I'm back in Ruislip. Down on Manor Farm.
It's All Hallow's Eve Eve, and I'm going to watch a play about witch trials in a seven hundred-year-old barn, because that's how I roll.
And if you were ever in doubt about my dedication to this marathon, let me tell you, that in order to go to this event, and get this venue checked off my list, I extended the notice period at my job by an entire extra day.
Yup.
That's real.
I was supposed to have finished up my job today. Six weeks notice, ending at 6pm this evening.
But then I'd have to go and see this show. Which would mean missing out on the whole leaving do thing. Something that my grand-boss was not going to allow me to do. Oh no. I'm getting a party, whether I like it or not. Which means tomorrow, I'm going back into work. And I'm getting the full works: speeches, fizz, presents probably, I don't know. And then the traditional decamp at the pub.
On Halloween.
Which I am not unhappy about.
Walking out for the final time on 31 October is very me.
Good thing Brexit's been postponed though. That would have been awkward. One of our visiting companies already started calling my departure "Maxit." Which is super annoying. Because I didn't think of it first. Dammit.
Anyway, I'm here. I just hope they're grateful.
Just need to figure how where I'm supposed to be going.
It's so damn dark here.
I trudge up the drive, squinting at every sign I can see.
That's the library. It's not there.
Then there's the Cow Byre. I don't know what that is, but I know it's not that either.
I keep going.
Until I reach a hedge. A hedge I remember from the first time around because I freaked the hell out the last time I was here when a couple of adorable terriers were playing around it.
I double back. It has to be here somewhere.
There's no one around.
Not even a terrifying terrier.
Between the Cow Byre and the library there's a path. I follow it.
It the blackness, I spot a long, low, silhouette.
Is that the Great Barn? It's certainly great.
At the far end there's a square of yellow light.
I crunch my way along the path towards it.
The wooden doors to the probably-the-Great-Barn have been thrown open. And inside, there are some decidedly more modern looking glass doors. I push one open.
Warm air floods over me in a great wave.
The room is filled with chatter, and the roar of heaters.
There are three tables. One covered in CDs. Another in bottles. And a third with paper.
Merch, bar, and box office.
The trifecta of every decent theatre.
I go over to the papery one and give my name.
"Ah," says the box officer, pulling the last remaining ticket free from under the money box. "Help yourself to a glass of wine," she says, indicating the table behind her.
She sees me hesitate.
"It's free!" she says.
"Umm."
Look, here's the thing. I'm not really into wine. Even if it's free. It just doesn't do anything for me. I mean, sure I'll drink it. At like, an event, if I'm handed a glass. To be polite, you know. But I'm not going out my way for it.
"Or a soft drink," says the box officer, sensing the direction my thoughts are going in.
"Well, alright then. Thanks," I say. Might as well. It is free, after all.
I go over to the bar.
Wine is ready poured, but I spot a carton hiding behind them.
"Could I get an orange juice?" I ask.
The lady behind the bar looks down.
"Let me just grab you a clean glass," she says, disappearing into the back of the barn and out a side door.
I stand around, and take a few photos.
It is pretty spectacular in here. Those 13th-century barn builders know how to vault a ceiling.
Not sure they would have appreciated it much in 12-whatever-year-it-was. You wouldn't have been able to see them for shit. But the looks of it, there's only one window, set high in the wall on the far side. Even with the barn doors open, the main crop this place would have been storing is shadows.
"There you are," says the bar lady returning with two damp wine glasses in her hand. "Freshly washed," she adds, proudly. "Just in case."
"I feel honoured," I say, meaning it.
"You shouldn't," she laughs. "It's all part of the service."
And with that, she hands me my orange juice and I go off to explore the space.
A stage has been set up down the other end, under the window.
Seats run in narrow rows in between the rough pillars holding up that vaulted roof.
I look up.
It really is quite something.
And must be a total bitch to clean.
Look, over there. A blue balloon is caught in the rafters. It's streamer trailing sadly behind it. And further along... I pause and get out my glasses.
It's a man. Or perhaps more accurately, a guy. A stuffed figure. Straddling one of the beams.
That's... well, okay then.
I go to find a seat.
It's pretty full in here. Surprisingly full. The people of Ruislip are well up for witch trials in barns.
And by the looks of it, there's a surprising amount of Goths living locally. Black eyeliner is being rocked all over the place. And one sweet young man has got a Slytherin scarf slung around his neck. Bless. I do love to see my house represented out in the wild.
"Is there anyone on the end here?" I ask a family taking up the remainder of a row. Mum and two young girls.
She shakes her head. "Nope." It's all mine.
There's a freesheet waiting for me on the seat. It's black. Professionally printed. With a very Blair Witchy style title treatment.
I'm well excited now.
I spend my time happily alternating between sipping orange juice and taking photos. I like it in here. It's creepy and cool and cosy. The three Cs.
And then the heaters go off.
We must be ready to start.
A front of houser comes forward. Turns out, she runs this place. Fire exits are pointed out, including the one hiding behind the stage.
I look around. It has just occurred to me that we are sitting in a very old, wooden building.
Good thing we've been getting plenty of rain recently.
There's no stage lighting to speak of, so when the play starts, it's within a shared light environment. Very true to the period. Although the blinding electrics in this place would have been more light then any of these characters saw in their entire lives.
We're in the 16th century, and Mark Norman's Sir William Tyrell is called upon when Sam Burns' Thomas Latimer accuses Tracey Norman's Margery Scrope of witchcraft.
We follow the accusations, as Norman scribbles away making notes to the distant sound of church bells pealing away.
And I have to admit, even with the ecclesiastical soundscape, it's not quite doing it for me.
It feels like we've been dropped into the end of the story. We're watching Poirot's wrapup without ever getting to witness the murders. And I can totally see why its done this way, but... yeah. Not for me.
It doesn't help that it's freezing cold. Without the heaters on blast, we are basically sitting in a old barn. Even cows are given hay and stuff to keep out the chill.
As the cast comes out to receive their applause, we launch straight into a Q&A. With Norman still wiping the tears of desperate anguish from her face as they do so.
But it's the actors asking questions of the audience.
What did we think? Was she guilty?
Honestly, debating the possible guilt of a fictional character is not something I’m bothered by. They tell us that the story is meant to be balanced. That you are not meant to know. And that's enough for me.
But then Norman starts talking about the historical background of it all, and I suddenly get interested.
And yes, there's the usual twat in the audience who feels the need to show off that they know what year the poor laws were codified, but on the whole, this a fucking great discussion.
If they were all like this, I might actually start staying for them willingly.
Questions done, we're invited to hang around, talk to the cast, sign the guest book.
I'm not having with any of that, even with the assurance that the heaters are going back on. I am the first one out the door.
This is my third trip to Ruislip, and I'll be damned if I'll be spending another evening shivering on a platform. Sending up a prayer and a promise of a thousand offering to each of the theatre gods, I half-run down the hill towards the train station.
As I beep through the turnstiles, I can hear the sound of a train approaching.
Now that's real witchcraft for you.
