The big revolving entrance to the Opera House is broken again. A small sign tells us to use the side door.
Two ladies go ahead of me, pausing by the shop to gaze around with wide eyes.
"Where's the Linbury?" one of them asks the solitary security guard in an otherwise deserted entrance.
"Straight up there," he says, turning towards the main foyer area.
"First visit since they've done it up," she goes on, happily.
"Oh yeah?" he replies. "It's a lot better now. You'll love it."
I hope so.
Have to admit, I'm not particularly into the front of house areas. Too big. Too open. Too noisy. But I've seen pictures of the new Linbury and it does look rather swish. Like a cross between an upmarket car show room, and a tin of Quality Street.
I don't need to stop off at the box office. I've already got my ticket. Had it posted to me. I wasn't risking being stuck with an e-ticket. And getting it posted is the one way to guarantee it now. COBO seems to be a thing of the past round these parts.
I sweep through the cafe and down the very broad stairs into the depths of the opera house.
There's some sort of private reception going on here on the little half mezzanine. I keep on going, down into the bar area.
It's busy. People sitting around balancing glasses of wine and slick-looking programmes on their tables. I want me one of those.
Not the glass of wine.
I don't like wine.
I do however like programmes.
I mean, you know this already. But I think it's always worth reiterating. I like programmes. Love them, even.
Can't seem to find them though.
There are a few front of housers dotted around, but none of them are carrying that familiar fan formation of programmes so beloved by West End ushers. They don't do that here. Not at the Opera House. Far too déclassé.
Not sure where they are though. Back in the old Linbury there was a programme desk just at the foot of the stairs, but there doesn't seem to be anything like that now.
I take a tour of the room.
Nope. Nothing.
After a full minute of standing, befuddled by this lack of programmeage, I decide to go and look at the bar. Lots of theatres sell programmes at the bar. And there it is. Right at the end. A little section dedicated to the selling of programmes.
Not that you can tell. They don't have any on display. Just a little sign stating their price.
I suppose it doesn't do to show off the merchandise, like some filthy shop.
"Can I get a programme?" I ask the chap behind the counter.
Oh gawd.
Only been here five minutes and I'm already thinking of people as 'chaps.' This place rubs off fast.
"That's five pounds," he tells me.
"Can I pay by card?"
"Of course!"
Of course.
I stick my card in the machine and he asks me if I want a receipt. I don't. The fewer records of my ridiculous programme expenditure, the better.
"Here you go, Madam," he says, handing over the programme.
Madam... Madam!
Oh my lord... I knew I was getting old, but I hadn't realised I'd hit 'Madam' age already.
You know, when I was young, I always vowed not to be one of those old ladies that constantly complain about their age. And yet now I'm here, being called Madam... I'm damn well rebelling.
Cheeky young sods should learn to keep their 'Madam's to themselves.
Still reeling, I make my way over to the auditorium. My ticket says to use door 2, and yup - there's door 2.
"Hello!" I say to the ticket checker as cheerfully as I can considering I've just been Madamed.
"Hello!" she says back, beeping my ticket with her ticket beeper. "It's just this level."
This level is the top level. Because I'm way cheaper than the tickets in this place. I have to say, I’ve timed my marathon well. People always like to tell me that I must be spending a fortune on this adventure of mine, but since the price-hike at ROH, I fancy I've rather been making a saving not coming to ballet on the reg anymore.
Still, I shouldn't complain. I only paid six quid to be here. Admittedly I'm standing. In the upper circle. On the side. But still. Six quid!
I hop up the steps to the standing platform and find my number amongst the small roundels stuck to the floor.
There I am. Number forty-two. The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.
Perfect.
No-where to put your bag though.
I mean yes: the ground. Obviously. But the platform has a sheer drop in front of it, and nothing to lean my stuff against. One wayward kick and my bag will be lost under the row of seats in front.
I form a protective wall with my jacket and nest my bag against it. That'll have to do.
Out in the bar, a bell rings.
A couple squeezes themselves down the length of the chairs to reach the empty seats at the end. They stare at them, confused.
"Is this row A?" asks the man, looking from his ticket, to the seat numbers, then back to his ticket.
The other residents of row A confirm that yes, it's row A.
He sighs. "Well, we'll sit here and if there's a problem..."
They look around for an usher, but there's none to be had. If any are posted inside the auditorium, they aren't hanging out in the Upper Circle.
The couple's neighbour gets out her phone and brings up the e-ticket, determined to work it out.
"Are you meant to be in the Upper Circle?" she asks, doubtfully.
Turns out they're not. "My mistake," he laughs. "As usual." They squeeze themselves back down the row, saying sorry for every bumped knee as they make their escape down to the superior seats of the Circle.
I brace myself for the barrage of standers, who always slip in as the lights go down, but nope. There's only three of us on this entire row.
Over the sound system comes a warning that there will be a pause between the first two pieces. And as the lights dim, it's my turn to slip down right to the end, where I can get the best possible view.
It's no good though.
Even from here I can barely see half the stage.
I lean forward, bracing my arms against the railing, resting my head against the pillar, and letting my heel slip down off the edge of the step.
From this very uncomfortable position, I manage to carve our an extra metre or two of the stage for me to see.
But it's of little help, as the first piece, The Kingdom of Back, starts, I'm left baffled. There's some great wig action going on. And some definite tension. But whether this tale of Mozart and his sister is pure narrative or merely a hook to hand some abstract moves on, I cannot tell.
At the other end of the platform, one of my fellow standers ducks under the railing and climbs out onto the edge of the balcony, perching himself on the corner.
Fucking hell, that looks dangerous.
I'll admit, I don't know anything about theatre design, but something tells me that if audiences are having to resort to parkour in order to see anything, then neither the people who were actually paid to come up with this arrangement don't know much either.
A front of houser appears, placing a latecomer into an empty seat, detached from the rest of the row.
I hope she doesn't see our friend Tarzan.
He's still out there, hanging over the edge.
The front of houser retreats with a whispered message that the latecomer can move to her proper seat in the pause.
The Mozart piece ends and we all applaud. I join in. I have no idea if it was good or not, but I do like the Northern Ballet dancers, so I'm sure they gave it their mostest.
The front of houser reappears.
"Perhaps you'd like to go to your seat now?" she asks the latecomer in the naughty chair. "You have two minutes."
The latecomer indicates that she is quite happy where she is.
"Don't worry," says the front of houser. "Stay to the interval."
So she does, sticking resolute in her front row seat as we sail into the second piece. Mamela... With the ellipsis. So you know it's modern. That's the only way I can tell. Six whole dancers and I spend most of my time staring at an empty stage.
I try to remember if it was ever so bad in the old Linbury, and I don't think it was. As my view empties once more of anything to look at, I try to work out why that is.
It doesn't take me long.
The old standing areas didn't have seats in front of them. You were right up against the edge, not pushed back against the wall. Turns out, that makes a hella lot of difference.
You don't expect sightlines to get worse after a redesign, but here we are. I'm almost impressed. Those architects worked hard to make sure the povvo's couldn't see anything.
The music's not bad though. Very Max Richter. So Max Richter that as soon as the interval hits I have to get out the programme to check that it's isn't his work. Nope. The next piece is. But not this one. It's Jack Edmonds. Who apparently writes the most Max Richter non-Max Richter music ever. Huh.
"Hello," says a voice from the foyer, where the front of houser is now standing guard at the door. "Where can I get a programme?"
"The far end there," says the usher.
Turns out I'm not the only one who was having trouble.
Tarzan ducks back under the railing and returns to the safety of the standing platform, much to my relief.
The last work of the evening now. The Shape of Sound. To Max Richter's Four Seasons. A piece of music I never get tired of. Which is a good thing, because it is much beloved by choreographers. I would tell you have many dance works I've seen set to this music, but I lost count after five. That Richter chap must be rolling in all those royalties.
A bar of light sits across the back of the stage and the dancers wiggle their legs over it like can-can dancers.
This gets a gasp from the audience down in the stalls. A gasp which stops dead at the circles. Which makes me think there's some visual effect getting hidden to those based up here. A few more intakes of breath punctuate the music as Winter comes to an end and I kinda wish I'd invested in a better seat. But... eh.
I'm glad I've seen the worst that the Linbury has to offer. Six pounds a ticket to see half a show. Not entirely sure it was worth it.
