It's Friday night and I'm off to church, which is not something I ever thought I would say. But hey, that's my life now. The Bloomsbury Festival is in full force and if they say they are having a theatrical event in a church, then dammit, ya gurl is off to church.
I'm actually a little bit excited about this one. Firstly, because it sounds fucking cool. Or at least, there is an element of it that sounds fucking cool. We'll get to that later. But mostly, I'm excited because it's taking place in a church I actually know. And by 'know,' I mean that I've walked past it a lot and vaguely wondered what it looks like on the inside.
So, even though I'm still feeling grotty as fuck, and it's raining down hella hard outside, I have a bit of a bounce in my step as I make my way down Cromer Street towards Holy Cross Church.
There's a security guard on the door, which is not usual practise round here as far as I know. I thought those guys are all busy looking after the synagogues. Guess that's the world we live in now. Everywhere is in need of a bit of muscle.
As I go up, there's someone talking to the security guy.
"But there should be a service now," says the someone.
"It's closed," says the security guard, pointing at a sign. "It's open again tomorrow morning."
"But what about now?" insists this guy, who has clearly got a real need to pray going on.
"There's an event now."
"But I should be able to go to church!"
The security guard shrugs. It's not like he programmed the festival.
With a wave of disgust, the guy goes, and the security officer turns to me.
"Hi. Box office?" I ask.
"You have a ticket?"
I show him the confirmation email on my phone and he nods with relief.
"Just there, they'll take your name."
And that's how you buy your way into church, I guess.
As promised, inside there is a table set up with people ready to take names.
"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say to someone wearing the Bloomsbury Festival STAFF badge that I recognise from my Goodenough outing.
"Maxine?" he says.
"Yup." That's me.
"Great. Take a programme," he says, patting a pile of freesheets on the desk in front of him.
I pick one up, keeping my eyes fixed on it while I move away from the table.
It's a dangerous move. Especially for someone who isn't all that steady on her feet even at the best of times.
But I know what I'm going to see when I look up, and I want to make sure I'm in the best possible spot before I do.
There's a good line of people here, all with their phones out, taking pictures. I think this is it.
I look up. And there's the mother fucking moon.
Inside the church.
Probably shouldn't swear.
But can you see that?
The twatting moon! Inside the church!
It hangs there, slotted in between the stone pillars as if it had always been there, as if it were the church that came later. Built around this floating moon to house and keep it. A temple for those ancient moon-worshipping followers.
Down below, the pews have been set up in an elongated horseshoe, so that we may be the ones to orbit the moon.
I find a spare spot and sit myself doen, gazing up in wonder at this magical orb.
As I watch, staring, I start to see it moving. Gently swaying. Almost as if it were pulsating. Or breathing.
According to the freesheet, the moon is seven whole metres across. It's made by an artist called Luke Jerram and goes by the name Museum of the Moon.
It then bangs on about all the performers who'll be in here tonight, but I'm going to be real with you right now: I don't care about any of them. I'm here for the moon.
We all sit back in our pews, staring at this mystical object.
I kinda want to touch it. To place my hand against it. To feel if it really is breathing in there. But I'm scared. Partly of the security guard who I know is outside. But also, I'm nervous about finding out what this moon is made of. Of discovering that all those crevices and valleys and pox marks across the surface, are, in fact, only printed on. I can't decide what would be more horrific, a rough and scratchy canvas, or a smooth rubber. The thought of either sends me into a shudder.
A photographer walks around, moving chairs and pews as he goes, clearing himself a gangway so that he can walk around the space uninterrupted.
Our host for the evening comes out. Sam Enthoven.
He asks if any of us don't know what a theremin is. An old lady in the row in front of me pips-out a shrill "No!"
A surprising about of people join in.
I appear to have found myself in a church full of people who don't watch American Horror Story.
But off we go. Enthoven on the theremin as Minnie Wilkinson tells us a story... and, I'm going to admit something now. I don't dig storytelling. Like, I actively dislike storytelling. It's just not one of the performing arts that I'm into. I'd probably rank it just below circus if I were to ever spend a very dull Sunday afternoon rating all of them,
I don't know what it is. I think it has something to do with the telliness of way storytellers construct their tales. Because I have no issue with, like, audiobooks, so it's not the listening to a single voice that puts me off.
Instead, I focus on the moon, matching my breathing to it, and falling into a strange fantasy where the valuted roof opens up and the pair of us, me and the moon, sail off into the dark night.
A group of latecomers arrive. A front of houser walks them around the back, pointing out empty seats.
I twist my knees around so that one of them can get past and sit next to me.
She looks over at her friend in the next pew and they both giggle and raise their eyebrows.
The first tale comes to an end. We all applaud. Even the latecomers - though they do it with another shared glance and a giggle.
Jordan Campbell is up next, accompanied by the stunning Lou Barnell wearing a Grecian white dress. Now this story I can get into. Mainly because it has a werewolf in it.
But just as I find myself having to realign all my thoughts about storytelling, the photographer comes round and places himself right in my sightline, blocking my view of Campbell.
In an instant, the magic is broken.
Unable to see our performer, I look around at the audience instead.
It's a very white audience. A very very white audience.
A very very white audience, in the church on Cromer Street. Which if you've ever walked down it, you'll know it's not a white street.
That man who was turned away by the security guard? Yeah, he wasn't white.
I don't want to make this a 'thing' but it does make you think, doesn't it, when a venue whose very existence is dependent on locals, gives over its space for an event that is then attended by non-locals.
Now, I mean, it's for art. And art is great. And I'm sure the congregation was encouraged to attend. But still.
At least one man out there isn't happy about missing out on this evening's service.
And instead, all these white people are sitting around, gazing at the moon, and listening to bedtime stories.
Enthoven reappears. There's going to be a ten-minute interval. "The nearest loos are in the pub across the road," he tells us.
The girl sitting next to me looks over at her friends. "I really need to go, actually," she says.
"Yeah, me too. Actually."
And off they go.
I make a bet with myself that they won't be back.
Underneath the moon, the people gather. To take selfies.
"Shall I face you, or face away?" a young woman says as she races out.
The man she's with tells her it doesn't matter and she raises her arms above her head.
"Nowhere near," he laughs.
"Did I do it?"
"Nah, you're way too short."
After a few experiments in perspective, they get it right, and have a photo of her balancing the moon on her fingertips.
We're recalled to our seats. It's time for the second act.
The seat next to me stays empty. As does the one in the next door pew. I was right. Those latecomers had no intention of coming back.
Enthoven comes back out to introduce to next set of performers. Apparently there had been some complaints about sound levels. But it seems to have been fixed now.
Or perhaps not, because I can't make out a word Laura Sampson is saying. It's lost over the screeching, saw-like noises made by Greta Pistaceci.
High above us, a wooden Jesus gazes down on the luminous moon, flanked by two figures, Mary and... yeah, I'm not Christian, I don't know who the other one is.
I wonder what they make of the whole thing. Their church given over to this event. Their congregation turned away. These new people brought in, but unlikely ever to return for a service.
At the end of their tale, a dozen or so people make a break for the exit.
One left.
Alys Torrance steps out under the moon to gaze at it in wonder. "What's in there?" she muses, before chatting with her musician. "Can you play the moon?" she asks Sylvia Hallett.
Hallett tells her to wait and see.
"It's like that, is it?" laughs Torrance. And then we begin.
Torrance really is an engaging storyteller. Stepping away from the microphone to use the entire space, use her body, and the audience, the air and the moon. I don't think I'll ever truly get into this art form, but for the first time, I think I understood the appeal.
The house lights rise and Enthoven sees us off, with a thanks for "supporting unusual evenings like this one."
