For some reason I have decided that taking a two hour walk to tonight's venue is a good idea. I have also managed to convince myself that my new boots, fresh on this morning, would be up for the challenge. Two miles in, I realise that I an wrong on both counts.
But hobbling along, trying not to think of the blister rapidly growing on my right heel, does give me the perfect opportunity to think. Really, I get all my best thinking done when I'm walking. Like: what I want to have for dinner, and: who will be first on my hit list when Boris introduces the Purge.
This evening, I'm thinking about my marathon. Or rather, the themes. At some point with the next few weeks, I'm going to have to come up with some finale blog post. A round up of all my thoughts. And I'm not sure I have any. I mean, I do. But I'm not sure anyone is that interested in my ten thousand word treaty on the benefits of freesheets. Nor my list of ten questions you should never ask a audience member (with number one being: why are you here?).
I suppose if I really want to talk about things that I've come across again and again, the starting point must surely be Emily Carding. Starting way back at the beginning of my marathon, at theatre twenty, I've seen Carding perform four times. And tonight, in a neat mirror-trick as we are now twenty theatres from the end, I'm going back for a fifth.
It's almost as if I planned it.
I did kinda plan it.
Two Carding-shows in, I made a conscious decision to follow this actor throughout her London dates.
Not that I'm a stalker you understand. I'm just loyal.
That's what I've been telling myself anyway. I'm just very, very loyal. Committed, one might say.
And it's not like she doesn't know. I'm not creeping around theatres, popping up without warning, demanding blog content. Now that would be weird.
That is not the case at all. Carding is fully aware of my marathon, and my intentions to turn up at any of her performances taking place in a London venue that I haven't been to yet. And she hasn't complained. Which to me sounds like approval.
Umm.
Just as I manage to convince myself that I am definitely not a stalker, I limp my way past Clapham Common and pause outside the Omnibus to take it all in. Yup, I'm back here again.
And I'm slightly annoyed by it. Not about being at the Omnibus, as it's a very nice space. Nor about seeing the show, because well, we've talked about that. But because I hadn't planned on it.
The Omnibus started out the year as a single-theatre venue. And now they've only gone about opening a studio. In 2019. In the year of my marathon. It's almost like they did it just to pain me. I'll admit I did not take the news well. I may have gone off a little bit at them. And by 'gone off' I mean, I told them to fuck right off to Yorkshire on Twitter.
It was not my finest moment.
I guess I better cross the road and get this exterior photo taken.
Almost getting run over by a car that does not understand the concept of a pedestrian crossing, I make it to the other side, take my photo, and totter back again, checking the images as I step through the great stone archway and...
Someone is coming out the door, wearing a bright blue leotard.
It's Emily Carding.
In costume.
Umm.
I smile and hope she hasn't noticed me. But as I make my way to the entrance, I find her there, holding the door.
Oh.
"You have a familiar face," she says, fixing her eyes on me. She's wearing white contact lenses. Only the pupils are showing. They're terrifying.
"I hope so!" I say. I mean, after four theatre trips and a tarot reading...
"Yes, you have a familiar human face..."
I am no good at this kind of thing. Unfortunately, working for a drama school has not improved my improv skills over the last few weeks.
She smiles, taking pity on me and drops the character. The change is instantaneous. The cold exterior falling away as if it never existed. She pats me on the head.
"Those contacts are terrifying," I say honestly.
"They are," she agrees, and we go inside.
Oof.
Okay. That was intense.
I head straight for the box office. A small desk tucked inside the foyer.
"Hello," says the box officer in the exact soothing tone I need right now.
"Hello. The surname's Smiles?"
“For Quintessence?”
“Yes!”
He finds my name on the list and hands me an admission token. "Listen for the bell," he says. "We should ring it just before nine. The bar is just through there."
I follow the direction he's pointing and find myself in a lovely front room, complete with piano. Rustic wooden tables crowd the space, and the bar is decorated with illustrated chalkboard menus.
It looks like the kind of cafe that should have ‘Kitchen’ in the name, with a herb garden out back and a farm-to-table manifesto scrawled on the windows. Instead, they have Christmas decorations. Which is almost as good.
I find a table and have a look at my admission pass.
It's a ticket.
I mean, it's a ticket for the omnibus.
I mean, it's a ticket for public transport. Of the omnibus variety.
That's neat. I like that.
As I busy myself taking photos, an alarm starts. A very loud alarm. An alarm far too loud and insistant to possibly be a theatre bell. The type of alarm that should really have us lining up outside and having our names ticketed off by someone with a hi-vis jacket and clipboard.
I look over at the staff behind the bar. They don't look overly concerned about the whole thing.
"Why has that gone off?" one of them asks.
"Somebody smoking probably."
They carry on with bar business and the alarm eventually stops.
For a few minutes.
As it starts up again, one of the bar people sighs with aggravation. "Oh gawd," she groans. "Reminds me of the IRA. They used to go off all the time."
Honestly, that's not something I ever thought I'd have to be worrying about in the idles of Clapham.
At last, it stops. I hold myself very still, not wanting to jump in shock when it starts up again. But as the silence spreads out, my stomach decides it's time to take over.
Well, it is past 8 o'clock and I haven't had my dinner yet.
I go over to the bar to see what the food selection is. There's a selection of cakes, all of which look depressingly vegan and gluten free. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's very important that our vegan and gluten free friends can get a slice of cake when they go to the theatre. But vegan cakes are not visually appetising, and frankly, I like gluten. The more of it the better.
"Can I help?" asks one of the ladies behind the bar.
"I'm just investigating the food situation," I tell her.
"We also have savoury," she tells me.
"Oo!" I say, suddenly excited. "What do you have?"
She looks around, thinking. "We have quiche?" She turns to the other lady there. "Do we have quiche left?"
"We have sausage rolls," says the other bar lady.
"Vegetarian sausage rolls!"
"No, not vegetation."
"Meat."
"I would love a non-vegetarian sausage roll," I say.
"Meat?"
"Yeah... meat..." I agree.
"With salad?"
"... alright." I don't really want salad. But I don't think they get many meat-eating, non-gluten free customers in here. I should probably at least make a small effort. "And a cup of tea?"
"What type?"
"Breakfast?" I say as a question, hoping my choice won't get me banished.
She nods. Phew. "I'll make the tea first. Milk is just over there," she says, pointing to a small tray with milk jug and dishes for spoons and spent teabags.
"The fire brigade is here," she says as she starts making my tea.
"Yes, they have to come when it goes off."
Slightly dazed, I go back to my seat with my tea. I appear to have just paid over nine pounds for a cup of tea and a sausage roll. That's a lot of money. I do hope it's at least a large sausage roll. I'm starving.
A few minutes later, it's brought over.
It is not a large one.
"Bon appetite," says the lady from the bar. "Would you like mustard with that?"
"I'm alright," I tell her, looking sorrowfully at my plate. I admit, I eat a lot. A lot a lot. But even so. Nine pounds for a sausage roll, a bit of salad, and a cup of tea. I had no idea Clapham was so expensive. I would have popped into the Co-op on my way here and bought a sandwich if I'd known.
At least it tastes good.
And there's a cat.
Wait. What?
There's a cat!
Over there.
Under the table.
Am I imagining that?
No. It's a cat.
A very fat cat.
Possibly a pregnant cat.
I lower my hand and flutter my fingers.
The cat looks at me.
I flutter my fingers again.
The cat gets up and waddles in my direction.
I click my tongue, and give an extra flutter, just in case.
She waddles up, and keeps on waddling, right past me, without a second glance.
Dammit.
I knew that extra flutter was overdoing it. I was too keen. Cats and ghosts. They don't like you when you come on too strong.
I need to learn how to play hard to get.
I finish my sausage roll, and settle back with my cup of tea, watching the cat as she scampers around, chasing invisible rabbits and scratching up the table legs.
Out in the foyer, a bell rings.
It's time to go.
I wave at the cat. She looks out me before twisting around, lifting her leg, and turning her attention to cleaning her bottom.
Chairs scrape as we all get up and head for the door.
As we pass the kitchen a man leans in and asks one of the people inside to throw out something for him.
"Blueberry?" he asks, offering out his small plastic tray of berries.
She shakes her head. She doesn't take bribes.
The box officer is at the bottom of the stairs, collecting passes.
I hand him mine and head up.
The door to the theatre is open.
It's very dark in here, but I think I've found myself behind the seating block.
I edge myself around it to the front.
And there's Carding, on stage, her head bowed, eyes closed, and arms poised in a more angular version of ballet's first position.
I creep across the front of the stage and slip up the centre aisle, finding my comfort spot: end of the third row.
It's freezing in here.
All the warmth in this building has been diverted down to the cafe.
I heft my massive coat up over my knees and shiver.
A voice comes over the soundsystem.
It seems the humans have got themselves into a bit of a mess, and the androids have to step in to look after them.
As Carding wakes the story unfolds. Humans have retreated into domes, from where the androids look after our every need. As their manual, they take the ultimate authority on what it is to be human: Shakespeare.
Now, you know I'm not a big fan of Billy Shakespeare.
So, already I'm in a dystopian nightmare here, even before this supposed utopia begins to unravel.
But like... Carding is really good. And, like, she does like Shakespeare, so if anything is going to make all these excerts from his plays watchable, it's her.
There's a bit from Winter's Tale. I know that bit. Mainly because I watched a matinee of it this afternoon. But still. I'm feeling pretty smug all the same.
We also get Hamlet. And Romeo. And Juliet. And Henry Five. And Attenborough. And... Carding shudders. The lights flicker.
The voice is back.
The android is rebooting.
Carding's head lifts, her expression clear. All is well.
Something tells me this isn't going to end well.
But we press on all the same.
The audience grin knowingly to each other as the androids come up against human adolescence for the first time. Their response to it soon has the smiles fading from our lips.
Carding switches from character to android and back again, her face filling with the deepest emotions, before the shutters are brought back down in an instant, and the android takes over.
But such serenity can't last.
The lights switch to red and Carding is leaning forward, arms behind like tortured wings, her face twisted and contorted. She is perfectly still. She is perfectly terrifying.
I freeze. Something tells me I shouldn't blink.
If the Weeping Angels are real, then we have one of them in Clapham right now.
And then it's done, and we are released.
I manage to unfurl myself enough to clap. At least, I think I'm clapping. I can't actually feel my hands.
"You know those angels from Doctor Who?" says someone in the front row as we all start gathering our things and getting ready to leave.
"No," comes the reply. "But I can imagine."
Oh, sweet innocent front rower. You can not imagine. Although, perhaps after that performance...
Carding is on the landing. She has a flock of fans and friends and well-wishers around her.
"Let me just say a proper hello," she says turning to me.
"You were amazing," I say truthfully. I mean, I'm scarred for life. But it was amazing, all the same.
"I don't want to get makeup on you," she says as we hug.
Eh. I wear enough eyeliner for three people and cry a lot. I'm not afraid of getting makeup on me.
I wobble my way back down the stairs. I'm choosing to blame the five-ish miles I walked to get here. And not the fact that I am still shaking in fear.
