I Done Fucked Up

It's the seventh week of 2019. Which is also, coincidentally, the seventh week of the theatre marathon. And right now, I have more theatres than days checked off on the calendar. I should by rights be feeling pretty proud of myself. I'm doing well. Really well.

I'm about a fifth of the way through my list, and we haven't even got to the end of month two. I'm ahead of schedule.

But I don't.

If anything, I'm dogged by the constant thought that I need to up my game. Fit in more theatres.

Which is ridiculous, I know.

But here's the thing: the marathon keeps on getting longer.

Only last week @weez sent me a tweet with the name of a theatre I had never even heard of before. Which I am incredibly grateful for, don't get me wrong. I'd rather find out now than on 31st December.

But every time I get a new theatre to add to the list, I end up feeling like I am yet another step behind. Or another theatre behind, rather.

I didn't help that the show I had been planning to see on Friday night had gone and cancelled. A one-night performance at a venue that, shall we say, doesn't have the fullest of programmes.

It was a serious blow. 

It was all starting to feel like it was getting away from me.

I had to do something. Knock a whole pile of venues down in one go. Help regain some control of this damn mess.

So, on Saturday, I was going to go full festival mode and head back to the Vaults to hit up four shows in one day.

Because that is how sensible people react when they are only a sixth of the way through a year-long challenge. Especially when they are feeling rougher than an emery board. They panic, choke down enough cough syrup to treat a tuberculosis ward, and prepare to have their emotions pulverised by seven hours of theatre, finishing with a riot.

Yup, I was going to that Belarus Free Theatre immersive thing. Well, it's not actually Belarus Free Theatre. But it has people from Belarus Free Theatre connected to it. And I wouldn't be partaking in the immersive elements. But still. It was my last show of the day. At 9pm. And I'm old. And sick. I should definitely be in bed at 9pm on a Saturday night. Not watching other people mess around pretending to be revolutionaries.

Still, I figured I would worry about that once I got to it.

It was going to be a long day. No point working myself up about these things too early.

When I got to the Vaults, I headed through the main door. I was pretty excited by that. I hadn't as yet managed to see a show at any of the theaters that lay beyond. Unit 9 was all the way down the other end of the tunnel, the Studio was accessed through a small door just to the right of the main one, while Seance was housed in a van parked up on Lower Marsh Steet.

My hopes were soon dashed when an usher, no doubt sensing my pre-paid anxiety plan, asked what show I was going to see.

"Ah," he said, grabbing a small map from the box office counter. "You need to go back outside, all the way to the end of the tunnel, turn left and then left again. You'll be there in thirty seconds. And there's a Greggs right on the corner."

I'm not entirely sure whether he mentioned that last bit as a landmark, or if he thought I was in need of a good vegan sausage roll. Both, quite possibly.

I did what he said. Walked through the tunnel to the end of Leake Street, turned left, and turned left again, and ended up in Granby Place. No sign of a theatre, and more importantly, no sign of a Greggs either. That wasn't right. I turned around and headed back. Leake Street. Turn left. Ignore Granby Place. Walk on, keeping an eye on any openings on the left and... yup, there it was. Greggs on the corner of Launcelot Street. My knight in pasty armour.

And further down there was a metal gate, small queue, and the now familiar sight of the pink-jacketed usher.

I'd made it.

I joined the queue.

"Can you open your bag," the pink-jacket on queue duty asked the man at the head of it.  Hey duly unzipped it and pink-jacket rummaged around inside. "You can't take that in," she said, pulling out a bottle of water. "You can tip it out and fill it again inside."

Goddammit.

I watched in horror as the man poured out his water onto the pavement. Oh no. I definitely didn't want to empty out my own water bottle. Not with my nice cold water from the fridge at home. Who knew what the water at the Vaults was like. Or if it was even properly cold.

I unzipped my bag and checked to see that my own bottle was well hidden.

I had done good work that morning. My bottle was utterly invisible, under cover of my umbrella, book, makeup bag, purse, and all the rest of it.

As I reached the front of the line, I presented my own bag for inspection.

Pink-jacket, reached into my bag and pulled aside the book. I held my breath.

"That's fine," she said, waving me through.

I breathed again, and with the smug smugness of a smug person who has never yet had a bottle confiscated at the theatre, I headed in.

"Name?" asked the woman on box office.

I gave it.

She checked it against the list, and nodded to herself. "You've got a restricted view ticket, but I'm just going to upgrade you so that you're an Observer now."

I stared at her.

That wasn't right. What did she mean Observer ticket? There were only Observer tickets for the riot show. Not this one. Unless this was the riot show. Wait. No. That was this show? The one I was at now? I thought I'd be doing that in the middle in the night.

"I need to stamp your hand," she said slowly, holding the stamp out ready.

Shit. I wasn't prepared.

"Oh, right," I managed at last, presenting her with my hand.

Too late I realised that I should probably have thanked her for the upgrade.

Shit. It was too late. I'd already found myself into another queue. My third one of the afternoon.

An usher stepped out and raised his voice over the din of people chatting and drinking. "If you are an Observer with a green stamp, you can go straight in and take your drink, bag, and coats. If you are a Protester or a Front Line Protester with a blue or purple stamp you cannot take anything in."

I clutched my bag, with its secret water bottle.

I had made the right decision.

The Forge, like all the other Vault venues, is housed within a railway tunnel. For Counting Sheep two banks of seating had been set up at both end. And in the middle - a long table with bench seats either side. If you squinted, you could almost make pretend that it was the Grand Hall at Hogwarts.

I ignored the benches. They were for the Protesters (Front Line and... Rear Protesters, I guess). As an Observer, I had access to the real seating at the ends, protected from the action going on in the middle by a metal barrier.

The show began with a short speech, and a bowl of borsht.

Enamel crockery was piled up at one end of the table alongside a matching jug of spoons, with instructions to take one of each and pass them down.

Next came steaming pots of the red soup and tiny cups of a white topping.

"This is sour cream," explained one of the cast members as he started handing out the cups.

Wooden trays of bread followed, then bottles of vodka.

The smell of the borst made its way to the Observer's carrel.

My stomach gurgled in anticipation of a meal not meant for me.

Only Protesters get to eat.

But then, someone came over with a tray. And then another.

Bread with some sort of eggy topping. And pickles.

Perhaps because it was a matinee and not sold out, and they had leftover food, the trays kept on coming.

I greedily took everything on offer.

It was delicious.

But as the food supply died down, my cough decided to make an appearance.

All that bread had dried out my throat.

I needed a drink.

I reached under my seat and pulled out my bag, using the loud music as cover for unzipping it. I reached in, digging past the umbrella, the book, my makeup bag, purse and all the rest of it. Huh. I turned my bag around so that I could try from another direction. Still nothing.

Oh no.

I tried again, more frantic this time. But it was no good. I already knew the truth.

I had forgotten my water bottle. It was still at home. In the fridge.

Shit.

It was too late anyway, the cough had started. I swapped my bag for my scarf and did my best to smother it, but the pumping music did more to cover the noise than my scarf ever could.

One of the cast came over and started clapping his hands to the beat. Once, twice, then three times on the knees. He leaned in, encouraging us to follow him.

One, two, then three on the knees. One, two, then three on the knees.

There was no escape.

We had taken the bread, and now we had to clap for our supper.

I tried. I really did. But I'm never going to be a rhythmic clapper. As soon as the cast member disappeared back into the scrum of Protesters, I lost the beat.

After that, every time a cast member reappeared, I got out my phone and started taking photos. With photography of the show sanctioned, nay encouraged, it was the perfect cover.

Eventually, the riot died. The noise quietened. The emotions intensified. And then the show ended.

As the Protesters went to pick up their coats, we were directed towards the exit, found in the opposite end of the tunnel to the one we had gone in by.

I wound my way around the seating, round the corner, through a door, and found myself in the Vaults' bar.

That was... odd. Why had they sent us out to roam the streets of Vauxhall if the space could be accessed through the bar? Yet more proof that us mere mortals are not meant to understand the workings of Vault Festival management.

But I had no time to ponder such matters as there were only ten minutes until my next show.

I fought my way out of the bar and into the main corridor of the Vaults. It was the first time I'd made it that far without being directed back outside. I could finally see what the Vaults actually looked like. And the answer is: really fucking dark. Black walls are topped by a black ceiling, and punctuated by black doors. Painted with white circles. Just so you can make them out in all the blackness.

The doors each led to a different theatre space: Brick Hall, Cavern, Pit, and so on. You can tell which is which from the glittering signs above their doors, and the lightboxes posted on the wall next to them. Lightboxes that I would later find out turned red when there was a show going on inside.

On the floor (black), were painted white lines - guiding our feet as to where to stand as we queued to get into our shows.

After fighting my way through the thoroughfare, I found my way to the door marked Pit and joined the line.

"Name?" asked the usher on the door.

I gave it.

She scrolled through the list of bookings on her tablet.

"Did you just book your ticket?" she asked.

"No?"

She continued scrolling, down to the bottom of the page and then back up again. It didn't take long. These venues are pretty small.

"Hang on," I said. "Let me bring up my e-ticket."

She glanced at it on my phone. "Can you open it?" she asked. I had only opened the email, with its preview of the attachments.

I tried. But there was no signal.

Okay, no need to panic, I told myself. But I wasn't listening. I was too busy panicking.

She radioed through to box office.

As she did that, I noticed something. The name of the show, written on the board. It was not the show I was expecting to see.

Had I got them in completely the wrong order? Was I living my day backwards? Starting with the last show and ending with the first?

I showed her the ticket again, pointing out the discrepancy.

"You came a month early," she said.

Oh.

"Oh."

She was right. The ticket was for March. Not February.

"Dammit. Thank you. Shit. Thanks."

A minute later I found myself disgorged back onto Leake Street.

If I had any sense I would have turned around and quickly bought a ticket for the show just about to start in the Pit. But I hadn't researched the show. I didn't know what it was about. I didn't know if it was... and I shudder to say the word... immersive. I was already at peak levels of anxiety. There was no way I could put myself through that. It was too big a risk.

Instead, I was going to do something utterly safe. Something I had done before. Something I knew to be good, and true, and pure. I was going to go to Caffe Nero and get myself a hot chocolate and toasted teacake. With marshmallows.

A little more than an hour later, I was back. In the black of the tunnel. But standing outside a different theatre. This time was the turn of Brick Hall.

"Are you here for Birthright?" asked the usher on the door.

"Yes," I said hopefully. I had checked the e-ticket on my phone every ten minutes since last leaving the Vaults. I really hoped I was there to see Birthright.

She brought out the dreaded tablet and checked the list.

Thank the theatre gods. This time my name was on it.

Finally, I could relax. I was at the right venue. At the correct time. In the proper month, even. I was back on track. Almost. I mean, sure, I had messed up my four-show day. But a three-show day was still pretty impressive. And I could pick up that fourth show easily enough. I already had the ticket. Everything was fine.

I leant against the wall and lazily watched the people drift back and forth from the bar.

But then I noticed something. Something terrifying.

One word. Written in lights above the door of the venue opposite.

Glasshouse.

Did I have that venue on my list? I couldn't remember.

I got out my phone and checked my spreadsheets.

Nope. No entry for Glasshouse.

Shit.

I looked at the board, where all the upcoming shows that day would be written down, hoping to only find a list of music or comedy shows. Shows that would discount it from the marathon.

The board was empty.

Was that good or bad? I couldn't tell.

Good if it never had another show for the rest of the year.

Bad if I had already missed the only shows it planned on holding within its walls.

Shit.

This would never have happened if the Vault Festival had set over a list of all their shows categorised by venue as I'd very politely asked them if they could. I mean... not to be all "the theatre festival ate my homework," but doing data entry for hundreds and hundreds of shows by hand is bound to lead to errors. Which is what I'd had to do when working out my marathon plan for the Vaults, as the festival webpage doesn't allow searching by venue. I had literally clicked on every theatre and performance show, one by one, in order to build my spreadsheets. And now I find I'd left out a whole goddamn theatre.

"Is this your first show?" asked a front of houser, interrupting my panic attack.

I didn't know how to answer that. "It's my second," I said. "Of the day." I couldn't admit that it should have been my third.

The door to the theatre opened. "The house is now open, if you'd like to step inside."

Thank the gods.

Despite the name, the Pit is set out as a more conventional fringe-theatre space. With the trains rumbling overhead I could have been at the Union Theatre. Raised banks of seating overlooked the flat floor of the stage. It looked almost exactly like the Studio, except for the black curtain hiding what looked like an impressive section of tunnel behind it. And the two actors from Birthright. They emerged all youthful and full of energy, and I was able to giggle along with their antics for an hour before I was released back into the black once more.

What now? It was ten past seven. My final show of the day wasn't until nine.

And Caffe Nero shut at eight.

I considered the bar. I'd been asked by someone who is aware of my marathon, but didn't read the blog, whether I had drinks at the theatres I visited. "You're reviewing the experience, aren't you?"

Well, yes, I am. But firstly, I'm not much of a drinker. So, my theatre experience doesn't tend to include alcohol unless my theatre companion is after one (or rather, needs one, after spending the evening with me...). And secondly, can we take a moment to consider the cost? I mean... blimey. If you think programmes are expensive, have you seen the cost of a G&T in a theatre bar? Lastly, and most importantly - I'm going to the theatre seven or eight times a week at the moment. That's a lot of alcohol to be consuming. I'm already worried about my mental health in relation to this challenge. Let's not add concern for my liver to my list of woes.

So, not the bar then.

There was only one thing for it.

I was going to Pret.

By the looks of it, most people were going for the other option.

When I arrived back for my final show, ushers were blocking the corridor, trying to shut people up with the use of laminated signs are hard glares.

But it was no use.

The screen advertising "menus inspired by the EU," was causing much hilarity in the people walking past, clutching Vault Festival branded cups.

I found my final theatre of the evening and hugged the wall.

The corridor was packed. Drinkers and theatre-goers pushing past each other in both directions.

The Cavern turned out to be appropriately named. The largest Vaults venue I had seen thus far, I seemed to be walking through the long tunnel for an age before reaching the seats.

Even these were different. Spindly wooden benches, they looked like the corrupt offspring of a church pew and the stile in a fence.

"Two?" asked the usher.

"One," I said putting up a single finger.

He directed me towards the front row.

The benches were even more ungodly then they looked. The seat portion too narrow to rest on comfortably.  The show hadn't even started before I was wriggling around, trying to find a better position. But there was no better position. Leaning forward or back, sacrificing either your bottom or your thighs in order to save the other from torment.

I tried to turn my attention on other things: the winklepickers being worn by the beautiful goth couple sitting next to me, the pretty birdcages hung on the wall, the black arch sunk into the back wall that looked like it was a portal to the underworld.

Then I tried to focus on Molly Beth Morossa's beautiful words, but it's hard to concentrate on a gothic tale of murder and intrigue when every vile deed she describes with macabre detail is matched by a equally macabre pain attacking your bum.

When my inevitable coughing fit arrived, I lost my balance, almost throwing myself off the poor excuse for a seat, as I fought to hold both them, and myself, back.

Shame. 

Loved the Carnival of Crows. The thematic carnival seating, however, can go burn in hell.

Tripping the Ecto Fantastic

“Come close,” said a red jacketed usher, looming above us as she stood in the doorway of the van that will serve as our theatre. “I have a little speech to give.”

After my emotional trip to the Studio at the Vault Festival earlier that afternoon I was back, this time in one of their vehicle venues - parked at the end of Leake Street.

I was a little annoyed when I saw how close it was.

After trying and failing to get an answer out of the Vault Festival twitter feed as to how much time I should allow to get myself from a show in the Studio to a show in a vehicle venue, I could now see that time was zero seconds.

@VAULTFestival hello! If I'm booking a show in the studio, how much time should I allow for getting to the vehicle venue for Seance?

— Max Smiles (@vampire_soup) January 22, 2019

The check in point is literally just outside the main doors.

Thanks @VAULTfestival. You’re doing great work there not allowing yourself to get distracted from all that praise retweeting by indulging in a touch of customer service. Really super. Well done.

We do as the usher says, gathering close together - just as much to protect our shivering figures again the cold as to hear about our fate.

There weren’t many of us. Three sets of couples, and me.

“Once you come in,” red jacket continues now that we were suitably huddled. “You’ll be given a short opportunity to leave. But once the lights are off, that’s it. You’re stuck.”

A woman standing near me giggled nervously and her companion for the evening smirks. I’d already clocked the pair of them as out on a first date. She’s into tarot cards and healing. He’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t find that incredibly off-putting.

“If you really don’t like it,” says red jacket, “take your headphones off, and it will draw to a close naturally.”

Suitabley terrified, we were ushered into the back of the van.

A long table covered in a white tablecloth greeted us. Hanging above were dim lights, and bells, both hanging low. And either side - two rows of comfy chairs. With headphones.

“If you’re sitting on the right, take the headphones from over your right shoulder. If on the left, your left shoulder,” ordered the red jacket from the door.

After a little confusion about getting my left sorted from my right, I managed to pick the right (that is… left) headphones.

Further left and right disentanglement followed, matching up the big painted L and R on the phones themselves to my corresponding L and R ears.

“Can you hear me?” came the faint voice of the usher once we’d all managed this challenging feat.

We nodded.

She clapped. “Can you hear that?”

We nodded again. We could. Just about.

“Alright.”

And with that she left, shut the door, and plunged us into darkness.

From the other side of the van I heard a door open, and someone coming in. Footsteps clomped around behind me. I had the remind myself there was nothing behind me other than the solid wall of the van.

An unseen voice instructed us to place our hands on the table. I did as I was told, setting my palms flat against the rough cloth. We were taking part in a séance, calling on the departed souls of our loved ones. We must not remove our hands from the table. That was very important. Or the spirits might break free.

I wasn’t overly fussed about that.

Or calling about the spirits of my loved ones, to be honest.

Any spirit would do me.

I’ve been hankering after meeting a theatre ghost for years. And if this was my time to finally get my ghoul on, there, inside a dark van parked on the end of Leake Street… well I wasn’t about to complain if the ectoplasm dripping on my shoulder belonged to a stranger.

I blinked in the darkness. It didn’t seem to make any difference.

I experimented. Closing my eyes, and then opening them again.

A few feet away, I spotted the glimmer of a light.

Someone had forgotten to turn their phone off.

A second later it disappeared.

The blackness took over.

The voices in my ear grew more frantic. Something was going wrong.

I clamped my hands down hard on the table. It was a touch too far away. My arms ached from being stretched out so long.

I wriggled forward, until my knees crashed against the solid block that was the table. It was really uncomfortable sitting like that. My muscles ached. I needed to move my arms, shake them out, but I didn’t dare.

My heart was hammering.

It was so cold. I hadn't taken my coat or shall off, but the freezing air had seeped under my skin.

I wanted to take my headphones off. I wanted to wrap my shawl tighter around my shoulders. But I couldn’t lift my fingers from the table.

My hands began to tremble.

Was it the cold, or terror? I knew it was all rubbish. No one was there. It was just a recording.

If only it weren’t so dark…

The trembling became a shudder. It wasn’t my hands. It was the table. It was rising up, taking my hands with it.

I bit the inside of my mouth, telling myself over and over that it was okay. 

Noises clanged around us. It was so loud. My fingers twitched as they begged to cover my ears.  

Louder and louder until I couldn't take a second longer... 

The table shook violently as it sank back down to the floor.

The awful clanging stopped.

Something was moving around the room again.

Something… not human.  

And then… and then the lights flickered back on. A faint glow, inching itself brighter until we were left blinking at each other across the table.

The pair on the first date had their hands stowed in their laps. They grinned at each other sheepishly. Those two will go far.

The couple that disobeys together, stays together after all.

The door crashed open. “Everyone out!” ordered red jacket.

We scuttled out of the van, our heads bowed. No one wanted to meet each other’s eyes, lest we reveal how scared we were.

Safely back in Waterloo and juddering off home on the tube, I checked my phone.

I’d tried to take a photo of the inside of the van, but my photo roll was completely empty. It jumped straight from the graffiti of Leake Street to the shadowy outside of the van. There was nothing to show for my time inside.

Now, either that’s just my crappy phone or...

My big fat brain

It has suddenly occurred to me, sitting here, on my bed, at home, that I have no idea how to write this blog post.

Usually I have something to start off with. A funny thing that happened, an embarrassing moment that I figure I might as well tell you, or an annoyance that can fill a few hundred words. And the fact is, that yes - I have all of those. But it feels inappropriate to go down that route. Because this show is the first one that I actually booked for me, and not for the marathon. I went to see it because I thought it was important for me to do so. Not to fill some self-imposed quota. And not to check off a venue. This was the show that I organised all my Vault Festival bookings around. Because I thought it was the one I had to go to, above all the others.

So, while I could spend a blog post detailing everything that irritates me about the Vaults, I’m not going to do that. Not with this one.

That’s a big statement from something who is just sat here floundering about with words.

So, let’s try and impose some order on this colloquy chaos shall we?

Why did I go? Why this show?

Okay, great start. Good, strong start.

I went to see Fatty Fat Fat because I used to be a Fatty Fat Fat.

And no this isn’t going to be a preachy blog post about how I lost the weight or any such bollocks, because fuck that shit. I lost weight through a combination of anxiety, stress, and insomnia. Which put me in the strange position of gaining thin privilege and yet not having done anything to deserve it. Result: I have a fuck tonne of unresolved issues on the matter.

I was fat. And now I’m not. And it’s weird. And it’s impossible to talk about properly.

I spent so much of my life as a fat person that I can’t ever imagine myself as anything else. No matter what I look like in the mirror, I will forever think fat. I have a fat mentality. A fat brain. Fat emotions. A fat soul, even.

And yes, I say fat because I was fat. Not chubby. Not fluffy. Not over-whatever-weight. I was fat. Properly fat. Very fat.

How fat was I? I believe it's considered harmful, by those people who understand these things, to post actual numbers, but I also know how annoying it is to not know - so let's say: a fashion designer would have called me plus size, to a teenage boy I’d have been an ugly fat cow, and a doctor would have termed me class three morbidly obese.

Whatever, I was fat.

And I never saw myself on stage.

No, wait. That’s not true.

I can remember seeing one significant fat character on stage. A girl. Who flirted with a boy. And he flirted back. And it was adorable. They were adorable. And I was so frickin’ happy.

That was, until the playwright turned her into the joke.

And it killed me.

No prizes for guessing it was a Martin McDonagh.

God, I hate him. And love him. And hate him more.

This blog post is not about Martin McDonagh.

Other than to explain why I wanted to see a play written by a fat woman, and one who claimed that fatness. A play where if there was a joke, that the fat people would be in on it.

That’s a lot of pressure to put on a one-woman show. Sorry Katie Greenall, I was asking a lot of you as I headed into the Studio at the Vaults and took my seat.

But that’s the thing with underrepresented classes. When a show does come around, it has to cater to every single need and taste, because there’s nothing else out there offering it as a choice on the menu.

So, I can forgive Katie for making the audience clap along to the Cha-Cha Slide. You already know that I can’t clap in time with music, so I sat that one out.

I can also kind of forgive her picking someone to come onstage through the medium of hiding a crisp packet under their seat, but only because I’ve told myself that was a set-up, and both the crisp packet and the audience member were planted - because the alternative is too abhorrent to contemplate.  

And I can forgive her making us play Never Have I Ever, a game I hate because I find the grammar confusing, because she gave us all crisps to eat along with her and I ended up eating a lot of crisps.

What I can’t forgive is the raw words that she threw down once all the silly games had ended. With truth flying all over that small space there was nowhere to hide.

Story followed story, dripped out - sometimes as simple throw-away tales, others more poetic in structure - and each one burning out a hole in me as they found a similar tale in my own memories, burrowing in deep to pull them out.

It was brave. It was painful. And I really, really, needed it.

I needed to hear those stories. Perhaps as much as Katie seemed to need to tell them.

And perhaps as much as I need to tell a few of my own.

Like the time that the piano teacher in my childhood ballet lessons pulled me aside to ask if I ate crisps (what is it with crisps?).

Or the time when I was playing Charlie’s mother in my school’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory my English teacher stopped the rehearsal to change Charlie’s line from “my mother looks so pale and thin” to “pale and tired” in front of my whole class.

Or the time I was given a digital scale as a birthday present.

Or the time my mother offered to pay for weight loss surgery.

Or the time I had to explain to my landlord exactly how I had managed to break my bed.

Or the time when my nephew asked me why I was so big. Well, not exactly that time. I would have forgotten it entirely if I hadn’t mentioned it to my sister-in-law - laughing as I shared the joke. “He means impressive,” she quickly explained. Too quickly. That was not what he had meant at all, but her desperation to cover his gaff hurt more than his words ever could.

Or the times, so many times, that my old flatmate, Leanne, the prettiest girl I had ever seen in my life, used me as a human shield when we went out dancing together, to protect her from the predatory eyes of boys who could see only her.

Wow. Too many times. Too much hurt.

But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about being fat: it gives you superpowers.

The fat brain is very perceptive. It can see the world differently to those who have never carried the weight.

Because it knows the world’s dark secret.

It knows that every time someone stops their car to let me cross the road, that five minutes later they'll be speeding up to make a fat person run.

It knows that when a waiter gives an admiring smile in response to my request for a massive slice of cake, that they’ll be fighting back a wave of disgust at the next fat person who does the same thing.

And I have to live with that.

And let me tell you, it makes it super hard to trust new people.

Every comment about a fat person, every joke I hear, will be analysed and turned over a thousand times.

Would they have liked me if they knew me when I was fat? Would they have even seen me?

Would you? No seriously. I’m asking. Would you be reading this blog if I was still fat? I know I certainly wouldn’t have written it.

I had the idea for this marathon five years ago. And this is the year I chose the go through with it. The year I wasn’t fat anymore.

It hadn’t occurred to me before this moment, this exact moment, that these two things might be connected.

But of course they are.

I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

The world has grown the smaller I got.

And just thank god that all of my closest friends now knew me when I was fat. Knew what I looked like and still treated me as a human being, and a friend, and not something other.

Because fat people are other. They are set-apart. Their stories untold and unheard.

And that is why I went to see Fatty Fat Fat, and you should too.

Right, that’s enough of that. I’m going to quickly post this before I wimp out.

Pottering about

People who have anxiety shouldn’t have to go to immersive theatre.

People who have anxiety shouldn’t do theatre marathons.

When the Vault Festival released their line-up earlier in the year I was a just a tad concerned about the number of spaces they were taking over, but also a little thrilled. Nine venues that were relevant to the rules of this challenge. Nine venues that need to be burst through within a single festival. Nine venues that include: Unit 9.

I didn’t understand the significance of this space at first.

It was just one in a long list of venues that I needed to get to.

That was until the very moment when I sorted my massive spreadsheet of Vault shows by venue and spotted something: every single show taking place in Unit 9 was immersive.

Every. Single. One.

Because, and forgive me if you already know this, Unit 9 is an immersive theatre space. That’s what it’s there for. That’s its thing.

If I was going to complete this marathon, I was going to need to get my immersion on.

After releasing a plaintive cry out over Twitter, the no-nonsense @Weez sorted through the options and leant me her analysis of the situation. Something for which I will forever be grateful for.

Incubus is shortest, Sturdy Virgin sounds quite intriguing, Educated Hearts sounds fairly uninteractive and safe.

— Janet 🎉 Lynn (@Weez) January 15, 2019

The Archive of Educated Hearts it was.

Ticket booked!

After the gentle charm of the Puppet Theatre Barge earlier than afternoon, I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to be thrown into the anxiety-inducing world of immersive theatre.

When I got to Waterloo, I headed straight for the nearest Cafe Nero for a restorative hot chocolate and toasted tea cake.

Yes, it may be rather pre-emptive to be having my restorative sugar-dose before the show, but who knew if I would actually survive to eat carbs again!

And yes, I’d already had a hot chocolate that afternoon on the barge, but I’d got a taste for it by then. I wanted that warming feeling in my belly once more.

Teacake consumed, I had to admit that I had done as my preparation as could possibly be expected, and I made my way over to Leake Street.

I’d been there before. Back when the Vaults first opened and everyone was buzzing with excitement about this brand new venue. But since then, my internal map has grown a little faded and I had to look up the “Finding Us” information on the e-ticket. A little vague on first read, but I put my faith in the instructions and soon I was making my way down the “first set of stairs you come to” and found myself in the heavily graffitied tunnel that is home to the Vaults.

Bag checked, I headed inside.

Oh good. There was a map up on the wall.

I scanned it: Cavern, Pit, Forge. All places that I’ll be visiting over the next few weeks.

But no Unit 9.

I looked over at the chalk boards displaying all the start times of the shows that day.

No The Archive of Educated Hearts.

Had I imagined the entire thing?

Have my dreams of going to the theatre now extended into my waking hours?

Was Unit 9 nothing more than a nightmare dreamt up by my anxiety? I sure hoped so.

But I thought I better double check all the same.

“Hi. Where’s Unit 9?” I asked at box office. “I don’t see it on the map.”

“Are you seeing one of the immersive pieces?”

I cringed. “Yes.”

“Is it Séance?”

“No. It’s the one with the really long name.” We stared at each other. “Hang on.” I got my phone out. “Archive of Educated Hearts?” I said, as a question.

“Right,” she nodded. “If you head outside you’ll see a sign for it. Just wait there and you’ll be led over to the venue.”

I did as she said, heading back out.

I saw a sign of the studio. But nothing for Unit 9.

“Sorry, where’s the queue for Unit 9?” I asked a pink-jacketed usher.

“Are you here for one of the immersive experiences?” she asked.

I cringed again. I wish that would stop using that word.

I nodded. “Archive of the Educated Hearts,” I said.

She pointed my across the road.

“Just over there. If you talk to the lady in the pink jacket, she’ll tell you where to go.”

Passed over to my second pink-jacket of the evening, I was checked in via the medium of a tablet and then the both of us, pink-jacket and me, waited for the rest of the gang to arrive.

I was relieved to find out I wasn’t the only one confused by this system.

“Is this for Archive?”

“Are you queuing for Unit 9?”

“Do I need to give you my name now?”

But eventually we all got our names ticked off on the tablet and a third pink-jacket arrived.

“Everyone for The Archive of Educated Hearts and Escape the Jacket…” He paused dramatically. “Follow me!”

We followed him, down the tunnel, past the graffiti artists and the photographers recording their work. Past cafes tucked into arches and anti-Brexit artwork. Past a rapper who was apparently filming a music video (“he has his lyrics on the floor,” giggled the girls in front of me who seemed to recognise him).

Then reaching for a part of the wall that looked like every other part of the wall, our personal pink-jacket opened a previously invisible door and ushered us in.

The stark pale stones and strung up lights were a bit of a shock after the riotous colour of the tunnel. It was like being ushered into a cave.

“If you’re here for Escape the Jacket, stand over by that wall,” called the man behind the desk. “Everyone for Archive - over there.” He pointed slightly further into the space.

Our group split into two.

Standing a few feet off, a woman in full Marlene Dietrich mode (including the top hat), escaped from another show (and possibly a jacket), smiled at us as we were led past, deep into the cavern.

We rounded a corner, and there, was our destination.

A small garden-shed.

“You can leave your bags over there, if you like. No one else will be let in. They’re quite safe,” said a young woman wearing comfy looking dungarees and a warm scarf. “Come in, take a seat. If we’re sold out one of you will need to take the very special seat on the floor. Don’t worry, there’s a cushion.”

We ducked our heads and went in, inching our way along the walls to reach our seats.

It was a tight squeeze, but very comfortable. Postcards flittered above our heads, clipped onto twine. A desk was cramped with oddments from old watches to books to dried flowers.

And the smell… something floral and herby. Like the insides of a Miller Harris boutique. I breathed in deep.

“I’m closing the door now,” announced our dungareed host. “If you want to leave, just let me know. I’m only locking it to stop it from opening itself.”

She introduced herself (“I’m Casey”) switched on a CD player that looked like it was lifted straight from my dorm bedroom at school, laughed at the music (“spa music”), removed her coat and began to give us the housekeeping speech. All very casual. All very chill. I began to relax.

So did everyone else.

One woman even asked if the music could be turned down. “You don’t worry about that,” assured Casey. She was right, we didn’t.

We didn’t need to worry about anything.

Casey led us through the show, sometimes playing clips of people talking, sometimes showing us photos, sometimes talking herself. Everything with a warm earnestness that was a soothing balm on my anxious soul.

A men closed his eyes to listen. A woman rested her head on her partner’s shoulder and squeezed his hand tight. The lady who had asked for the music to be turned down dabbed at her eyes.

After half an hour, we were let out.

“I’m just going to give you a card from CoppaFeel,” said Casey, removing a pile of small cards with instructions on how to self-exam your breasts from the desk. “Keep one or give it to a loved one.”

I took a card, and a minute later I was disgorged back into the tunnel - with its graffiti artists, and photographers, and people queuing for shows. And I felt utterly, and totally, calm.