those kicks were fast as lightning

As if 2019 wasn't hard enough, we've got yet another new theatre to deal with. Well, you don’t. But I do. And that's bad enough.

The Troubadour Wembley Park. Sister venue to the Troubadour White City, which is currently dark after the... limited… success of the Peter Pan transfer from the National.

It seems the good ole NT have learnt from their mistakes, and are throwing every penny of their marketing budget at the next expedition of one of their shows. The walkway to Wembley is lined with huge banners advertising War Horse. I'm not gonna lie. It all looks fucking spectacular, with those famous arches silhouetted against the night sky in the background.

It's almost a shame to leave the crowds behind in order to turn down the dark and bare side street that will take me to the actual theatre.

Now, War Horse should be a sure bet. It managed to squat in the West End for years, and has done more national tours than I can count. War Horse is fucking amazing. No one is disagreeing with that. Not even me. Which is why it might surprise you to find out that I am not actually here to see War Horse. I'm checking off this venue before War Horse has even managed to step out of the stable.

Not because of timings or anything like that.

I just... can't face it. I do not want to be sitting in a big barn of a room, losing my shit, crying over Joey. Or, even worse. sitting in a big barn of a room, losing my shit, not crying over Joey. Because if the White City branch of the Troubador empire has taught me anything, big barns are atmosphere vacuums. And there's a good chance the story, even though it is epic both in scale and scope, will get totally lost.

But hey, maybe I'm wrong. I haven't even seen the theatre. I'm speculating here. For all I know, Wembley Park’s Troubadour could be a intimate fringe venue, with weekly poetry readings, squashy sofas, and a paddock out back for the puppets to graze happily in.

Something tells me that's not the case.

The Troubadour looms over the Lidl next door. It's red neon lettering is stark in the darkess.

There's a gap in the fencing and I pause, wondering how I'm supposed to get from here, over there.

This must be a common reaction because a security person comes forward. "Shaolin?" she asks.

Yup. I'm here to see The Soul of Shaolin. Because I'm too good for War Horse. Don't want to be crying in some tacky barn conversion in Wembley. So I'm going to be watching some fake-monks instead. And it's not like I haven't even see the real monks. Because I totally have. But here we are. Turning up my nose at puppets while I go watch kung fu.

"We're just checking bags," she goes on, pretending not to notice the tiny breakdown I'm having there on the pavement. "And then you can go in."

I open my bag for her and she has a look inside. The contents being deemed safe, and therefore acceptable, she steps back to let me pass.

"Go to the curtains," she says. "The box office is on the opposite side."

It takes me crossing the courtyard and reaching the massive doorway for me to realise that yes, she really did say curtains, and yes, they really are there. The heavy fabric hangs over the loading-dock sized opening. Presumably to keep the heat in without having the need to result to anything as prosaic as actual doors.

Inside, there, on the opposite wall, is the promised box office. On the far side is the bar, backlit by a series of rainbow panels. Above my head, red and pink neons zig-zag their way across the ceiling.

But, despite the fancy lighting design, I can't help but feel that this place looks really familiar. And no, it's not what you're thinking. It isn't like the other Troubadour at all. The ceilings are three times as high. The foyer four times as big. It's like being inside an aircraft hanger, or... oh gawd. That's it. It reminds me of the factory my parents ran when I was a kid. It has those same grey corrugated walls. The same huge doorways, large enough to back a lorry against. The only thing missing is the smell of melting plastic from the injection moulding machines.

Oh well.

I guess factory-chic is cool. Just probably not for those people whose after-school activities involved fishing plastic brush handles out of the vast cooling tanks for hours on end before falling asleep on the office sofa while waiting for a parent to remember to take you home.

Still, that's my baggage. Not yours.

I press on to the box office.

Both of the box officers are busy so I hang back, waiting my turn.

As one transaction finishes, the box officer looks over and smiles at me. But the customer she's just finished with isn't ready to move on. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, sorting through all the sections to make sure it's worthy of receiving his tickets.

I attempt a step forward, but he doesn't even glance up at me. He's too busy making sure his receipts are in order.

The box officer's smile is beginning to look a little strained.

Fuck it. I'm going in.

I march my way over to the counter, turning my shoulder to indicate to this counter-hoarder that he is no longer welcome here, and he should take his wallet-business elsewhere.

Miracle of miracles, it works.

The box officer and I grin at each other.

"Hi!" I say, feeling very powerful right now. "The surname's Smiles." See, didn't even phrase it as a question. That's how much of gawd-damn commanding I am.

She doesn't even ask my postcode before handing over my ticket. It's clear I know what ticket I'm picking up, and I won't be delayed by nonsense questions.

That business accomplished, I'm off to see what else I can find happening on the factory floor.

There's the bar, of course, but I have no interest in that.

My attention is entirely on what's happening on the other side of the bar.

There seems to be some sort of staircase-action going on. A series of steps, leading precisely nowhere, with the sole apparent purpose of providing seating. It's doing its job marvellously well. Every level is packed with bottoms.

Next to the steps, is a merch desk. I wander over to have a look what's on offer. Troubadour umbrellas and totes nestle up against fans and silk scarves, presumably containing some connection to the Shaolin lot. No programmes though. I double-check the price list. I can buy Buddha beads in three different size variations, but nothing containing a cast list. What they do have, however, is a sign stating that there'll be a post-show photo op for those that drop their coin at the merch desk.

I am a little bit tempted by the fans, but for the price they're charging I could be well on my way to getting one of the fancy Duvelleroy ones I love so much. So I pass.

"The house is now open for this evening's performance of The Soul of Shaolin," comes a voice over the sound system.

I check the time. Too early to go in. But I also seem to have exhausted the possibilities in the foyer.

I walk around, checking I haven't missed anything.

Above the bar is a panel pointing the way to Door One. I get out my ticket. I need door two. There doesn't seem to be a matching panel for door two. The place where I'd expect there to be a panel advertising the whereabouts of door two, is blank. Broken.

I go around anyway, trusting the chain of pointing neon light on the back way to guide me.

Sure enough, there's a door around here. Door 2.

There's a big group here, all fussing about with their tickets.

I hang back waiting for them to finish.

Unfortunately, door two is positioned right on route to the toilets, and I find myself getting bashed by every parent rushing past with a desperate child.

"We're got door one," says a woman walking past, staring at her ticket. "Door one? This is door two."

Another woman comes the other way, also staring at her ticket. "Entrance door two," she reads. "Two, two, two."

They both look up just in time to avoid a collision.

When it's my turn to get my ticket checked, I step forward, feeling a little bit frazzled.

"Thanks for waiting!" says the ticket checker, pointing her scanner at my barcode. "Oh dear," she mutters to herself. "The scanner isn't working."

"It's always my tickets," I tell her. I think they sense my hatred of technology and my fear of the impending takeover of e-tickets. The barcodes squirm under my death-glares.

"Really?" she laughs. "No, it's not you."

Rude. I can totally make a barcode squirm if I want to.

"I'll tell the next person who has trouble you said that. 'It's the scanner. Not my ticket.'"

She laughs again. "There we go," she says triumphantly as the scanner beeps. "Thanks for waiting. Enjoy the show!"

And in I go, Through a twisting corridor made of black curtains, and up a flight of stairs, into the auditorium.

"V14?" I say to the usher waiting at the top.

"Lovely," she says. "It's that way. Up the stairs."

I follow the direction she's pointing, go up the stairs, and look at the seat numbers. They'll all in the forties and escalating.

I don't think that’s right.

Back down the stairs, I pass the usher and go the other way. Ah. That's better. The numbers are all in the teens over here.

There's a film playing on the screen up on the stage. Something about the difference between western and Chinese art. I watch it suspiciously, wondering if I've booked myself into some sort of propaganda performance. The martial arts answer to Shen Yun.

Film finished, a pre-show announcement rings out. No filming. No flash-photography.

The audience takes this as a challenge, and immediately switch their phones to the camera app as soon as the cast comes out.

Most of them remember to turn the flash off.

"Is this a movie?" pipes up the small boy sitting behind me.

"Just watch," says the small boy's dad, getting his phone out.

"Yes, but is it like a movie?"

If it is, it's not quite Crouching Tiger.

The fight scenes may be impressive, but the storytelling comes via a series of long paragraphs, projected onto the back of the stage between scenes, thereby making the actual performance entirely redundant.

The auditorium shakes as people move about, crashing down the stairs as they take loo breaks, or make more permanent bids for escape. It's hard to tell.

A man sitting a few rows ahead of me lifts his phone and starts filming.

An usher sprints into action, standing sentinel at the end of the row and flashing his torch at the ground a few times. it doesn't work.

"Excuse me," he says to the person sitting in front of me, squeezing into that row and making his way along. But by the time he gets there, the phone has been lowered. The usher stands, and then a second later, makes his way back out again.

As soon as he's gone, the phone is raised once more.

The interval rolls around soon enough. The projection changes to tell us that merch is available from the foyer, and they'll be a post-show photo-op for anyone who cares to buy themselves some Buddha beads.

Back out in the foyer, people walk around clutching flyers in lieu of a programme. I don't see anyone with buying beads.

"This evening's performance of The Soul of Shaolin will begin in five minutes. Filming and flash photography are strictly prohibited inside the auditorium."

We head back inside.

"Good evening and welcome once again," comes a voice over the sound system. "May we remind you that filming and flash photography are strictly prohibited inside the auditorium."

The auditorium is a sea of phone screens as act two starts.

To be fair, if you're going to focus on banning the flash, it does rather suggest that everything else is totally fine.

I sit back and watch the rest of the not-unimpressive action, clapping dutifully in between acts.

As we get to the end, a message flashes across the backdrop.

They are not actors, it informs us. They just love kung fu.

That's sweet. Does kinda make me wonder why they insisted on presenting a narrative work rather than just a kung fu showcase, but still: sweet.

"Photo sessions right here if you want to line up!" directs an usher on the way out.

Two small, robed figures, stand, ready to pose.

There's quite a queue already.

Maybe I should have bought a fan after all...

Yeah, but are we sure he's dead?

"Soup?

"Soup!

"SOUP!"

Wow, someone around here really wants soup. Funny, people used to call me 'Soup.' It was a nickname I had, back in the day. It was always super awkward whenever people screamed "SOUP!" at me in the street.

"SOUP!"

Oh shit.

"Hello!" I say, my eyes landing on a very familiar-looking face.

You should recognise her too. It's Weez. Or Janet. Or Weez. I still haven't got the hang of this Twitter-nickname-in-real-life thing.

"I suppose I could have used your real name, but I'm not comfortable with that just yet."

Yeah, real names are weird.

"Where are you off to?" I ask. We're standing opposite Waterloo station. The potential destinations for a theatre-nerd around here are endless.

Janet (Weez?) points at the imposing theatre looming over us. "There," she says. She's off to see A Very Expensive Poison at The Old Vic. Or possibly The Very Controversial Loos at The Old Vic. One of those.

"I'm down there," I say, doing my own point, but this one in the other direction. "I'm going to the young one."

"For the bloody wedding."

"Yeah, I fucking love Lorca." That's true. I do fucking love Lorca.

"I worry about Lorca," says Weez (or should it be Janet?).

"I think it's too late to worry about Lorca," I say carefully. I think Lorca is dead. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I'm almost entirely positive that Lorca is dead. But then, it's so hard to tell with playwrights. You can never truly be sure whether they have actually crossed over, or are just really busy producing esoteric farces in their writing shed.

"Fair," says Janet with a nod. "Who am I going to worry about then?"

After some discussion, we settle on Nicholas Hytner. Well, I mean, someone has to.

And with that, we part, to take up our positions at opposite ends of The Cut.

On my end, there's a bit of a queue at the box office, but it moves fast, with the box officers leaning out over their desk and waving us forward as they finish with each person.

When it's my turn, I give my surname.

"Maxine?" she asks. I confirm that yup, that's my name. "Row B," she says. "Just around this corner."

It's far too early to go in, so I double back, sneaking my way past the box office queue towards the programme seller I'd spotted on my way in.

"That's four pounds, please," he says when I ask for one.

I rummage around in my bag. I've been toting around a new one for a past week or so. It's big. Really big. Which is great. I love it. But it does make paying for things a teensy bit difficult.

"Sorry, my bag's too big," I explain as I feel around for my purse. "I can never find my wallet."

He laughs indulgently, as one does when a woman who is old enough to be your... aunt... is trying to play off her patheticness with humour.

I do find the purse though, give him a fiver, and get a programme, with change, in return.

I check the time.

It's still far too early. I try walking around the bar, but the thing about the Young Vic bar is that, it's really nice. And everyone knows it's really nice. Which means that it's super crowded. And I don't do well with crowds.

So I go outside, and find a vacant patch of wall to lean against.

There's a big group of young people here. They look super excited.

"You can go in now!" says one of them. "You might want to go in and look at the set. Especially the lower sixth. Go in! Go in! Go in!"

It takes my brain way too long to realise that the lower sixth is not some bottom portion of the set, but a year group. And these young people are actually here on a school trip.

I am so old, and so tired, it's not even funny anymore.

Well, fuck it. I'm also going in to have a look at the set. I'm hoping it's an interesting one if a teacher is getting all hopped up about it.

I squeeze myself through the crowds clogging the gaps between the tables, looping my way around the bar towards the door to the main space at the Young Vic.

The wall has been painted up with an arrow to show the way. "Blood Wedding," it says, in an exact reenactment of all my personal nuptial-based fantasies.

There's a young usher on the door. I mean a Welcome Teamer. Sorry. I almost forgot we were at the Young Vic tonight. No ushers here. Anyway, he thanks the equally young men ahead of me with a "cheers!" but drops the laddishness as I step forward. It seems that I've been upgraded from aunt to full-on grandmother, as is my proper place in this world.

"It's one hour fifty with no readmission," he explains carefully before waving me through.

Inside the door, just as the dark corridor splits of into two opposite directions, another usher, shit, I mean, another Welcome Teamer, lies in wait. To welcome team us.

"This way?" I say, pointing down one corridor. I've read the signage. I know where I'm going.

"That's right!" she confirms cheerfully, and I'm on my way.

There's a short line of people queueing down here.

They must be the lottery ticket folks, waiting to be told where they'll be sitting.

I've done that before. Bought one of those tickets and hung out in the corridor until everyone else has been seated, then sent in to fill in the gaps.

I considered going for it again this time. A bit of experience to tell you about. But... eh. My ticket was only a tenner anyway. And nine months into the marathon I'm pretty exhausted. Let's keep this shit as easy as we can for the last leg of this challenge, shall we?

I keep on walking, until the wall gives way to an opening into the auditorium.

A Welcome Teamer stands waiting.

"B57?" I ask, showing him my ticket.

"B57. B57," he repeats look around him. "Err, over here, and... yeah... second row."

He points across the stage to aisle on the opposite side.

Tonight, we're in the round. Or rather, we're in the octagon.

I go up the steps, to the second row, and squint at the seat on the end. The seat numbers are on tiny little metal squares, slipped into equally tiny frames at the top of the backrest. Except this little square is making a break for it. I thwart its plans, tapping it back into place.

57.

That's me.

And what a funny seat it is.

Slightly apart from its neighbour and set at an angle. Like that single jump seat you find in black cabs, which the drunkest girl on any night out will always manage to find herself sitting in, and falling off, on the way home.

I don't think I'll be falling off this one.

It's wide and comfortable, and there's a board in front of my legs that will prevent my tumbling forward into the front row.

What it doesn't have, is a great view.

Oh, I can see most of what's going on in the octagon. For all that teacher's encouragement to look at the set, there isn't all that much to look out. Just a pile if jumbled chairs in the middle and a cross hanging from the ceiling. That's what I can see at least. But I suspect there is something else hidden from view by the wall of the aisle on my side.

Perhaps I should have got myself one of those lottery tickets after all.

I get out my programme and have a look. There's a transcribed conversation between the director Yael Farber, and Kwame Kwei-Armah, which kinda confirms to me that the Young Vic is pushing hard into the cult of the artistic director. But whatever. Then there's another discussion with the director, but this one is with the adaptor, Marina Carr. That's interesting. I guess.

But between these two spreads is a timeline of Lorca's life, and I am relieved to confirm, that yes, he is indeed, no longer in the land of the living. He was executed in 1936.

They never found his grave though...

Just saying.

The Welcome Teamers make their way around the octagon, hoping up the stairs to make sure we're all behaving before the performance starts.

"If you have your phones out, now's the time to turn it off," our Welcome Teamer says before slipping into a seat on the end of the front row.

I put my phone away.

I'm sitting right behind him.

I better be good.

The lights dim, and I tuck my hands under my thighs. I'm really quite excited about this play. Because I love Lorca. I've already said that. But like, seriously, I really love Lorca. And if this wedding is bloody enough to set Janet worrying about him, well, I am here for it. I want to see a stage soaked with the red stuff. I want the floorboards stained permanently. I want to come away from this with a dry cleaning bill.

And things are looking promising. There's a woman on her knees, cleaning up a puddle of some sinister liquid or other off the floor.

It isn't blood though. And I immediately lose interest.

Not for long though. It is Lorca after all.

He manages to create drama even without inflicting fatal wounds on all his characters.

A simple boy marries girl is marred by a backstory worthy of G.R.R. Martin, a bunny-boiler of an ex-boyfriend, and, you know, parents.

Through into a mix Thalissa Teixeira as a sentient moon, some aerial running from Gavin Drea, and Aoife Duffin wearing the cutest little button boots, and you've got yourself one hell of a play. Plus, when Drea and David Walmsley take off their shirts to have a knife fight... that is some high-class art right there.

I don't even mind that I have to wait right for the end for them to unscrew the caps on the fake blood bottles. It was worth it.

Fucking weird though.

I'm beginning to worry about Lorca.

Are we really sure he's dead? I could do with a really niche comedy right about now.

The Voice of God is lost in Hell

After whinging and complaining about the ticket prices at the Hampstead Theatre when I was here last time, I’m back, in the main house, and the somewhat proud owner of a fully bought and paid for ticket. And only twenty-five quid, which, while not exactly a bargain, is definitely on the right side of almost reasonable.

Anyway, it’s the first production in the new AD’s first season. And Roxana Silbert has programmed a play with a title so striking, I just had to book myself in: The King of Hell’s Palace. I mean, come on. That sounds really me, doesn’t it?

As I step through the glass doors, I instantly feel ten years younger. I have a spring in my step and am filled with the joyous optimism of youth. It’s very disconcerting.

I try to enjoy it. It’s not often that I, being in my… don’t make me say it… mid-thirties now, get to be the youngest person in the room. But bar a few shiny-looking ushers, I am a mere child in comparison to the rest of tonight’s crowd.

I bounce my way over to the box office counter, side-stepping to avoid a very elderly man who is shuffling past at such a lilt I’m fearful he won’t make it to the other side.

Thankfully, we both make it to our destinations, and I give the nearest box officer my name, and he pulls the Ss free from the ticket box.

“Can you just confirm your postcode?” he asks.

I can. And do.

He unfolds the ream and inspects it. “You’ve got a programme voucher,” he says, tearing it free. This is news to me, I must have felt ballin’ when I bought this ticket. Still, it saves me fifty pee, and three quid isn’t bad at all for the hefty programme he hands me with a cheerful “here you go!”

“You’re entering through door number one,” he goes on, pointing to the doorway at the end of the gangway just next to us. It is indeed marked with a huge number one. Two number ones, actually. One handing down from the ceiling, and another affixed to the wall. This doorway isn’t shy about showing it’s dominance.

I get out my phone to take a photo and one of those shiny young ushers freezes just as she was about to step into my shot.

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

She dithers, not wanting to ruin my photo.

“Really, it’s fine,” I assure her, waving her across. And with that, she belts her way across the walkway, diving through the premiere door in order to keep the inconvenience of her presence to a minimum.

Bless.

I have a flick through of the programme. They’ve changed since I was here last. Paper is thicker, and uncoated. The binding is perfect rather than saddle stitched. This place has upped its game. The programmes look well fancy now.

One of the box officers calls over a front of house. She has a radio. I’m thinking we’ve got a duty manager in the vicinity.

“Can you tell the voice of god to announce the house is open?” asks the box officer.

The suspected duty manager duly makes the request and a few seconds later…

“The house is now open,” comes god’s voice over the sound system. “May I remind you…” but the rest of her message to us mortals is lost in the hubbub of the foyer. I just hope I remember whatever we needed to be reminded of.

I decide to go in before I forget anything else.

Down the gangway that takes me right over the foyer of the downstairs theatre, past the side of the curved hull of the theatre, and through door one.

There’s a ticket checker in here.

“First row of this section, just up the stairs,” he says, indicating the way.

I follow his directions, going up the short series of steps that take me towards the back of the stalls.

It's like a mini balcony back here. Slightly raised from the rest of the stalls, and yes, I'm in the front row of it - contained behind a dividing wall.

"'Scuse me. Sorry. Do you mind?" I say as I inch my way through to my seat.

An older man, looks up at me as I approach. "Are you...?" He points to the empty space next to him.

"No," I tell him. "I'm a bit further on. Sorry," I had as he disgruntedly gets to his feet.

In my seat I get down to the business of getting play-ready. Jacket off. Glasses on. Check my phone...

"There must be a way to knock them out," says the old man's wife, giving me some serious side-eye. "Theatres should do something. Stop the signal."

"Phones are always going off," agrees the old man.

I roll my eyes. My phone is on silent. It's been on silent since 2007. No one under the age of fifty has a ringtone nowadays.

But nice to know that I'm sitting next to people that would rather theatres indulge in illegal phone jamming then put up with the odd noise from someone who never managed to convince their grandkids how to change the settings on their phone.

I put my phone on airplane mode and shove it away in my bag.

I have a bloody good view of the stage. Almost in the middle and with no heads blocking the way. I can see the whole stage. Even the thrusty bit sticking out into the stalls. There's a travellator there. No, wait. There are two travellators there, running all the way to a pair of doors at the back of the set. I'm not sure about this. I've seen my fair share of travellators on stage before. It's almost never good news. Still, I've got some excellent legroom here. Lots of it. Time to get comfy.

I lean back and wriggle my shoulders. Hmm. No, that's no right. I pull my jacket free from behind me, shove it under my seat, and try again.

Yeah. No. There's still something there.

I shift forward and look behind me.

Sticking out of the back of the seat is what I can only describe as a bolster cushion. It juts out, like the arch support of an orthopaedic shoe. I can only imagine its existence is designed to sit within the small of the back, but my spine does not want to conform. I try again, first sitting up really tall, and then slouching back down, trying to work out whether I am too short or too tall for the anatomy of these seats. Neither seems to work. There is clearly something very wrong with my backbone.

Too late to worry about it now. The play is starting. We're flung back in time. To the 90s. In China. After making it through the Great Famine, everyone is determined to make it rich. The peasants are selling their plasma, and the city-folk are more than happy to buy it. Even if they don't have enough centrifuges in the clinics to keep all the blood separate before pumping it back into bodies.

In a fit of dancing exuberance, a red baseball cap goes flying into the audience. During the interval, a front-rower retrieves it, laying it carefully on the thrust part of the stage so that it can be retrieved by a stage manager.

My neighbour returns and immediately gets her phone out. I consider making a comment about how theatres really should do something about blocking signals within the auditorium, but I'm tired, and I finally managed to find a position in this seat where the back cushion isn't trying to paralyse me.

She puts it away, and the second act starts.

A fever is spreading. But it can't be AIDS. AIDS doesn't exist in China, And it's illegal to say otherwise.

But the peasants are growing peonies. My absolute favourite flower. And there are thousands of them. In all the colours. Covering the stage with their blooms until it starts to look like a Pina Bausch performance.

I think I'm in heaven.

Or hell. I can't tell.

When Yin Yin's husband unpacks her suitcase, and finds five whole bottles of sriracha, well, I have never felt so seen. I wouldn't be fleeing the country without an adequate supply of the hot stuff either.

We make it through to the end, and not a single phone rings. Not even mine.

Turns out you can trust the masses to think for themselves. Sometimes.

Being Good Isn't Always Easy

Only a month since it's opened and the Troubadour White City Theatre has already lost its crown as the newest theatre in London. The Troubadour is old news. There's a newer theatre in town.

I can't tell you much about this newer one. The website for the Turbine Theatre is still in its infancy by the looks of it. I know the theatre's in Battersea. I know they are currently showing Torch Song. But other than that... nothing. They don't even have an email address or box office phone number on there. When I tried to get some contact deets out of them on Twitter, no one replied.

Which is like, super helpful and really promising. Nothing says 'you're going to have a great time here' like a theatre ignoring you. And everyone else it seems. Questions about e-tickets, pleas for help with online booking, requests to know if they sell food, all left floating around unanswered, lost to the wilderness.

So, with my mental state ready tuned to the Fuck You Turbine Theatre channel, I make my way across Chelsea Bridge to see what's up with this uncommunicative newcomer to the London theatre scene.

I find them under one of the railway arches.

It looks nice enough.

Tables and chairs have been set around aside and people are enjoying their pre-show drinks in the evening sun. Through the large window I can see the long counter taking up the length of the foyer. One side marked up as the box office, the other as the bar.

But just in case there's any confusion, they have a man posted on the door to welcome us all in. He's wearing a taupe-coloured apron that wouldn't look out of place in one of those hipster coffee shops decorated solely with exposed pipe-work and man-buns.

"Have you got your tickets yet?" he asks.

I tell him I need to pick them up and he directs me over to the box office, just a few short steps inside the door,

I barely have to make those steps before another man in a taupe apron is ready and primed with the ticket box in hand, asking for my name.

I give it.

"Maxine?" he asks, pulling out the ream of tickets.

Yup. That's me.

Tickets in hand (there's a lot of ticket stock going on here) I take a quick circuit of the foyer to see what's going on. The bar is busy. It's a warm night and everyone needs a drink. There's a screen on the far wall advertising what they have. Wine. Spirits. Good selection of both. I'm not really interested in any of that. My focus goes straight to the last portion. The snacks.

Cookies. Flapjacks. Macaroons. Crisps.

A macaroon does sound good. I don't think I've seen them offered in a theatre bar yet. Could the Turbine Macaroon be the next Bridge Madeleine? I try to sneak close to get a look, but the cookies and whatnot seem to be pre-wrapped in paper bags and stacked up in a way that means they're not visible for drive-by drooling. I pass.

I turn my attention to the decor. It's very train-tunnel-chic, with a modern chandelier of bulbs sticking out from an upturned crinoline hanging from the curved brick ceiling. The designers, who have clearly noted the trend for bookcase-wallpaper in fringe theatres, has gone one step further and made a book-bar.

It's pretty nice looking. I like it.

Still not sure what the connection between theatres and bookshelves are, but I'm happy to accept it as a thing, and welcome it into my life.

And no, I'm going to stop you there. They aren't playtexts. Or books about theatre.

Unless A book of Archeology is the name of the a Tom Stoppard play that I managed to miss.

Whatever. It's cool. Theatre people tend to also be booky people. It's all good.

But by the looks of it, theatre people aren't, or at least Turbine Theatre people aren't, programme people.

I can't see programmes anywhere. The front of housers don't seem to have any. And none of the audience members do either. I consider asking if there are freesheets, but it's much too warm in here and I really want to go stand outside for a bit.

So I do that instead, trying to breathe in what little breeze there is, before I start seeing movement through the window, as everyone gets up and begins the gentle march towards the auditorium.

I join them. Walking down the corridor behind the box office. The walls are lined with mismatched mirrors on both sides. I stop to take a photo, before realising that I'm wearing the exact same outfit I wore the last time I paused to take a theatre-mirror-selfie. I quickly put my phone back down and carry on.

The wall-of-mirrors breaks up as the hallway leads off into mini side passages, where such mysterious locations as staircases, the accessible loos, and countless other wonders live.

We keep on walking. The corridor stretching out longer than I thought train tracks were capable of being wide. So long that I begin to wonder whether all these mirrors are playing tricks on me, and I'm being lead deep into the Turbine's lair where I'll be forced to spend the rest of my days chained to a smartphone, replying to all the tweets they get with the faux-jovial tones of the professional content person. "We're open from 10 today for all your pre-matinee brunching needs. Try the macaroons!!! [insert heart eyed emoji x 3]"

But no, there's the end of the corridor, and an aproned-up usher is tearing tickets.

Through the door and everything goes dark. Black curtains line one side of the corridor, and moody lighting highlights the brickwork on the other.

Over the sound system, a woman begs a man to stay close at hand, and if he doesn't stay forever, she'll understand.

"It's Dusty!" says the man in front in tones of wonder.

The curtain ends and we stumble into the theatre. Another aproned usher checks my ticket and directs me to the front row, but I take a moment to hang back, and look at the space.

The roof of the tunnel curves above us. On one side is the stage, small. On the other is a bank of raked seating.

In the middle, are four rows of chairs. The first two set at an angle, mirroring the pointing stage. The next two straight across.

Four rows. That's a lot to not have a rake between them.

I thank whichever theatre god it was who pushed me to by a front row seat. That's never my first choice. But somehow, for this theatre, I knew.

Because here's the thing. This theatre has flat pricing. Every seat in the house is £33. (Well, 32, with a one quid booking fee, but same-diff). And flat-price seating is great. Allocated seating is also great. But having a combination of the two is tricky unless you are really sure you haven't got any duds in the house. I don't want to be turning up to find I have the back of someone's head in my sightline, if I know for a fact that they paid the same as me to sit there, blocking me. If you're going to flat-price, you better be damn sure that every seat has a similar experience (like, say, the Jermyn Street Theatre), or seating should be unallocated in order to reward those who turn up early and are prepared to queue for the best spots (like upstairs at The Royal Court).

And I mean, it would be fine if the tickets were cheap. I guess. But like, properly cheap. Not fantasy-cheap. Not the cheap we are told to consisder cheap. But real cheap. As in, I don't have to think twice about spending this money type of cheap.

£33 is not a cheap theatre ticket. I know people who run theatres like to think that £33 is a cheap ticket. But they're wrong. They are wrong by about twenty-pounds worth of ticket. If I've going to be sitting in a restricted view space, and I'm not in the West End, I better not be paying more than 15 quid.

But today, that's not my problem.

I find my chair in the front row, and deal with the business of removing my jacket and trying to cool down.

It's really warm in here.

I get out my fan and give myself a good blast.

"Oh! That fan's great," says my neighbour as he catches the tail-wind of my efforts.

"Shall I keep going?" I ask, just to check. I'm not very good at telling when people are taking the piss.

"Yeah, don't stop!"

Well, alrighty then. I do my best to keep a steady stream of cool air going over the both of us, until the theatre has filled, the lights have dimmed, and a slim figure wearing a pale pink sheer robe emerges in our midst.

He strikes a match, lights a cigarette, and saunters on stage, ready to tell his tale.

He's a drag queen. Prone to falling in love. Seemingly always attracting those men that can't quite give him the commitment he craves.

As he disappears off stage, we get a glimpse into his effect on men as our next character stands alone on stage, enchanted, and part of a one-sided conversation. The words of our drag queen lost to the ages.

When he finally reappears, the makeup is gone. As is his admirer. Lost to societies expectations of straightness.

Through the open wall behind him, I see actors running around in their underwear, preparing for the next scene. The neon signs above the stage switch over. We're in the second part of the play, the stage pulls out into a massive bed, and we have a new lover for our favourite drag queen.

Blackout.

Someone in the row behind shouts "bravo, bravo," through the applause.

We appear to be in an opera house.

A sign lights up on the wall.

"Intermission."

... an American opera house.

But there's no time to worry about that. I need some fresh air.

I escape back out the hall of mirrors and head back outside.

And there I stop. Staring at something.

A programme.

Someone is holding a programme.

Where the hell did they get that?

I go back in, looking around, and there I see it. A programme. All blue and yellow and Great Gatsbyish in its artwork. Propped up on top of the box office.

Shit. Okay. There's no one at the box office. Not now. But I guess I can queue at the bar.

It's already curling it's way all across the foyer.

I join the end.

It's moving very slowly. This might take a while.

I start looking around. My eye catches something. A Great Gatsbesque something.

One of the front of housers is holding a stack of programmes.

Wishing the queue a mental so-long-suckers, I tap out and go over to the usher. He's chatting to two blokes, but as I approach he looks over.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"That's two pounds fifty."

I dig out a note from my purse, and I notice one of the blokes riffling through his wallet.

"Oh, sorry," I say. "Did I just queue barge?"

"Ah, it's alright," says the usher with a dismissive shrug.

Oh dear. I scuttle away shamefaced. At least I have a programme now. Which means I can tell you that the drag queen is played by Matthew Needham, and the pair of actors in their pants were Daisy Boulton and Dino Fetscher, and the new love interest was Rish Shah.

That was certainly worth the wait.

Back in the theatre and a stage manager is stirring a pot on a stove that has suddenly appeared during the interval.

The air is filled with the smell of cooking.

It's a very familiar scent. Almost sweet.

With a tap of her spoon, she disappears. And a new stage manager replaces her, peering into the pot and giving it a good stir before he too disappears.

I don't know what it is, but I really want my dinner now.

"Smells like onions," says someone coming through the door.

Yes! That's it. Onions.

My stomach rumbles.

As the play restarts, Fetscher takes over cooking duties. Cracking eggs and adding them to the concoction, before adding a very healthy dose of salt. My kind of cook. As he replaces the salt on the shelf, he does a little spin, a neat pirouette.

"Bravo," calls the man sitting behind me.

But the bravo-man's approval is fickle. As Fetscher scoops up the shells and tips them into the pedal bin, the bravo-man tuts. "Health and safety," his whispers.

Quite.

After that, there's just enough time for my heart to be broken a couple more times (damn you Jay Lycurgo), and experience some mild flashbacks of dealing with my own Jewish mother (thanks Bernice Stegers) and then we're done. We're out. And I'm walking over the river feeling a little bit shakey and disorientated. But whether that's due to the play, or all those mirrors, I cannot tell you.

On Sundays Peckham wears Pink

I know I diss Peckham a lot in this blog. But that's only because it's so damn hard to get too, and yet still apparently contains half the theatres in London. I've been to Peckham more in the past eight months than I have in my entire life. I mean, seriously. What's up, Peckham? Why so greedy on the theatres? Some of us have to go through life living with only one theatre within walking distance, and you have them everywhere. In drama schools. And old munitions factories. And now, apparently, car parks.

Yup, I'm off to a car park. To watch some contemporary dance.

Because: Peckham.

Anyway, this place, Bold Tendencies, is apparently not just a car park. Or it's not a car park anymore. It's like, a bona fide venue. Or possibly an art gallery. I hadn't heard of it before. But I suspect that's just because I ain't cool enough to be hanging around in car park in Peckham on the reg.

They did send a super intense pre-show email, though.

E-tickets need to be scanned on the rooftop. But the performance is not happening on the rooftop. You need to get a wristband, and then that will allow you down onto Floor 8. But wait, when getting your ticket scanned, make sure the barcode is expanded to fill the entire width of the screen and the brightness is turned way up high. And when you have your wristband, make sure that it's visible to security.

I ignore everything else. Door times. And bar locations. And the artworks on display. I've hit information overload.

But it's fine. I can do this. Download ticket. Fill screen. Get scanned. Wristband on. Down to Floor 8. Flash wristband. Into venue.

Easy.

I'll figure the rest out when I get there.

If I ever do.

Now, I don't want to turn this whole thing into a rant about trains. But seriously, Peckham needs to get itself a tube station. I can't deal with this.

And like, I arrive in Peckham. And I didn't die. So whatever. Here I go.

Although, I've not sure where exactly.

The little circle in Google Maps that is supposed to be me is greyed out and ineffectual, and while that is an accurate reflection of my current state, is not exactly helpful.

I have no idea where I'm going.

I open the pre-show email again, do a bit of scrolling, and yup. There are instructions on how to find this place. So, thank you Bold Tendencies. I needed you, and you were right there. Down Rye Lane, over the pedestrian crossing, towards the Multiplex and up the staircase on my left. Exactly as promised.

I trudge my way up the stairs. Spiralling round and round and getting a good glimpse of the type of rubbish businesses leave on their rooftops.

And then I stop. Because this endless round of spiralling bleakness has stopped. And there's a doorway. And light is streaming out. And suddenly, everything is pink!

The man on the door grins and steps aside to let me through into a pink hallway.

The pinkest hallway I've ever been in.

The pinkest anything I've ever been in.

Well, at least, the pinkest anything I've been in since my best friend's fifth birthday party.

The walls are pink. The floor is pink. The ceiling is pink. The lifts have been painted pink. As have the doors. And the steps.

And not mauve or salmon or coral.

But pink pink.

Proper pink.

Flamingo pink. Or possibly bubblegum.

Oh my god. I just realised. This is it. This is the famous millennial pink. I found it. In Peckham.

And it's everywhere.

I keep on climbing, and turning, and climbing. And it's pink. All pink.

Do I like it? I don't know. My little goth heart is screaming in agony, but that former five-year-old at her best friend's party is squeeing in delight. And just before the two sides get into a fight, it stops. I'm outside. On a rooftop. And all of London is spread out before me, twinkling in the darkness.

There's a large hut over to my right which I'm fairly confident is the place I'm supposed to get beeped in, but it's no good. I have to check out that view first. I can see everything from up here. There's the London Eye. And the Shard. And the... Walkie Talkie? Is that what it's called? I can't remember. Whatever, it's very impressive.

I take a few photos and then just stand there, breathing in the night air down to the bottom of my lungs. But it's no good. It's been raining all afternoon, and the puddles are beginning to leak into my shoes.

I'm going to go and get beeped.

I go over to the information shed, but there's a slight problem. The reception up here is crap.

Or rather, the reception in Peckham is crap.

I walk around in circles as the ticket downloads, trying not to look like I've having an anxiety attack on a rooftop, but being very aware that I'm doing a bad job of it.

Finally, it downloads. I have my ticket.

Screen brightness up. Screen zoomed in so that the barcode takes up the full width. I join the queue.

One of the box officers catches my eye. "Are you with them?" she asks, indicating a group waiting at the counter.

I tell her I'm not. I don't have friends willing to come see a show in a Peckham car park at 9pm on a Sunday night. But I'm flattered that she thinks that I do.

"I can scan you," she says.

I hold out my phone and she beeps it.

"So," she says. "That's one standing."

She rummages around in a box of wristbands. "I don't seem to have any..."

"Oh no..." I say.

And then it happens.

I don't know why. Something came over me. I couldn't stop myself. I made the joke. You know the one. The joke that anyone who has ever done even a day's worth of customer service has heard a thousand times. "You can upgrade me if you like. I don't mind." I cringe as the words come out of my mouth, but it's too late now. I've said it.

She smiles politely and refrains for leaning over the counter to batter me over the head with her scanner. For which I can only silently thank her and offer her my eternal respect.

"I have some," says her fellow box officer, bringing over another tub and rescuing the both of us.

A red wristband is duly fished out and my very sweet box office gets it ready.

I offer up my wrist and as she sticks it in place, she gives me the rundown of the event.

"The show starts at nine. The doors will be opening soon, and it's one hour. It's in two parts. There will be a short break in the middle, about four minutes. Do you know where you're going?"

"Down one level?" I say, feeling proud and a little bit smug that I remembered that detail from the pre-show email.

"Have you been here before?"

I admit that I haven't, but again, I'm secretly rather pleased that she thinks that I hang out in car parks in Peckham.

"It's down the ramp," she says, pointing behind me to the other side of the roof. "You're standing so there will be someone down there who will show you where to go."

She hands me a freesheet, and with that, I'm released.

The doors aren't open yet. But that doesn't matter. I wanted to be here early. Because this place isn't just a car park. Oh no. It's not even a car park with a theatre. It's a car park with a frickin' outdoor gallery.

The rooftop is covered with all sorts of interesting things. And I am off to explore them.

First, there's a twisting set of tunnels. I stomp my way through them, boggling at the sight of leather jackets hung on the wall and dining tables stuck to the ceiling.

Fellow tunnels gasp and jump when they bump into me. One man even claims I almost gave him a hard attack.

It's all very pleasing.

Next up I go over to a huge painting of a mouth that looks like it was lifted staight off the truck of a travelling circus.

But as I walk over to it I stop.

There's a car up here. An actual car. I stare at it, wondering if this place still has a dayjob as an actual car park, but then a low thrumming, somewhere between a car revving and a swarm of bees, emerges from the vehicle, and I realise that it's another piece of art. I find the panel and read. Something to do with the Polish mob. Very disconcerting.

I walk around a bit more, looking at all the installations. But then I spot people beginning to make their way down the ramp, so I figure it's time to go in.

At the bottom of the ramp, a man with a suit and dark glasses nods as I approach. At first I wonder if he's anything to do with the mob-mobiles, but he smiles and the effect is gone.

"Am I going in the right direction?" I ask, suddenly doubtful. Behind him there's a huge pillar of TV scenes, and I think I might have stumbled upon another piece of art.

"You are in the right place," he says, kidly. "Just speak to my colleague over there and she'll show you to your seat..." He spots my red wristband. "Or standing or whatever."

I head in the direction he indicates, and show my wristband to the woman standing there. "Standing? Yup, if you just go to the back."

I seem to be walking behind the stage. There's loads of speakers and a tech desk here. And then in front of them, a dance floor, surrounded by little lights, and seating on three sides.

At the other end, there's a woman wearing a pink hoody. "Standing?" she asks, clocking the wristband. "Yup, you're just around here at the back," she says, pointing to a raised platform behind the seats.

There aren't many people here yet. So I pick a space near the middle. There's a railing to lean against, and the platform means I should be able to see over the heads of the people sitting in front. These spots were sold for as restricted view, but I think even my short-arse is going to be fine. Pretty darn good for a fiver, I must say.

There's someone on stage, having a photoshoot. At first I think she's a model, because she's giving serious pose. And then I figure she's one of the dancers. But when I put my glasses on, I realise I know who that is. I recognise her. It's Sharon Eyal. The choreographer.

When they're done taking pictures, Eyal slips on those huge bulky trainers. You know the ones. They're all over Instagram. I want to say they're called Buffalos, but I might be making that up. Either way, she's rocking it and I'm super jealous, because I want some. But I know I would look ridiculous in them. And not the good kind of ridiculous. The kind with geometric hair paired with architectural glasses. Just the what-the-fuck-is-she-doing kind. Which is not a look I fancy rockin' at my age.

But somehow, I don't mind being less cool than Sharon Eyal.

That was never I battle I was going to win.

As for the rest of the audience, I'm not so sure. There's a lot of oversized shirts going on. And baggy trousers. And massive jackets. In fact, everything they're wearing is huge. Like I've stumbled into the student halls on the last day of term, and there are just piles of laundry everywhere.

Even the woman in the pink hoodie looks cool. Now I see her from the back I can see that it says "Ask me about the art," in block capitals, which is a phrase I'm spotted elsewhere around here so it must be a Bold Tendencies thing, but I don't care, because I really, really, want one now. Even in fucking pink. I don't care. Ask me about the art, dammit.

As more people arrive, the standers all shuffle around to make room for them. But after a while, no amount of shuffling will fit everyone in, and a second row starts to form.

A small group gather behind me. They manage to push the girl in next to me, but the blokes are left behind.

"I want to sit on the floor," one of them announces,

"There's loads of space!"

But they decide to stay put.

The lights dim. People start to come out from a door behind us.

There's Sharon Eyal again, with a cute little boy next to her. They go and take up position in the middle of the central block of seating, standing close to each other.

The music bangs out loud, and the dancers appear, dressed in skin-tight black bodysuits.

It's a strange set up this. Not the stage or seating or anything. That's pretty standard for a pop up. I mean the car parkiness of it all. I'd never really noticed just how low the ceilings in car parks are before. It's not the most logical location for a dance performance. Jumping is out, for sure. They’d hit their head mid jete.

Good thing Eyal isn't really into the jumpy thing. More shuffling steps and twisting trance-like limbs.

People start getting their phones out, taking pictures. That's a thing I've noticed about these unusal spaces. Whatever barriers are broken to get performance of theatres seems to have smashed the normal conventions of watching it.

A bloke sitting in front of me films a short clip, starts editing it on his phone, then posts it to Instagram.

As soon as it's uploaded, he does it again.

Then he navigates to his profile to make sure it's gone up.

It has. So now his 18 followers can enjoy a ten-second amateur film, taken above the heads of the people sitting in front, of a group of dancers dressed in black, performing in low lighting. I'm sure they'll really enjoy it.

He shows it to the woman he's with.

She's impressed at least. She impressed that she takes her own film. Which she then sends in a Whatsapp message. "Lev dance company [heart emoji]" she types.

I can't help but think the heart emoji is a touch insincere, considering she's been playing on her phone for the entire performance.

As the bloke lifts his phone up right in front of me, yet again, to take some more footage, I let me eyes wander over to Eyal and the boy.

They are having great fun. He's drumming along to the music with his arms, she's got her own groove down.

He tugs at her sleeve, and she leans down so that he can whisper something in her ear.

It's super cute.

As the piece finishes, the lights go down and the audience roars their appreciation, masking the music that is still playing.

"What's happening?" asks the bloke standing behind me.

"It's the interval," his friend says. "Shall we go to the bar?"

"Can we?"

"Yeah. We've got like, twenty minutes. It's still open. We should get a drink, otherwise we'll just be standing here for twenty minutes."

I want to tell them it's four minutes, not twenty, but it's too late. They're already off, circling around the stage towards the bar.

Four minutes later, they haven't returned. I hope it's because they just have found some empty seats to sneak into.

I use the time to look at the freesheet. Turns out the tower of screens are actually videos taken in the rehearsal room. So, you know, that's cool.

The lights go down, and the car park is filled with an inky blackness, made all the ribbon of London lights around us.

Trains rumble past, competing with the loud, ravey music, and I can't help but think about what the neighbours must feel about all this. Loud music pounding out at 10 o'clock on a school night, without even the benefit of walls to keep it contained.

At the end, the audience jumps to their feet - including the pair who spent the entire performance working on their social media. Through the forest of bodies, I can just about make out Eyal and the boy joining to dancers for the bows. The boy demonstrates his flossing technique and a dancer joins in, making us all laugh.

The dancers are handed huge pink blooms, which they immediately run out to the audience with, handing them over to people in the front row.

As soon as the house lights are back on, I'm off, leaping down from the platform and racing through the press of people unsure if they need to get in one more drink before they go home. There's a train back to Victoria in, gawd, six minutes, and I am going to make it, dammit.

Down the pink stairs.

Counted out by security on a little clicker.

Back outside and onto the spiral staircase, weaving through the slow-moving crowds.

I pelt it past the Multiplex, past the back, over the crossing, round the corner, into the station, tap in, up one flight of stairs, then another. I can hear the train pulling in. Oh gawd. But it's okay, I'm here, I'm here. A few more steps. I fling myself through the open doors and collapse into an empty seat just as my lungs are about to explode.

Made it.

But damn, I swear Peckham is trying to kill me.

Roundabout Here

For all the times that the theatre gods have had my back on this marathon, they really fucked up big time over the last week. After complaining endlessly about how hard to was to get to theatres all the way from Finchley, I promptly find that as soon as I shift myself down to Hammersmith, the Camden Fringe kicks off, and everything of any use to me is now on the Northern Line.

And what's doubly annoying, is that I can't even blame the fringe for this afternoon's trip. I'm off to a weekday matinee at the Roundhouse. Which I could have done at literally any time when I was just a tube ride away. But now, I have to wait until I go all the way down to the end of the Piccadilly line to book this one.

I really need to get better at planning things.

My spreadsheets just aren't cutting it at the moment.

So, anyway. Whatever. It's my fault. And not the theatre gods. Need to make that clear. I don't want them to smite me now.

Especially when I'm running super late.

On the tube for over an hour, and I'm belting it down the road from Chalk Farm station. The pavements are clogged with tourists getting their Camden on. I dodge between them, trying to ignore the clunk in my knee that still hasn't healed.

Where was I? Right. The Roundhouse. Been here before. Never for theatre though. Always for dance. Bit of Akram Khan and... no. I think that's it actually.

Getting my theatre in now though. I'm here for The Barber Shop Chronicles which I managed to totally miss when it was at the National.

Thank gawd for transfers, eh? Bit of an unusual one though, coming to the Roundhouse I mean. Not a classic National Theatre transfer location. Their things usually end up going to the West End before they bust them out on the regional touring circuit. I'm not complaining though. Everyone was raving about this show, and now I actually get to see it, and bonus points - it counts towards the marathon. Theatring doesn't get much better than that.

I'm think I'm here now. I can see the familiar round walls of the place coming up. I trot down the steps and make my way to the main door. And with a few minutes to spare.

Thank the theatre gods.

"Have you got your tickets?" asks the security dude minding the door.

I stop.

"Picking up?" I say.

He points to another door just behind me. "Just that door there, madam."

Madam?

I mean... I don't want to be one of those old women who complain about being called Madam. But seriously. Madam?

Never mind. It doesn't matter. I've not got time for this.

"That door?" I ask, just to double-check.

"That's it," he says. Very patiently.

Well, okay then. That door it is.

I rush back across the flagstones and push my way in through this other door.

The box office is right in front of me.

Two queues. A sign pinned to the barrier rope tell me that I need to go left.

I go left.

Down the line of box officers, that one right at the end sticks up her hand and waves it, indicating she's free. I make my way down.

She has pink hair and a very familiar-looking face.

Very familiar.

"Hello?" I say.

She looks up.

"Oh my god..."

It's Emma!

Now, Emma hasn't been on the blog before, but her presence has been felt. She was the one who gave me the tip-off that the Embassy theatre lurks within the walls of Central School of Speech and Drama. And I think I might have mentioned the feather she got me at Ridley's Feathers in the Snow, way back when in the old Southwark Playhouse.

And now she's here. I had no idea she worked here.

"You're here!" I say, still not entirely convinced of the fact, even though she's standing all of two feet in front of me.

"I'm here!" she says helpfully. "I've been seeing everyone come to this one. It's so good."

"Is it?" I haven't heard a single bad thing about the show, but still... after traipsing halfway across London to see it, I need the reassurance.

"It really is."

That's a relief.

"And you're here..." I seriously cannot get over this.

She grins. "I'm back in box office. Mostly music, but today it's theatre."

"And so I'm here," I say, throwing up my arms. Where theatre goes... I follow.

"You're here!"

"Err, so... the surname's Smiles," I say, just in case she's forgotten. It's been a while...

She goes off to the desk at the back to look through the ticket box.

"You know, I saw that surname but didn't connect," she says, coming back with the ticket in hand.

"There aren't many of us..." There really aren't. I pause. Should I say something about the blog? I know she knows about the blog. Because of the whole telling me about the Embassy thing. Fuck it.. "You know you're going to be in my blog now..." I say darkly.

She flicks her hair. "I hope you make me sound good."

I laugh. I don't think she needs any help from me there. Emma is the box office queen, handing out feathers and keeping everyone in line. In the nicest way possible.

"I wish we could catch up," she says, very sweetly.

"Is there an interval?"

"No, it's one hour forty-five, straight through."

Dammit. Usually, that would be the perfect answer to this question, but today... today I want to gossip with an old friend.

"They're just trying to keep us apart," I say with a sigh, before biding my goodbyes.

"You'll love it," says Emma. "Seriously.”

Well okay then. That is one hell of a recommendation.

I make my way over to the stairs.

I love the stairs at the Roundhouse.

They go round the house.

And that makes me happy.

Plus, being like, super-wide, and with that curve, they totally play into any Scarlett O'Hara fantasies knocking about in my head at any given moment. Hang on... that's super racist of me. Okay, scrap that. Any Rose from Titantic fantasies I got knocking about in my head. Just like... let's change the ending. Two people can fit on that door. Yadda yadda. You get it.

The stairs are great and deserve to be swept down while wearing a big-arse dress. I am not wearing a big-arse dress. But this is fantasy. And no one is sinking the Roundhouse any time soon.

Right. We're am I going now?

"Rear stalls" is what it says on my ticket. "Area 6."

Theatres in the round always have such confusing zoning, with all those entrances all over the place. It's more than my marathon-fogged brain can deal with.

The ticket checker beeps my ticket (fucking love a ticket beeper/paper ticket combo - Roundhouse is doing it) and I ask where I'm going.

"Go through to the right, and up the stairs," he says.

Seems simple enough.

I go right, and there are the stairs for area 6, clearly marked.

Where now?

There's another front of houser at the top of the stairs. I show him my ticket.

"You're in the back row," he says, pointing to the aisle just next to us. "Enjoy the show!"

I find my seat as I as take off my jacket and settle down, I try to work out what's wrong. It's all been far too easy.

It's a Thursday matinee. The house isn't exactly full. But still, a tall man manages to take the seat directly in front of me.

I turn my attention upwards. To the iron pavilion keeping up the domed roof. And the magnificent lighting rig punctuated with illustrated adverts for barbershops around the world. I try to read all of them, but I soon get distracted. The cast is already out on stage. As are half the audience, by the looks of it.

Front rowers are being invited out to sit in the barber chairs.

As Lil Nas X takes us down the Old Town Road, the actors fuss around them, pretending to run clippers over their heads before holding up mirrors so that their clients can check out their reflections. They all grin happily at the sight of their utterly unchanged style.

Black-clad stage managers appear to help take photos of audience members in the chairs.

And then the dancing starts.

The front rowers jump up to join in, spinning around to show off their new do to the sounds of The Sugarhill Gang's Apache.

And then they're sent back to their seats, because it's time to begin.

I slip into the seat next to me. Out from behind the tall man. Giving myself a clear view of the stage.

After all the dancing and the tunes, we're in a closed barbershop. It's early in the morning. So early the owner is still asleep on a mattress on the ground. A banging on the door. Someone needs an urgent haircut. They have a job interview at 9am, and it's three hours away from here.

And so we're taken on a tour of shops, all around Africa, touching base with one in London. Thousands of miles apart, they are united by conversations of race, language, the need for role-models, and a deep, ever-present joy.

Some much joy.

Too much to contain on stage.

It out over the audience until you can't help but grin along with these men who are determined to get the most out of life, and look good while doing it.

And through it all, we follow the course of a single joke, told from barber to client, client to barber, shop to shop, changing with the storyteller to suit to location, eventually landing in the lap of a young actor in London.

I don't think I've ever seen an ensemble cast so tight, so connected, so bursting with energy.

I love every single one of them.

I wonder who they are...

I've been doing the fringe-route for so long I'd forgotten there were things you could buy to help with that. Papery things. Look like books but thinner. Programmes! That's it.

As the cast disappear I look around the audience, but there's not a programme to be seen. The ushers don't seem to have any either.

But the cast is back out for one more dance number, and I forget all about it again.

Time to go.

Except, I have an evening show later. I should probably pop to the loo before I leave.

Yup.

It's happening.

What you've always wanted.

I'm going to review the theatre toilets.

And for a start, the queue is astonishing. Stretching right out the door and into the corridor before I get anywhere close.

We stand, shifting from one side to the other as men come and go through their own door with barely a pause.

A camaraderie forms in the line, as some of the older ladies joke about taking over the men's as well, and we lean against the door to keep it from slamming in any of our faces.

Inside it's clean enough. I have a bit of trouble figuring at the flushing button, but I get there in the end... no wonder the queue is so slow.

One of the soap dispensers is out of order. And there's only one hand dryer. For three sinks.

As I head out, the line is still stretching out into the corridor.

That’s done. I hope you're happy now. Loo reviewed.

Let's hope I don't ever have to do that again.

Back down the stairs, feeling rather less like Rose. I bet there weren't queues for the loos on the Titanic. Although, she probably only ever used the facilities in her stateroom...

Enough of that. I just spotted someone with pink hair. I've got a box officer I need to catch up with!

The Umbrellas of Troubadour

“Come on mum, let's go see the shooowwww.”

The plaintive cry wafts over the lawn as I walk towards my next theatre.

The grass is covered by young people scampering about. Their parents looking on in indulgent horror as knees and new dresses get smeared and stained.

I pick my way through their games and cross over the courtyard towards the front door.

I’m feeling a bit like an intrepid explorer right now.

It’s my first time here. It’s most people’s first time here. The place only opened a week ago, making it, quite possibly, London’s newest theatre. I’m not committing myself to that though. With the current rate of theatre openings in this city, four more might have popped up since I started this paragraph.

Still, I’m feeling a little late to the party. I was supposed to be here on opening night. Getting right in there before they had even peeled the plastic off. Except opening night never happened. The performance was cancelled. And this is the closest one I could get. On a Sunday. A day I try to keep free to give myself at least the pretence of having a weekend.

Can’t say it looks much like a theatre, at least not from the outside.

One end of the Troubadour White City Theatre is a blocky, glass-fronted cube. The other is curved like an arctic roll, making me think of those places your parents would drive you to as a kid, and there would be things like laser tag and soft play lurking inside (dependent on what age you are in this memory).

The foyer is packed, the music loud, and the air heavy, despite the huge glass doors being flung open to let in what little breeze there is.

Tungsten lightbulbs hang from the ceiling, and BOX OFFICE is picked out in lights behind the counter, thereby hitting every cliché of theatre design going from the past five years.

A man with a big tote bag over his shoulder walks up and down the queue, handing out paper flags to all the children clinging onto their parents’ legs as they wait. I consider asking him for one, but he moves quickly, and a second later, he’s gone.

I’m left to wait in the queue, alone and flagless.

But eventually I make it to the front, and after giving my name, I’m handed a ticket.

Right then. Time to explore.

The nearest door is marked in huge lettering with T1 DOOR 2. It takes me a good few seconds to work out that T1 is not the end point of a rocket launch countdown, but instead stands for Theatre 1.

According to my ticket, I’m after Door 1. So I go in search of that. I don’t see any signs anywhere. Not for the doors anyway. For Theatre 2 (T2?)? Yes, it’s just over there, further into the space. But door 1? No idea.

As I wonder around, I find the bar. Laden with a backdrop of booze, it doesn’t seem to be quite hitting the family-friendly mark. But perhaps towards the end of the summer holidays, the spirits will be looking a lot more friendly to the grown-up members of the party.

At the end of the bar, there’s a small add on, with programmes and tote bags on display.

A small girl wanders over and picks up a programme.

She holds it up to the merch desk lady and then proceeds to walk off with it.

The merch lady smiles at her, and very kindly explains that she needs to find a parent to pay for it. A parent is duly found, and the programme is bought.

Not having the foresight to have brought a parent along with me, I need to pay for my own programme. It’s four quid. Which is alright.

I go find a pillar to lean against so that I can have a good peruse and see what my four quid has bought me.

“Would you like a Peter Pan badge?” asks a young lady. She’s holding out a plastic cup, filled with tiny badges.

“I would love a Peter Pan badge,” I tell her, never meaning anything so much in my entire life.

“I just knew,” she laughs, and holds out the cup for me.

I pick out a badge at random.

“What one did you get?” she asks.

“Lost boy,” I tell her, reading it.

Apparently, that’s a good choice as she grins and moves on. I’m pleased with it. I love a badge. And while I can’t make any claims to being a boy, I’m more than a little lost in life right now.

“Welcome to the Troubadour White City Theatre,” booms a voice over the tannoy. “The doors to Theatre One are now open. Please enter using both doors one and two and ensure all mobile phones are switched off.”

It sounds like it’s time to go in.

And by the looks of this massive queue, Door 1 is just over there.

I join the end.

Ahead in the queue, someone is asking for a booster seat, and a front of houser goes off in search of them. As he opens the staff door to the cloakroom, my eye catches something. Several somethings. Several bright yellow somethings. A line of bright yellow umbrellas. The old-fashioned kind, with the crooked handle. All handing on a row along a coat rack.

They do look rather handsome. But I cannot fathom why a theatre would have so many matching umbrellas in their cloakroom. Unless the cast of Singin’ in the Rain have popped in to take in a matinee.

No time to think of that, I’ve reached the front of the queue.

“Perfect,” says the ticket checker as she checks my ticket. “Through here and up the stairs,” she says.

I follow her directions, passing through a black-cloth draped corridor towards the staircase.

I emerge half way up a massive bank of seats, stretching down from the stage all the way down at one end, to the very back row all the way at the top. There’s no circle here. Just endless rows of purple seating.

“Row ZA?” I ask the front of houser standing near the stairs. She points me in the right direction. The aisle on the left, and backwards.

I find my seat right at the end of the row, and settle myself down. Jacket off. Badge tucked away in my glasses case for safety. Programme thoroughly flicked though.

“Look, there’s no bad seats in here,” says a bloke as he sits in the row behind me.

“It’s because there’s no pillars,” replies the guy he’s with.

“It’s like a big curved tent.”

“It smells like a new car, doesn’t it?”

It does have that new car smell. As everything just came from the factory. And not just because of the smell. There’s a general feeling of off-the-lineness. The sort of feeling you’d get from somewhere like The Belly, or some other temporary theatre that’s thrown up for a season before being unscrewed, folded up, and packaged away until next year. The walls are lined with black fabric. The seating is clamped down on those moveable platforms that shake if you walk with too heavy a step. The stage feels better suited to a gig than a play.

People come in with multiple packets of crisps clamped between their lips, their hands filled with children and flags.

The guy and the bloke sitting behind me are talking about papering. They must be industry folk.

“Why would press be interested?” says the bloke. “They already reviewed it at the National. They'll just go on about the theatre.”

They better fucking not, that's my job. Critics need to stay in their lane and watch what’s happening on stage. What it feels like to be in the audience? That’s my game.

Some people come on stage wearing pyjamas and carrying instruments. There’s applause, but this space is so cavernous in gets lost in the curved roof high above us.

“Nope,” says one of the musicians, and they all traipse off again.

A second later, they’re back. The clapping is a bit louder this time. There are even a few whoops as the audience do their best to fight against the applause-vacuum.

“So you understand?” says a musicians. “We need to be on the same page, people.”

Yeah, yeah. We get it. And we’re trying! But it’s not all that easy to create atmosphere in a barn you know.

“Welcome to the brand-new Troubadour City….” He says. Then stops. “No. The Troubadour White City Theatre.” That venue name doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “We are the Fairy Stringers,” he continues. And then they start to play.

People keep coming in, but I notice no one is sitting on my row.

Now, I didn’t book this seat. I was moved when my performance was cancelled. I don’t know who put me here. The people at the Troubadour White City Theatre, or those at TodayTix, but someone, somewhere, decided that the best place to put a single booker was right on the end of an empty row. I would love to know the logic behind that. It might help me feel a bit less lonely right now.

At least I have plenty of space to sprawl and read my programme.

There’s an intro from the founders of the Troubadour theatres (all two of them).

“Troubadour Theatres are fully accessible and offer an enhanced audience experience with comfortable seating, extended leg room, laid-back bars that are destinations in their own right, and most importantly an abundance of loos!”

Hmm. Not sure about that. The bit about the leg room. I mean, yes, my legs fit, which is not as common an experience as you might think for someone who is five foot three. But I would hardly call the spacing luxurious.

The seats themselves have cup-holders attached to the back, giving a distinct cinema feel which doesn’t quite extend to the comfort of the seats themselves. Again, they’re fine. But that’s all they are. Fine. I’m sat in comfier, plusher, softer, theatre seats.

I wonder what the loo situation is. I’ll have to check them out during the interval.

Our band leader introduces one of the musicians.

“I'm gonna get a bit soppy,” she says. “It's my anniversary on Wednesday and my husband is in the audience so I'm going to sing this to you babe.”

Well all ‘Aww’ dutifully as she launches into a gorgeous rendition of Fly me to the moon, ending with the lines “In other words, Simon, I love you.”

Bless.

I do love love.

Romance complete, it’s on with the show.

And it’s alright. The kids are loving it. There’s some excellent flying action which extends right out into the cheap seats, which is nice.

All the little ones wave as Pan flies over their heads, and he waves right back. It’s all ridiculously charming, even if it does feel a bit long. Even for me.

I do like Hook’s outfit though. She’s a girl, and dresses exactly how I would if I were a pirate. This Hook might be my new style icon. I’m so putting a tricorn hat on my Christmas list.

Leaving us on a cliff-hanger we are plunged into the abyss of the inerval. I go back out into the foyer, to see this laid-back bar in action.

Again I’m left confused by the enthused introduction in the programme. Yes, the bar is fine. Nice even. But there isn’t anywhere near enough seating for me to class it in the laid-back category, and hidden behind a wall, I can’t imagine anyone wandering in from White City to have a casual drink.

But I do spot something interesting. On the merch side of the bar.

Flags.

A pile of them.

I creep up, all coy.

The girl behind the desk smiles at me encouarginly.

“Can I get a flag?” I ask, my voice full of hope.

She grins. “Of course!” she says, handing one over.

Eeek!

Giving her my own beam of joy, I scuttle away.

A flag and a badge. The leg room may not be all that extended, the bar not all that laid-back, but the staff are lovely and the swag is top-notch.

As I bounce my way along the foyer, I almost bump into something.

A queue. Another one.

I edge myself around it, looking to see what’s the cause of this line. Are their balloons? The only thing that can beat a badge and flag combo is a free balloon.

Nope.

Stretching out from the door, past the box office, and right the way to the other side of the foyer, is the queue for the loos.

I think someone needs to tell the founders to have another pass at writing their welcome note.

Not feeling up to joining in with the loo-queue, I find a handy pillar to lean against and look around.

Something bright and yellow catches my eye. There, tucked just behind the box office, are more yellow umbrellas. Two of them.

I stare at them.

Two bright yellow umbrellas. Siblings of the ones hung up in the cloakroom.

The cast of Singin’ In The Rain really must be more careful with their props…

“This performance of Peter Pan will begin in ten minutes and just to remind you that filming and photography is strictly prohibited inside the auditorium.”

Yeah, yeah. Alright. Good thing I already have my photos of the auditorium.

I go back in, settle myself into my empty row, and enjoy the second half of the show.

It’s pretty fucking charming, I must admit.

Especially the “clap if you believe in faeries,” bit that no Peter Pan would be complete without.

Flags wave.

Children howl.

A tiny girl sitting in front of me dumps her stuffed monkey in the seat next to her, scooting herself as far forward as possible, in order to clap as loud and as vigorously as possible, working against the cavernous applause-sucking space as she fights to save Tinkerbell.

Her efforts are rewarded.

The faerie awakes.

And we all go home, content with a job well done.

Shawly not

I’m on my way to the Shaw Theatre right now. And for once, I actually know where this theatre is. When the Northern Line crapped out last week, I had to get out at Euston and walk the rest of the way to work. A walk that took me down Euston Road as I headed into Islington. And as the red behemoth of the British Library loomed across my vision, I spotted something dangling in the way. It was a sign. For the Shaw Theatre.

Do you know about the Shaw Theatre? I didn’t know about the Shaw Theatre. It seems to be one of those theatres that is connected to a hotel. Like the Savoy but less… just less. Less glamourous. Less well known. And less programming. It’s taken me over six months to find a marathon-qualifying show for me to go to.

The Shaw seems to be the type of place that those regional music acts tour to. You know the kind of thing. Tribute acts and theme acts and cabaret acts and showcase acts. The type of acts that only seem to exist in these type of theatres.

They also have that Tape Face bloke, but I wasn’t altogether convinced that his stuff counted as theatre. So I took a pass.

But not tonight. Oh no. Tonight, I’m going to be seeing Rent.

Which I am rather excited about because I’ve never seen Rent before. I’m actually not all that familiar with it. I know that one song. You know, the one with all the numbers that every musical theatre fan seems to be able to reel off with only the slightest provocation.

Anyway, it looks nice enough. Modern. Glass. There’s some sort of massive sculpture action going on outside. A wire cage hanging above the carpark. Not sure what that’s meant to be but if it were being used as a prison to contain some supervillain or other, I would not be surprised.

I pick my way through the cars and head towards the main entrance.

As I approach, the door opens, held by a young woman in Shaw Theatre livery.

Gosh, I don’t think I’ve had the door held open for me at the theatre before. Not by a dedicated door person anyway. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps this place really is as swanky as the Savoy.

“Hello!” says the young woman, all bright smile and welcoming.

I thank her, still slightly surprised by all these gentility.

She makes use of my disorientation to hold out a pile of stickers.

They have rainbows on them. And the name of the theatre.

That’s how to do Pride. With multi-coloured stickers. I approve.

I thank her again, already feeling very positive about this trip. Getting the door held open for me and a free sticker? The Shaw is gunning for a top ten position in my end of year rankings, I can tell you that right now.

From there, I join the queue for the box office. It’s a rather long queue. And is moving very slowly.

Another young woman, this one wearing a smart blue jacket, makes her way down the line asking if we booked ourselves e-tickets.

The bloke behind me shows her a print out.

“Yup, that’s fine,” she confirms.

“So I don’t have to queue?” he asks, amazed at this revelation.

“No, you can use that.”

He trots off with his print out, very pleased.

“Ooo! Stickers!” comes a cry from behind me.

Heads turn, and soon the young woman on the door is besieged by people who missed out on the sticker action on their way in.

“Can I have a sticker please?”

“Can you get me one too, mum?”

Such is the power of a rainbow sticker.

From my position in the queue, I have a great view of the bar. It’s exactly the sort of bar you would imagine there to be in a hotel’s theatre. All dramatic hanging lights and stacks of mini-bar sized snacks hanging out alongside the bottles of more serious stuff.

A girl goes up to the bar and holds up a paper bag full of some sort of takeaway.

She asks the barman something, and after a moment’s thought, he takes it from her.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she calls after him as he disappears through the back door. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she repeats when he remerges a few seconds later.

I think he was putting it in the fridge for her, which I have to say, is not something I’ve ever considered asking bar staff to help with, at the theatre or anywhere else, but my god, what a good idea. Especially in this weather.

“Have you got an e-ticket?” asks the woman in the blue jacket, doing another trawl of the queue.

“I think I’m picking up,” I tell her.

“What’s the surname?”

I tell her, and she goes off to the front to double check.

I do the same, but on my phone, and bringing up the confirmation email remember that I paid an extra two quid for this privilege. Fucking hell. No wonder she’s asking about e-tickets so much. What kind of idiot would pay two quid for the pleasure of a paper ticket? Apart from me, but we all know I have issues.

A few minutes later, I’m at the front of the queue.

“Is that Maxine?” asks the lady on box office when she checks her computer for my booking.

I tell her that it is and a second later the printer behind the desk buzzes into action. She checks the ticket, folds up the ream, and hands it to me.

Right then. Time to explore.

Apart from the bar and the box office, there’s a seating area over by the entrance to the theatre. All red walls and old theatre posters and low settees. There’s also the most extraordinary carpeting going on. I mean, if I didn’t know this place had a hotel connection before, this carpet would tell me everything I need to know. It’s all floral and swirly, with another pattern going on underneath that I can’t quite make out. It’s like one of those Magic Eye posters from the nineties. I couldn’t make them out either.

The entrance to the theatre itself is closed off by a red velvet curtain. That combined with the old posters gives this place a very strange vibe. The modern hotel combined with the old school theatre. I’m not sure even the Shaw knows what this place is.

“Good evening,” comes a voice over the sound system. “Welcome to the Shaw Theatre. The house is now open. The house is now open.”

Now, you may say that I’ve been marathoning far too long (and I won’t disagree with you on that), but that message surprises me. I think that might be the first time I’ve heard a house open announcement that doesn’t mention the name of the show. You know: “Welcome to the Shaw Theatre for tonight’s performance of Rent…”

I wonder if the message has been pre-recorded. It would certainly make it easier for everyone with all those one-night shows that they have going on.

No one else appears bothered by this. They all crowd themselves towards the doors, heaving in close to each other until them become unmanageable mass of people.

I hang back and let them get on with it.

Seating is allocated. There’s no rush.

Eventually the queue clears, and I make my way in.

The first ticket checker barely looks as me as I pass through the curtain. She has no interest whatsoever in whether I have a ticket, or what it says on it if I do.

So I continue on, making my way through a dark corridor, with George Bernard Shaw quotes hung up on the walls, in what must be an attempt to justify the name of the theatre.

“Life isn’t about finding yourself, life is about creating yourself,” one states. “We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing,” says another. I don’t know about you, but this makes me think that old Shawie-boy was a bit repetitive in his choice of sentence structure.

That makes me suspicious. I can’t for the life of me think what play either of these are from. Neither strike me as something the writer of Man and Superman would come out with. But then, I’m not a massive GBS fan, so, who knows?

I get out my phone and Google the first one and immediately find a page asking “Wait, did George Bernard Shaw really say this?”

The answers seem to suggest that no, he didn’t. But I don’t have time to research any further, because I’ve reached the other end of the corridor and there’s a ticket checker waiting for me on the other side.

“D23?” I ask, showing her the ticket.

“D23. You will be…” her finger traces the horizon of seats, wavering between the middle and final block of seats. “Hang on, let me show you.”

And with that she leads me down to the second aisle.

“Twenty-three did you say?”

“Err, yes,” I say, double checking my ticket.

She hops up a few steps to the fourth row. “You’re just in here,” she says.

“Lovely! Thank you!”

Whatever their questionable use of George Bernard Shaw quotes, you can’t fault the service.

Nor the seating. It’s very plush. Wide, squashy seats, covered in fuzzy velvet. Pretty lush.

Someone in the row in front turns around. “Do you know how long this is?” he asks.

My neighbour shakes her head. “Sorry, I just know its two acts.”

Yeah, no freesheets tonight. And no programmes.

Still, we got rainbow stickers.

I settle back in my seat and get comfortable.

The people sitting behind me are having some great theatre chat. By the sounds of it they are both musical theatre professionals and the gossip is flying. Lots of talk of “Cameron,” the joys of auditioning on a proper West End stage, and the perils of being second cover.

As the lights dim, there’s a scurrying of movement as people move down to better seats.

A couple slowly make their way down from the back, clinging onto the rail as they go down the stairs, move across the front of the stage, and then sink into a pair of seats in the front row.

Thus settled, they start to enjoy the show. Really enjoy the show. The woman sways from side to side, waving her arms as she feels the music.

It’s rather beautiful.

As for me, I’ve just realised what Rent is. It’s La Boehme, isn’t it? That whole candle scene. I recognise that! That’s good. I feel on firmer ground now. Except I’m now worrying about what a potential wank I am that I’m more familiar with La Boehme then Rent.

As our Mimi (again, no freesheet, I have no idea who she is) gets down on her knees and Arghhh Oooos into the night, it’s simply too move for the lady in the front row. She just has to dance. She gets up from her seat and boogies her way into the corner, where she bows her head, puts up her arms, and moves to the beat, truly embodying the ‘dance like no-one’s watching’ mandate more fully than I’ve ever seen anyone do it before.

The man she’s with watches her for a moment, checks behind him to see how we’re talking it, beckons her back to her seat and then goes to speak to the usher.

They whisper to each other feverously, the usher and the man, with lots of pointing around the auditorium.

He doesn’t want his lady to stop dancing. Oh no. He wants to find her a place where she can get her groove on without disturbing anyone else.

The usher nods. She understands. And he returns to his seat.

A few songs later she sneaks into the front row, crouching down next to the pair.

She’s sorted something. She’s taking them somewhere.

So they go. Leaving their prime spots, our lady dances her way out of the theatre.

It feels strangely quiet now that we’ve lost our alternate cast member. But the performers up on stage don’t let us relax for long.

“Moo!” orders our Maureen. “Everyone this side: Moo!”

Everyone duly moos as ordered. Well, almost everyone.

I do not partake. I have audience participation intolerance.

But as our Mark jumps up onto a table, and the table tips, throwing him forward, oh, I gasp. I gasp along with everyone else. He recovers his balance just in time, throwing out his hand to show us he’s okay. And we applaud. How could we not after such a feat of daring do?

“Did you moo?” someone asks in the row in front once the interval hits.

“No!” comes the reply.

Okay, so I wasn’t the only one then.

The person from the row in front is outraged. “No? But you have to!”

“Can you believe they only had a week to do all that?” counters the non-mooer, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Aren’t they amazing!”

They are. But I still don’t know who they are.

Interval over and there’s a strangled squeal from the audience as the cast comes out. They know what’s coming. And I can guess. Yes, it’s the number song! 525,600 apparently. That’s a big number. How do people remember that? I never even managed pi to five decimals.

But it’s proper good.

And it’s sad.

And I might be sniffing a bit. A hint of watery eye. No, it’s okay. I’m not going to cry.

Oh poor Angel.

And poor Mimi.

Shit, I’ve gone. The first tear has fallen and there’s no stopping me now.

As the final notes ring out, we all burst from our seats into a standing ovation. I can’t believe it was only on Friday I was saying I rarely ovate. Only when a performance hits me in the gut, was my justification. Well, gut fucking hit. Full on bullseye right in the intestines.

I turn around, taking in the audience.

There, at the back, in the far corner, is our dancing lady. She’s still moving to the sound of the band as they play us out. Hands above her head, hips swinging. And the man she’s with watching her.

And I start crying again, because that’s love, isn’t it? Finding someone the space to be themselves and letting them go for it, to the fullest.

Fuck yeah.